Yeah Yeah Yeah (Beatles/Paul McCartney)

32. Ce N'est Pas Possible

December 1966
London

Alice

As soon as my mother's Maybach pulled up in front of the house, the girls across the street started to chatter. Even from upstairs in the bedroom, I could hear the intensity of their voices rise, reaching a crescendo as she stepped out of the car. The buzzer rang three times as I hurried down the stairs and out into the courtyard. By the time I yanked open the gate, she was surrounded.

"Is it true they've broken up?"

"Oh, shut up, Kathleen, you brainless cow. You know they're secretly engaged."

"Oh, sure, like he'd want to marry her."

And then, quietly, from a bookish girl with a Cornish accent:  "The Prime Minister has truly tarnished the legacy of Britain, Lady Edwards, I hope you know that."

My mum didn't looked flustered per se, but she didn't look happy. I pulled her inside, murmuring apologies as we walked hastily across the courtyard. We were almost at the top of the stairs when I heard a grunt behind me.

A head popped up at the top of the gate. All I could see were wild ginger curls and green eyes. Ever since John had jumped over the gate, they'd figured out how to balance on the lock and peer over. It was slowly driving me barmy, as I'd lost even the pretense of privacy in my own home.

"Slag!" the girl hissed. Then she must've lost her balance because there was a yelp before her head disappeared.

My mum looked at me in horror. "Which of us is she calling a prostitute?"

"Most likely me."

"Has this happened before?"

I was about to reply with a neighbor came out on her porch with crossed arms and a disapproving glare.

"Miss Edwards--"

"I know, Mrs. Riley, I know. I'll have him talk to them as soon as he's home."

Wearily I pulled my mother inside the door and shut it resolutely behind me. She took a steadying breath before looking at me with worried eyes.

"Ce n'est pas possible, Alice."

That was French for: this situation is even more foolhardy and ridiculous than I could have possibly imagined, and you're a sodding idiot for living with a sodding Beatle.

"They're harmless," I replied with a jaunty wave of my hand, even though I wasn't confident it was true. She rolled her eyes and continued to mutter in French as she took off her navy Courrèges overcoat to reveal a Yves Saint Laurent tweed suit.

When I turned back from hanging her coat in the closet, her eyes were gazing at the clutter that had overtaken the living room. Vinyl records cascaded across the floor, and books were stacked haphazardly around the living room. The coffee table contained four ashtrays full of cigarette ends and ash as if the smoker couldn't have been arsed to bin them. A cut crystal bowl of what suspiciously looked like loose grass sat on the mantle with a few stray rolling papers next to it.

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair. I'd just arrived home a few minutes before and had been equally shocked at the state of the house.

"Apparently, Paul sacked the housekeeper while I was gone," I said apologetically.

He'd rung my hotel in Vienna a few days prior. How does one let go of staff, Liss? Seems like the sort of thing your lot knows about. It was still unclear what Mrs. and Mr. Kelly had done to deserve the letting go, but it was now apparent that Paul couldn't look after himself.