Chapter Text
“It’d be a real cunt move, coming round like that, and that’s all I’ll say about it.”
George’s expression was frantic, looking around as if to see if they’d offended someone within earshot. “Paul, would it kill ya to keep your voice down, mate?”
Paul surveyed the party bitterly and took another swig of his drink, the back of his hand coming up to wipe the excess that dribbled down his chin. “She knows it, Geo. She knows I’d be ruined and I’d bet you she’d—she’ll do it anyway.”
George gave him a pointed look that he thought meant he should be embarrassed about something. “All right, now, don’t you think you’ve had quite enough? It isn’t even half-past eight.”
Paul had to give it to him. It was, indeed, circling round eight fifteen in the evening, and the illustrious gathering served no purpose for sloppily-intoxicated partygoers. There were plenty of highbrow artists, producers, actors, creatives at large, and certainly some people that it would serve Paul well to impress. He had, however, just had his mood entirely soured by the notion that his newly-ex-fiancée was expected to be in attendance. Of his party, no less! He’d supposed that George had informed him as more of an admonition than a threat, yet he'd taken it as the latter. He more-or-less incoherently voiced this train of thought to his friend.
“Well, it’s not your party, Paul,” George hastened to remind. Always the spoilsport. “We’re just honourees.”
Paul scoffed as though it was obvious. “Hence, my party.”
George opened his mouth as if he were going to object, to bring up yet another factoid to ruin Paul’s special night, but he seemed to think better of it. His facial expression softened, and he looked at Paul almost encouragingly. “Look, mate, I’m gonna grab a drink, all right? You just—jus’ stay here, and don’t make a fool of yourself. Or anyone. You’re speaking for the both of us, tonight, you know.”
Paul gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “Oh, go on. Leave me to wallow in my own despair.”
George cocked an eyebrow. She’s not even here yet, he might say. Under different circumstances, Oh, bugger off. It’s your fault, anyway. Instead, he only sighed. “Right.”
George was immediately lost through the crowd, and Paul’s expression soured further as he leaned back against the staircase. He was vaguely aware of people on either side of him, but couldn’t be bothered to strike up a conversation with anyone. He kept his gaze trained on the front door, scanning the up and down of each arrival to assess whether or not he’d be making a scene tonight.
There really was an impressive gathering of individuals there that night. It was a cross-industry schmooze fest, the annual “Decade’s Next Up” festival. Artists, in some form or another, from across the globe gathered in London’s Kensington for a weekend-long celebration of film, music, art, writing, and, very recently, politic. Tonight, they had announced the honourees (hence why Paul was a bit ahead of the celebratory drinking curve already), and the afterparty was famously the gathering of a lifetime. It occurred at an old, lavish historic house, tricked out with immoderate dining plates and acres of land; the kind of house that had an absurd amount of front-yard fountains and statuesque stone cherubs. The kind of house he’d make fun of, if it weren’t direly pertinent that they, one, be there, and two, fawn over it. Truly—if they wanted any shot at securing the title, him, George, and Ringo had no choice but to make an appearance—and a memorable one, at that. It was an anyone-who’s-anyone event if there ever was one, and Paul would be lying if he said that he wasn’t—at first—terrifically ecstatic to be there. This year was the first that Paul’s group had received a nomination, and rightfully so, he’d believed, with a chart-topping experimental record that combined the swing of the sixties with the upcoming groove of the seventies. They were closing in on them quickly, the seventies, and Paul was near certain that they’d had their finger on the pulse of the music industry for more than a few years, now.
Paul’s limbs were feeling a bit heavy. He’d meant to drink a little, sure, just to loosen up his nerves a bit round all these highbrow execs. You couldn’t be too stuffy, couldn’t blend into the background of what was respectable—at least, that was the mindset he’d taken in. Now, feeling the warmth in his cheeks and the fog in his brain, Paul worried the pendulum had swung too far in the other direction. Or, at least, he should’ve worried, per George’s pleading, but for some goddamned reason that wrist kept bringing the drink up to his lips, and those godforsaken lips kept drinking it in, and that goldarned throat kept swallowing it. A shame, really. But what can you do? Just stand there and let it happen, he guessed. Just stand there and let it happen and think about what you’re going to do and say when your newly-ex-fiancée shows up and you can’t even truly be all that mad about it because true, she broke things off, but yes, it was a little bit mostly your fault.
