Shelter In Your Love (Beatles Fan Fiction)

45. Let Me Tell You How It Will Be

Let me tell you how it will be
There's one for you, nineteen for me,
Cos I'm the taxman, yeah, the taxman.

Elysian House is a flat and long oblong building, housing ten apartments, painted white and located on the corner of Acacia Road in St. John's Wood, North London. It's near to Lord's Cricket Grounds. Regents Park is two streets away. From the tube, it's five minutes walk. It's less than ten to Abbey Road Studios.

The flat is number seven, on the top floor. The living room windows face the road outside, which I can view clearly over the thick walls and heavy gates that seclude the property. The bedroom overlooks a small carpark at the back of the building. Also there, is a small, square garden encased in a metal fenced and thick bushes. The gates to it are locked. It's private, for the residents of Elysian House and the other buildings near by.

It's not much bigger than Minnie's flat over the river, in the south of the city, but it's newer, more modern. Newer, however, not really lived-in. It's not comfortable. It's not a home.

There aren't many furnishings. There's a sofa, a sideboard and a circular wooden coffee table with a glass middle in this room. A fridge and cooker in the adjoining kitchen, then just a bed, with a mattress and no sheets or pillows, in the bedroom. The floors are all carpeted. There are blinds, rather than curtains at the windows and that makes it a little dark. There aren't any lamps. There aren't any lampshades on the bulbs which hang down from the ceilings.

So, we're doing this. We're really doing it. Well, we've done it, actually. This is the second day and there's no going back now.

Except there is, of course. He might not want to continue.

I don't know what he thought to yesterday. He didn't stay around long enough to let me know. But I don't think I like it here, and I didn't get the impression that George thought much to it either. It's cold and dusty and looks like an abandoned train station waiting room. I wonder if we should think of something else? Goddammit, George, why did you have to become so bloody famous? This would be so much simpler if you weren't a Beatle.

Through the living room window, I can see George ambling down Acacia Road, towards the building, without any urgency, no bother. Like he owns the place. Like he has all the time in the world. This is how he arrived yesterday too; on foot. I thought he'd come in his car. Even the Aston Martin he drives seems less conspicuous than walking. The Beatles are recording at Abbey Road currently and George walked from there to here. Walked, openly, where anyone can, and probably did, recognise him.

'It only takes about ten minutes,' he told me, when I questioned him on it. 'Parking is a pain in Saint John's Wood. It's easier to leave the car at the studio.'

'There's a carpark here,' I replied.

George shrugged. 'Well, I didn't know that, did I? Besides, isn't it stranger behaviour if I drive off for half an hour inexplicably?'

'Just... half an hour?'

'Yeah. It's only a tea break. I have to go back,' he said, with a sheepish smile. 'This is what happens when you start an affair on a Tuesday afternoon.'

'So what did you tell them you were doing then?'

'I said, "I'm just off to see my mistress for twenty minutes, down at secret love nest, N.W.8." What do you think I said?'

'I'm not your mistress.'

'No? What are you then?'

'I'm... Well, I'm...'