Chapter 12: A Day In The Life

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Y/n and the Boys travel around Hamburg, but an unexpected twist at the end of the day leaves her feeling slightly confused.

"You haven't done it yet?"

Man, I didn't know this kid was so inquisitive. I cast what I hoped was a disdainful, sideways glance at George and said, "That's none of your concern."

He crunched some of his corn flakes. John had gone out to buy some earlier that morning, a rare form of affection that I was surprised at. Maybe he was in a generous mood. "You really haven't? John must really like you, then."

"A lady tells no secrets," I said delicately, blushing slightly. But it was true. John and I had done nothing... well, not nothing. But we hadn't reached that point yet. And for the first time I realized that John really "did like me," as George put it. All those nights of just sleeping next to me in my bed back in London, just talking, not needing to go any further than that. He really did respect me. I felt slightly emotional, and took a swig of milk to disguise my melting heart.

"Shut up," Pete Best said, saving me, skipping the corn flakes and making himself jam on toast. "You did it when you were seventeen in the Indra and we were all there to witness it."

I burst into peals of laughter. "Really?" George ducked his head and gave a slight smile. "Yeah... I sometimes wonder what happened to Ingrid."

John came into the room, whistling, holding his guitar. "What are y'all talking about?"

"Nothing," Pete and I chorused, while George broke in, "last night's 'bs' match. Which I should have won." He coughed.

John looked at us strangely.


There was a red lamp in the boys' sleeping quarters; it had little camels embroidered onto it. The lightbulb itself wasn't red but the lampshade was, which made the light come out all nice and warm and gave the room a cozy atmosphere. I remember looking at that lamp a lot during yesterday's late afternoon before the concert; John and I had slipped in to talk for a while before the show and the conversation had drifted to talking about Paul. I sat against the headboard of John's bed while looking at the little camels embroidered into the lamp. John sat pretzel legged opposite me, our legs touching.

He was playing with my hands the whole time I was telling him what Paul said.

"And then he said, 'Look, can you just leave?'" I relayed. John's index finger was making its way around to touching each of my fingers, touching each gently before moving onto the next one. He had the most gentle touch I had ever felt, not to mention the electric shock that I felt whenever one of his fingers came into contact with mine.

"All the birds John has brought round were okay. There's something about you I... I just don't like," I continued. John looked up at me, a hard look. "What did you say? McCartney said that?"


"I'm going to go punch his—"

"No, no, no," I looked up, alarmed. "Please don't go do that. It's okay. I told him off."

"Bloody hell," John said. "He's never this bad with anyone. Not Barb, not Cynthia—" this time he cut himself off. "Sorry. They're... not relevant."

"Correct," I said icily.

"Beg forgiveness?" John said, looking up at me and kissing one of my fingers.

"Pay your taxes first," I joked, and received a sudden kiss on my neck. "Ow," I winced, as it came into contact with a purple bruise.

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