Simmering in the heat of both premeditated anger and unintentional drunkenness, Paul thought it probably best to take a breather. He was just about to consider ducking out of the house when a familiar voice piped up beside him.
“Oh, so they’re just letting anyone in here now?” A hand clapped Paul on the shoulder, momentarily tearing his gaze away from the front door.
Paul offered a half grin, shifting his body away from the man so that the door was still in view. “Bob, hey, how do ya do?”
Dylan pulled a comically serious face and gave a mock salute. “Honored to be here, sir.”
“I’ll say,” Paul answered, shooting a side smirk. “This’d be your last, so you’d better cherish it.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I mean it. Haven’t you heard? Folk’s out. They want rock-n-roll, baby. You’ll have to go electric if you want any shot at relevance.”
Dylan lowered his head in feigned shame. “They’d never let me live it down, Paulie boy. It’d be a betrayal the likes of which have never been seen.”
Paul shrugged and took another swig of his drink. “I mean it, Bob. I’m not trying to sabotage you, you know. I’ll bet you could make some real sick tunes. Who cares about the geezers, anyway?”
“Hey, I’ll have you know, the geezers buy records. They do!”
“Oh, do they. Imagine your surprise when you find out about the youth.”
The two of them shared a hearty laugh, basking in the unrivaled joy of their good-spirited rivalry. Paul really quite enjoyed the man; enjoyed his music; enjoyed the fact that he could never admit to the man that he enjoyed his music. “Hey, I’ll catch up with ya later, Paul. Ya seen George around?”
Paul nodded, gesturing off to his left. “Kitchen.”
“Thanks,” Dylan responded, back already turned. Paul leaned back against the staircase, positioning himself once more in view of the doorway. He’d long forgotten that a few moments ago, he’d intended to exit it. He watched it open and shut quite a few times, various people filing in, sipping bitterly at the remains of his cup. It was getting dangerously low, and his chat with Bob had proved that he might be too sober for confrontation, coherent enough as it was. Paul thought twice about George’s words and decided it didn’t really matter anyway, as they were probably going to win, and all press is good press, right? He snagged a champagne flute off of a passing waiter’s tray and downed it in one go.
Suddenly, through the glass, Paul saw the door crack open, and a familiar flash of red hair entered the party. He nearly dropped the glass; though he couldn’t have been expecting it more, some part of Paul still felt as though she may take the hint and sit this one out. He wanted to kick himself for being foolish enough to believe that anyone would miss out on such an event, even if said event was honouring the person who’d been on the receiving end of a very recent, very brutally-ended engagement.
And so, she’d come. To Paul’s utter chagrin.
He first considered going up to her. He even went so far as to set down both glasses of alcohol on the banister before halting, watching her shrug off her coat. He realised with a pang of something—upset? bitterness? loss?—that it was one he’d bought, a lovely Harrods piece from a few winters back. It caused him pause.
What was the etiquette, here? It had been so long since Paul had been freshly out of a serious relationship that he couldn’t quite remember what the social script called either of them to do. He certainly couldn’t ignore her, could he? Though, there were a lot of people there. He might be able to pretend like he’d never seen here, though as anyone could see, he’d been watching guests enter for about a half hour now. He didn’t necessarily have the comfort of plausible deniability. What were the other options? Maybe he could be civil. Maybe it was best, after all, just to say a quick hi and bye and maybe slip in a whatthefuckareyoudoinghere. Sure, that’s it, he could say something, he could go up to her, he could make it known that her presence was uncalled for, whilst being very calmandchillandverycool-like about it all. Only—
Paul’s heels froze to the ground where he stood, mid step.
Only, she was with someone. She’d handed him her coat, and he’d handed it to the doorman, and she’d rewarded him with a warm, affectionate kiss on the cheek, and, oh fuck, she was looking over, and fucking fuck she had definitely seen him, definitely seen him seeing her, and her arm was on the stupid fucking prick’s arm like they’d been together for ages, and she was still looking at him, and he was still looking at her, and the body beside Paul shifted into him with accident and before he could think twice about the movement he grabbed the body’s face and kissed it.
Those around them quieted a bit. Paul could feel the room’s eyes on them as they stood there, lips locked, hardly moving. The other tasted of booze and cigarettes, a pungent combination that nearly made Paul’s nose wrinkle. He realised, in that moment, that he was almost certainly kissing another lad, who ever-so-graciously lifted an encouraging hand to Paul’s waist.
