42. Not Guilty

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I won't upset the apple cart,
I only want what I can get.
I'm really sorry that you've been misled,
But like you heard me said,
Not guilty. 



We're still holding hands as we stand together in the queue for the reception desk. We're like a normal couple. We're not a Beatle and the girl who used to sing in the Raindrops. He's not someone else's husband. I'm not someone else's wife. We're not even George Harrison and Hannah West. We're just two people, together, a girl and a boy. And it's nice. It's better than that. It feels right for us to be like this. I don't want to go home. I want to stay with George. 

For just tonight? That's what he asked me, and I said yes, but now I don't think I can let him go. I wonder if I should suggest we go for breakfast together somewhere. Even for just a coffee. I want to tell him that I want to be with him. I think we should be together. I wonder if I tell him that, if he'll agree, if he's thinking the same thing as me. 

We made love again this morning. Slowly, and more importantly, soberly. Now we can't blame what's happened on having too much to drink or too much of anything else. We lay in bed together for as long as we possibly could, before we reluctantly dressed in last nights clothes and came downstairs to check out. I'm in no rush to go home. I've no idea what I can tell Ricky about where I've been. I don't know what George will tell his wife. I don't want to ask. 

Neither of us have said much. It's a comfortable, contented quiet. We don't need words. I think I can see all the things he wants to tell me in his eyes. He keeps looking at me, keeps standing close to me, keeps brushing his lips against mine.

As we reach the front of the queue, George kisses me. It's only intended to be a brief, quick kiss, but it turns into something more, something deeper and hotter, quite without our permission. When George moves his hands to my head and presses his body against me, the man behind the reception desk coughs loudly and rather rudely. George breaks away from me, a mischievous grin on his face and turns to speak to him. I step away to wait for him to finish, and then I see him. 

He stands a short distance away in a dark navy chalk stripe suit, watching from beneath the brim of a trilby hat. It's one of the men who hangs around the house sometimes, and naturally, it has to be the same one who saw me and George together in the back yard at the house warming party. I whip my head around, trying to appear as if I haven't noticed him, but it is too late.

'Good morning, Miss,' he says, loudly. 

I look at him again and force a bright smile, feigning surprise. 'Oh, um, good morning.'

He straightens up and steps closer to me, putting his head on one side. 'Not sure if you remember me? Robert Teale, Bobby.' He puts his hand out to me and I shake it gingerly.

'Yes, I remember,' I say weakly, as George joins me again, putting his arm around my waist before noticing Bobby there.

'Oh,' George says, glancing sideways at me. 'Hi, are you a friend of Hannah's?'

'More, uh, a friend of her husband's,' Bobby replies.

George withdraws his arm and takes a small step back from me. 'This is George...' I begin.

'...Harrison,' Bobby finishes for me and smiles thinly. 'The Beatle. You don't need to introduce him.'

George stiffens, but his smile doesn't falter. He sticks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and clears his throat. 'Well, I'd better be going,' he says, an edge to his voice. 'I'll see you soon, Hannah. It was nice to meet you, uh... sir.'

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