And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 16: Miscommunication... And Possible Time Travel?

"That's not going to make me want to sleep with him," I told George. I frowned. "Why am I discussing this with you anyway?"

"I'm more charming than McCharmly over there," he said.

"You have no idea."

"Don't tell me you're a virgin," George suddenly commented. "Pretty girl like you? And ye play guitar, sexy."

"My looks have nothing to do with it," I told him. I sighed. Forget about last night. We caught up with Paul, who was suddenly lagging behind, looking suspiciously like he wanted in on our conversation.

***

Peter Best turned out to be sitting at a table alone, sipping a beer and eating a sauerkraut sandwich when John opened the door to the Top Ten, in the exact spot where Paul was sitting just twelve hours ago. We all stood there for a few seconds, staring at him, and suddenly Paul shoved past all of us and ran at him.

"Where... the hell have you been, mate?" Paul asked him, throwing his hands in the air. John was less diplomatic. "Peter fucking Best, where were you last night?" He strode over to Pete and slammed his hands on the table, leaning close to him, getting in his face. I had rarely seen John like this, and it wasn't pretty for whoever was on the receiving end of the stance.

It was strange. I knew that John's mood could either swing two ways: good and bad. He might have seen Pete back and gone round to clap him on the shoulder and joke about Marie, or he might have done... this.

Pete was looking terrified. I didn't blame him. My heart was pounding. "Tell him to lay off," I whispered to Paul, and Paul strode over and touched both of them lightly on the shoulders. "Come on lads, it was only a bit of fun. He won't do it again. Right, Pete?"

"If you would just let me fucking explain," Pete said, his face tomato red.

"Yes, John, let him explain," Paul said wearily.

John closed his eyes. "Right."

"Marie brought me round for a couple of drinks early," Pete started. "She brought me to this bar where some of her friends were and their boyfriends or whatever. I thought it was just going to be a couple rounds of drinks, you know."

Paul nodded. I brought up a chair. George stood behind me, a silent shadow.

"And then one of them was rolling something up in a corner. I remember wondering what on earth it was. They lit it, and they seemed to be smoking it like a ciggie. They offered it round, and I refused, obviously, because I didn't know what it was."

John and I glanced at each other, our eyes telling the same story. June. He looked away first, and I, a little hurt, refocused on Pete. He looked uncomfortable, his eyes intense, his hands gripping the table hard. "I asked them what it was and they said something like Zigarette mit Gras."

"What's a grass cigarette?" Paul asked, and I thought, wait until 1965.

"Did you smoke it?" George asked, leaning around my shoulder.

"Yes," Pete said wearily. "They all seemed to be having a good time."

"You shouldn't have," I said shortly. "That stuff'll get you nowhere."

"How would you know, Cora?" he asked, somewhat defensive.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," I responded, rubbing my index finger on the wooden table. Paul gave me a long meaningful look from the other end of the tiny table but I chose to ignore it.