The reality of the situation came crashing down on Paul like a tidal wave, and he pulled away immediately, eyes instantly flitting toward Jane at the door, who had a very funny expression on her face. Paul would be lying if he said he didn’t at least savour it for a moment. Finally, she cleared her throat (and although he couldn’t hear from across the room, he knew, for it was the same terse expression she’d always made while clearing her throat) and looked away, just before hightailing it to the dining area. Paul watched after her until she was out of eyesight, the sickening betrayal in the pudgy shape of a man on her heels. Then, something occurred to him and Paul turned to apologize to the person next to him for the unwarranted act of intimacy, preparing to explain that he was very sorry and a little bit very drunk and a little bit very jealous and, no, actually a lot a bit very sorry, when he stilled in incomprehension for the second time that night.
Paul didn’t get starstruck very often, as he very much considered himself a star himself, but as with all rule comes some exception.
“You’re John Lennon,” he managed, his mouth slightly agape.
A man stared back at him, amber eyes peering from behind rounded spectacles, and he shook his head slightly to brush a curl from his eyes.
“And you’d be Paul McCartney, if I’m not mistaken,” the man replied, sounding amused.
Whispers began to brew around them, and Paul felt his cheeks heat with humiliation. “I-I’m dreadfully sorry.”
John Lennon’s eyes darted around the room, something just short of a smirk on his face. “Don’t be.” He took a sip of his drink. “Been there.”
Paul blinked. “Have you?”
He nodded. “Sure.” Lennon lifted his cup so that it was slightly obscuring the view of their lips and leaned in close as if he were going to share a secret. When he spoke, his voice was low. “I admire your forethought, though, I’ll have to say. Hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Paul nodded slowly, a bit unsure if they were on the same page. He couldn’t help but stare in awe as the nation’s—world’s, maybe?—currently most fruitful and ambitious actor spoke to him as if they were in on something undiscovered together. He tried to pay attention to what the man was saying, tried not to think about how he’d just kissed him, for Chrissakes, tried not to think about how he seemed more or less okay with it. Paul, in all honesty, hadn’t even considered that someone like John Lennon would be at tonight’s event; even in all its glory and prestige, it still seemed to be something beneath him.
“It’d be smart for the both of us,” he was saying now, giving a nonchalant shrug. He had leaned back again, leaving them shoulder-to-shoulder against the banister, surveying the party, most whom of which were still gawking at them. Paul tried very hard to straighten up and play as though the whole thing had been very intentional. His mind was reeling as best it could, still quite heavy, as the champagne was just nearly beginning to hit him. His mind told him he should say something, clear it up, apologize again, but once again, his body acted independently and instead of doing any of that, it seemed to lean into the man’s shoulder and nod along to what he was saying. “That is, of course, if you’ve the time.”
Without hearing the question, Paul agreed. It was as though the man had some sort of power over him, something that lead Paul to want to sign onto anything with him, regardless of whether or not it was a good idea. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the feeling. His voice cracked slightly when he spoke. “I’ve the time.”
Lennon lowered his nose and peered above his specs, looking around to make sure they were still somewhat the center of attention. Paul half-thought to make a quip about how they should “take a picture, it’ll last longer”, but he was a bit stunned to realise how much he enjoyed the attention vis-à-vis how much the other man was enjoying it. For a moment, he felt like he knew what it was to be a film star.
“All right, come on, then,” Lennon said, and stepped out across him, leaving his hand out behind him like a track runner’s baton.
Paul looked to his left and right as though someone looking on could tell him what exactly was going on. He’d been so preoccupied by the fact that he was talking to John Lennon that he felt as though he’d missed some huge signal. Had he just blindly agreed to Lennon’s… propositioning? What in God’s name were they heading upstairs for?
Paul realised then that he had already taken Lennon’s hand and was letting him lead him up the stairs, feeling every pair of eyes on him. If there was a way they somehow could’ve drawn any more attention to themselves, this would certainly have been it. He vaguely registered that he didn’t see Jane in the sea of people, and half-wondered what it was all for. Paul almost thought twice about following him—it wasn’t too late to make up an excuse, to grab another drink, yet foot after foot, step after step, Paul remained in tow with the movie star.
He’d be sure to tell himself it was so that word could at least get back to Jane, even if she didn’t see it. The problem was that, above all else, he just simply wanted to follow John Lennon upstairs.
And so he did.