I Want to Tell You (A Beatles Fanfic)

Chapter 51-Behind That Locked Door 🕒Wednesday, January 1st, 1964🕞

London, 1964

"3, 2, 1...HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The street erupted from out underneath our hotel window. I turned giddily, a few drinks of champagne already coursing through my system to find George's lips dangerously close to my face.

"Happy New Year, Wendy." he spoke suggestively, dipping my head back and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. I didn't mind, for the kiss I was met with surely made up for it. "Happy New Year, George."

George leaned back, both hands on my shoulders to look at me as if in mock scrutiny. "You're still here. Haven't blipped out yet."

I smiled at the ground, flicking him on the nose. "Nope. Scotty hasn't beamed me up yet."

The look on his face was precious. But I didn't have time to explain for just then, saved by the bell, we were interrupted by a very spirited John Lennon, a different girl on each arm in lieu of a severe lacking of Cynthia who was at home with their son, bursting forth and nearly knocking me over, in his attempts to pummel the lean, youngest Beatle.

"Where we goin', fellas???" He crooned, and I rolled my eyes, preparing for their latest catchphrase.

"To the top, Johnny!"

"Where's that, fellas?"

"To the toppermost of the poppermost!"

"Righhhhhht!"

I snickered to myself as I couldn't help it, my motherly instincts suddenly kicking in.

"John, you're smashed. Come with me." I ordered, ushering him into the bedroom of the suite where we were staying. He giggled, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and passing off the two chorus girls he had with him to George, who didn't seem to mind at all. I didn't mind either for they were all too gassed to remember anything tomorrow.

Once we got to the bed, John sprawled himself out like a starfish and began singing some old Liverpudlian folk song although you would never have guessed...the words were all jumbled and at this point, the man was speaking straight gibberish. As I began untying his right shoe, I mistakenly brought up our plan.

"Now, remember John. What are you going to tell Brian tomorrow?"

"We are going to tell him where we're going!"

"And where's that?"

"The toppermost of the poppermost!"

I rolled my eyes. "No. You're going to tell him that we are staying in London until Versailles. We must not go to New York until February 9th."

"And then...the mopperpost!"

I shook my head, the champagne starting to get to me too. Scary thing was, if I kept on, I might just understand him. "Ok John. Time for bed."

Slowly but surely, I tucked all of the Beatles into bed that night, shooing the chorus girls out into the hallway. Cynthia and Jane would thank me in the morning.

At a quarter till 4, I finally made my way wearily under the sheets next to George where my head was swimming and I knew I was going to have a bloody hangover in due time. I had been awake 4 hours into 1964 and was genuinely still in awe at how things were perspiring.

But...perhaps I'd better rewind.

For starters, we did not make it to America for Christmas to see Louise, rather, Louise came to London to see us. And by that I mean that she showed up on George's doorstep promptly the morning following my excursion with aliens, ready to needle her younger brother to no end. Upon meeting the woman I'd heard so much about, I found her company to be brusque but well-mannered.