Shelter In Your Love (Beatles Fan Fiction)

72. Isn't It A Shame?

We were fined two hundred and fifty pounds each, plus ten guineas court costs. We will be on probation for a year and now I have a criminal record for a drugs offence, which Minnie thinks is hilarious, but I can't quite see the funny side yet.

George, still in his boxer shorts, joins me under the bedcovers. His hand immediately feels for the curve of my waist, smoothing the satin of my nightdress. I smile at him and fight the reflex to move away from him, as I pull my diary up to my chest. George leans over, takes the book and my pen out of my hand and places them on the nightstand.

'I was just writing--' I start to protest, but George cuts my words off with a kiss, pushing me back against the pillows. '--one last bit,' I finish as he draws back.

'Shhh, do it later,' he replies, as he kisses just below my ear. 'Bobs is asleep, no one else is in, so it's just you... and me...'

That's another new addition. People. Staff. I didn't envision anyone else being here with us when we moved to Friar Park, although admittedly, it's so huge that George, Bobbie and I would rattle around in here like a ha'penny in a tin can on our own.

There were some builders who stayed over during the week to work on the house, but they've nearly finished now. We have a new housekeeper - Henley on Thames was too far for Mrs Godfrey to move with us, (thankfully). The new housekeeper lives in, not in this building, in one of the cottages at the back, but she wants more housekeeping staff so they might end up living in here with us.

George employed a driver - without consulting me. It's someone who was recommended to him by Derek Taylor. His name is Dennis and he's a huge, round man, like a beachball with arms and legs and a head. He has to squeeze into the driving seat of the car, the steering wheel pressing uncomfortably into his stomach. We can't use the mini, he won't fit.

He's bald on top, although he can't be much older than forty, and what remaining hair he does have, he has cut military short. Dark eyes and a solid, square jaw. He reminds me of someone but I can't place who at the moment. He evidently reminds George of Bobby Teale, although God knows why. He's speaks with a cockney accent, when he does speak, but that's about as far as the similarities go. We don't have a lot in common, we don't have much to say to each other. So far, any driving has been done in uncomfortable silence. I'm not sure I like him very much, but I don't want to disappoint George with that news. It's like my dog has died so George has bought me a new puppy to cheer me up, but it's not the same. Bobby can't be replaced.

Worst of all, we also have a nanny for Bobbie. Of sorts. I remember George saying early on that he wouldn't want a nanny for Bobbie, that it would make raising her less personal and she might end up feeling distanced from us, but I suppose recent events have pushed that out of the window. She's here to "help me" and to "take the pressure off, you won't have to do everything yourself, Hannah." Urgh.

It came down to two applicants for the job. One was a woman in her sixties who had over thirty years experience of being a governess. She was prim and well-spoken, wore horn-rimmed spectacles and button up, calf high boots and had a waspish waist that even Minnie would be jealous of. The other was a nineteen year old girl, with big, green eyes and strawberry blonde hair, cut into a boyish, elfin style. She giggles at almost anything, even when it's not funny, and doesn't appear to own any dresses with skirts longer than eight inches.

Guess which one George picked? Because, again, I had very little input.

Her name is Emma and she's an English student. She goes to college during the week, so she's only part time; weekends and the odd evening or afternoon, until June when she'll do more hours during the university summer break.