Baby You're a Rich Man

One

Paul didn't really need much luggage, just a few shirts, the essentials like a toothbrush, shaving razors, nail clippers - had he remembered to bring extra underwear? - and, of course, his beloved gigantic sheepdog, Martha.

His mate Ringo didn't seem too happy about the sudden addition to their party, and had spent the better part of the morning grumbling about how Paul hadn't let him bring his drum kit, but had himself brought, as he put it "a great bloody beast" with them.

"Well, Martha's alive, and your drums aren't," Paul had retorted, looking at Ringo with an air of disdain.

"All the more reason to leave the bloody dog at home!"

But Ringo's attempts at logic and reason were lost on Paul, who was too busy cooing at the dog, "Yes you're alive, Martha, my dear. Yes you are."

John lowered his designer sunglasses that probably cost more than everything these peasants were bringing to India put together to glance at the two figures waiting with them. He frowned at them, squinting at the deranged man kneeling next to a huge, furry animal, and the exasperated companion who seemed to be complaining to the balmy Indian breeze.

John decided quickly there would be no associating with them. "Look at them, Cynthia," he whispered.

His lovely wife looked at them from underneath perfectly shaped false lashes and blond hair that had cost a fortune. Most of her bags were filled with hair products, most of which had uses he couldn't follow, and when he did need to understand, he'd fetch the maid to explain. John winced at the thought of no maid for a month; but surely they'd have some kind of staffing for the Lennons, who were a dynasty whose names were accompanied with money to back their every wish.

"Why are they wearing leather?" Cynthia wrinkled her nose, looking at them. Her own couture summer dress was light and made of the highest quality fabric, all the better to meditate in - or follow her husband's strange whims, for this trip had been his idea.

"I guess they're rockers," John said, an air of disgust, because while he was still in his mid-twenties, still young, he was assured, he felt he was above all this mod and rocker business.

He'd been trained as the heir of the Lennon dynasty; he had money, power, a wife, and now a nice distraction, a meditation trip to India.

Paul McCartney, on the other hand, had a dream. He had no way of knowing he'd ever be successful, and barely any money to pay the rent for the dingy flat he shared with his best mate, Richard, as he hated to be called, or Ringo, because of his rings which were his pride and joy now. At first he'd stolen them from his mother to wear at gigs, back when they were young, to look more rock 'n' roll, but now he'd entirely replaced her set; not that Mrs. Starkey had noticed their absence.

Paul's leather squeaked and his gelled-back hair felt slightly cooled in the wind as they waited. And they'd been waiting for a long time, mind you, it seemed something had gone wrong with the system of cars that were to take them to the meditation camp, which gave Ringo another subject to gripe about.

"Why are the bloody cars so late, maybe they've gone and left us, and we'll be left out here all alone with this sodding animal," Ringo grumbled.

Paul ignored his friend; he knew this was only a passing mood; Ringo could be excessively negative when he was tired and grumpy, but usually he was always the one to relax and the first to crack a joke. Unless he'd been woken early to go on a trip to the "bloody other end of the globe" with Martha, who he'd disliked ever since she jumped at him, slobbered all over him and swallowed his pinky ring, which Paul had never recovered. He didn't worry too much, though, Martha was a tough thing, even with a ring somewhere in her.

"They said there will be famous people," Paul said, his eye glimmering, as he eyed the two people standing closest to him, a blond woman in a sundress and large hat standing next to a man with sunglasses who wore a fancy-looking suit, neatly trimmed sideburns framing his face.

"More famous then we'll ever be," Ringo muttered, but it seemed nothing could spoil Paul's optimism.

A loud noise of honking horns brought the loose group to attention, as a few cars arrived. A van pulled up to where Paul and Ringo were standing, and the driver eyed Martha warily. All that could identify the mass of fur as a dog was the long, pink tongue lolling out.

Paul herded Martha in, and she hopped onto the van obediently. Paul got in first, sitting at the far left while Ringo got in after him. He thought that they would close the door after Ringo got into the van, but they kept it open. Paul craned his neck to see what was going on, and saw the man in the suit step it.

Ringo moved over and the blond woman followed shortly after, glossy high-heeled shoes looking strangely out of place in the slightly grime-coated van. Then the door was shut and the driver announced it would be a four-hour drive.

"Well, we'd best get to know each other then," Ringo said with a smile and a nervous chuckle.