Shelter In Your Love (Beatles Fan Fiction)

28. The Flying Hour

It makes no diff'rence,
What was or what may be.
The past it is gone,
The future may not be at all,
The present, improve the flying hour

I examine my reflection in my little compact mirror critically, looking for flaws, imperfections, any marks that I've missed. When I look closely, I can see every grain of powder on my cheeks, but the stage makeup covers a multitude of sins. It's thicker than everyday makeup. I gently prod the flesh below my eye. It makes me cringe slightly. I look tired and my left eye is a little bloodshot, but I don't think it'll be noticeable, other than that, I'm alright. Passable.

I close the compact, slide it back into my bag and lean on my elbows on the dressing table. I've not been inside a TV studio since The Ricky West Show ended. I've somehow managed to forget how tedious it can be, waiting around all day for just a few minutes in front of the camera. The Ricky West Show was a big production, with a huge cast and crew, but The Ed Sullivan Show is in a league of it's own. There are so many runners, floor managers and camera men everywhere. With so many people, the wait is even longer. Then again, I suppose we were more involved with The Ricky West Show, we're very low down the pecking order here.

I sigh and check the time as the door to the dressing room opens and Maurice comes in. We had our own dressing room - which was tiny - at The Ricky West Show, but I realise now what a luxury that was. We have a temporary dressing room here. We're not quite big enough to command our own, we're sharing with the magician Maurice manages as well. He has far more boxes and cases and bags than you would think he'd need.

I look at Maurice in the reflection of the dressing table mirror and smile at him, but he doesn't return it.

'Didn't I tell you to change out of that until the recording?' he asks, irritated.

I glance down at my dress. I finally have my oh-so-stylish crochet dress. White, sleeveless, with tassels to the hem. We're wearing these cute white penny loafers too. I'd have loved all this a week ago, even a day ago, but today new dresses and shoes don't seem so important anymore.

'I can't,' I reply. 'I've got my make up on, and I might get it on it if I pull it over my -'

'Right, okay then,' Maurice says, losing interest. 'Woe betide you, Hannah, if you spill anything down it.'

I pout but Maurice isn't looking at me anymore. He crosses the room to where his blazer jacket hangs on a coat peg, feeling in the pockets for something.

'Where's everyone else?' Maurice asks, still turned away from me.

'I don't know. In the studio I think.'

'Well, go and join them, will you? I can do without you girls all wandering off.'

'I'm not wandering -'

'Hannah!' he snaps angrily and I stop, surprised. He shakes his head and turns around to me. 'Please, just do as I ask?' he adds, softer now.

'Okay. Sorry, Maurice,' I say meekly and get up to go to the door.

'Honey,' he says and I pause. 'I didn't mean to yell at you.'

I nod and smile weakly. 'It's alright.'

'Are you okay?'

I nod again.

He sighs. 'And how's...' He coughs and clears his throat. 'How's Ricky?'

'I'd thought you would be able to answer that better than me,' I answer, quietly.

Maurice frowns. 'Why would you say that?'