And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 89: Arrivals

"Dot! Where are they?" I asked as I lightly ran over to her, my skirt flapping in the ocean breeze.

The crowd of people thinned, and we saw the two of them at the other end of the platform. "Paul!"

"Cora!" I heard John call, and his voice sent shivers down my spine. I was so happy to see him. His arms around me were so deliciously familiar and just what I needed, I thought, as I collapsed into his hug, feeling his protective strength all around me. "John."

"I bought you something," he whispered, and then drew back, his hands cupping my face, his expression morphing into a worried one. "Blimey, what's up with you? You look really worried, love." He drew a little line across my forehead. "Don't develop these too fast. They're very unattractive on ye." He leaned down to kiss my forehead.

"You're back and that's all that matters," I told him. "I missed ye."

On the train home, the boys relayed their Paris adventures. I saw their hotel room in photographs, one of Paul sitting on a toilet fully outfitted, wearing a bowler hat and pretending to read a French newspaper, and my favorite, one of John lying in bed with an identical bowler hat, looking surprisingly soft and innocent. Closer to the John I knew.

A friend we had made in Germany, Jurgen Vollmer, also happened to be in Paris studying photography, and he gave the two a guided tour to the city. I listened to Paul talk about holding these odd trousers which flared at the knee—bell bottoms—I almost corrected him, but kept my mouth closed, only a small smile coming out. John pooh-poohed the idea, saying it would be too queer in Liverpool. The boys played in leather, and that was it.

"Your hair is different," Dot noted, reaching up and touching her fiancée's bangs.

"It was like that before," I pointed out, "but now it's more prominent."

"Jurgen gave our hair a wee trim," John said. "In the hotel room. Felt like a right Frenchmen after that. A real queer Frenchman but I suppose they're all queer." He laughed at his joke.

Now it was the true Beatles style, I noted with a smile.

"So when do we get back to playing?" Paul asked as we sat down at a restaurant for a quick bite to eat before everyone went home. "John and I skipped a couple of bookings, but it's old Mona. She'll understand we just needed a break."

"Um actually," I said awkwardly as all heads turned toward me. "George and Pete are... um... looking for other bands."

"Shite, are you joking?" Paul asked, the humor out of his voice, and John said simultaneously, defensively, "Little arseholes. I started this whole thing. They can't just quit on me."

"It was an arsehole move to leave on them," I fired back.

There was a silence.

"Well, I mean, how would you like it if two of your bandmates just left—no note, no call, nothing? And then you're feeling left out and all," I tried to explain. John was drawing me closer to him on the bench we were sitting on, his hand on the small of my back. I didn't want to snuggle against him at the moment, and I tried to sit up straight.

"Didn't realize Georgie couldn't keep his feelings straight for a couple of days," he muttered, and his hand left my side so fast that by reaction I jerked in the opposite direction.

"Tell me you wouldn't do the same," I said.

"It's my band, so we wouldn't have this problem."

"It's really fine, Cora, don't get yer knickers in a twist," Paul said tiredly, sipping from his water glass. John took out a ciggie from his coat pocket and lit it, an irritated look in his eyes.