No More Lonely Nights - A Fan Fiction

No More Lonely Nights - Chapter Fifty

March 9, 1964.

London, England.

PAUL: The scene we are working on today involves all of us in the dressing room prior to our rehearsal (in the film, that is), basically being our typical selves for once. I also get to play with the hair dryer... that is going to be seriously fun. I'm not being sarcastic, either, I'm being serious.

Maybe this film will come together well once it is all finished. I certainly hope so. I don't want us four looking like total idiots in on the screen in movie theatres all around the world. That would be quiet embarrassing, in all honesty. The last thing I want to do is embarrass myself, of course. That... well, that just wouldn't be good at all. At least, not to me.

We're preparing to shoot the scene now, and I hope it is over with quickly. This is the last piece we're working on before we get the next few days for blessed freedom, and I'm ready to head back to Liverpool so I can get what I need to get taken care of done. Then my conscience will be cleared for the next step of this journey- buying the ring. That will be a challenge all its own, naturally- how in the world am I supposed to find the perfect one out of all the choices in... well, all the choices on the face of the entire planet? I guess the right one will present itself to me in a way that will let me know that is the ring I'm supposed to get for my future fiancée. I hope, at least.

"Methinks this might actually be a fun scene," John said in my ear as the director, Richard Lester, was going over exactly what he expected of all of us in this part. And by all of us, I mean we Beatles, Wilfrid Brambell (my "grandfather"), Norman Rossington (who plays our fictional manager Norm), John Junkin (who plays our fictional road manager Shake), and several extras whose names I do not know and I don't plan on learning. Really, my brain is overloading enough as it is without trivialities like the names of a few extras that I don't plan on socialising with once this scene is through.

"It better be," I said. "And a quick one. So no one better screw anything up. I don't want to be here longer than I have to."

"Tell me about it," John said. "I'm ready to go home and actually sleep past eight in the morning for a few days. And not see this script for a good long time."

We began shooting the scene a moment later, John exchanging witty remarks with the extras in classic Lennon-esque style ("My name's Betty!" he quipped in falsetto, reading the name plate on the mirror where he stood combing out the fake beard he had commandeered). George was being dryly flirtatious with one of the extras, and Ringo was sitting under a hair dryer, a bushy wig on his head, reading a magazine. John strolled over to him and began brushing out the wig; "You always fancied yourself as a guardsman, didn't you?"

I had wrapped a sheet around myself and stood in front of the mirror, hair dryer in one hand and one of the prosthetic noses lying about the dressing room in the other. I held the nose up to my own and mused dramatically, "Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt!" Oh so Hamlet (it is a line from the play, I recall from my days at the Institute), if you didn't catch on.

I spun around from the mirror (oh, how awkward this is) and held up the hair dryer as if it were a gun, pointing it at no one in particular, and my next line was a very simple "Zap!" Uhh, yeah, very elementary, if you want to know my opinion on it. But oh well, I'm not the one who wrote the script.

"Hey, he's reading the Queen! That's an in-joke, you know," was John's next very cheeky line, in reference to Ringo's magazine, which was my queue to put finish up my "Zap!" line with "Shazam!" and throw myself into the nearest of the chairs in the dressing room, where I removed the sheet and sat listening to Mr. Brambell recite his line of "Look, I thought I was supposed to be getting a change of scenery. But so far, I've been in a train and a room, and a car and a room, and a room and a room. Well, maybe that's all right for a bunch of powdered gee-gahs like yourselves, but I'm feeling decidedly strait-jacketed!" I know how he feels. The whole movie can be summed up in that one line. I wonder if that's what the writers were going for...


ALLIE: Paul got back about half an hour ago to help me finish gathering everything up so we can head on back to Liverpool. I think he is quite relieved to have a break from the film for a bit; I can tell it is about to drive him nuts. Paul's creative side can't exactly be bottled up, nor can he be spoon-fed lines from a script. He needs to be doing things that show who he is and what his personality is like. But then again, I am probably biased, so what do I know? This is likely why significant others should not get involved in each other's projects- far too much bias.

"Next three days off, right?" I asked as we drove down the quiet country road between here and Liverpool, the windows down and the pleasant early spring breeze blowing my hair back. We were trying to find a radio station but we somewhat unsuccessful, so we finally quit looking for one. Conversation is better anyway.

"Yes, and I am quite relieved," he replied. "I need a break from all that. If I ever were to write my own film, it would not have a script. I'd just make it all be spontaneous and ad-libbed. No planning, no rehearsing, just good old-fashioned jump into it and film. Who needs all those prewritten lines, anyway? I don't feel like anything about us is accurately being captured in this. Really, just the hysteria of the fans is about the only accurate thing. You know what this idiot from the American market wanted us to do when it is released over there?"

"I don't know, what?"

"The idiot wanted to dub our voices over with those twangy, awful Atlantic accents like people in New Jersey have. I was standing there with the fool suggested that to Mr. Lester, and forgive me, love, but I'm just going to say it. I told the guy 'If we can understand a fucking cowboy speaking Texan, they can understand us talking Liverpool.' I mean, sometimes Americans confuse the hell out of me."

"Okay, as an American, I find such a proposition ridiculous. How can anyone over there understand the true spirit of the Beatles without the Liverpudlian accents? I love the way you talk. I could listen to it all day." I shifted over on the seat and put my head on his shoulder. "That's insinuating that British people's accents can't be understood by stupid Americans. Which is insulting to me, who knows more than anyone that such an idea certainly isn't true."

"Well, they don't all think like you or Delilah or Kyle, unfortunately. Seems most of them are rather..."

"Idiotic? It's okay. You can criticize my home country. You see why I have no plans to ever move back over there?"

Paul nodded. "And what do you mean you could listen to me talk all day, you do! Except when I'm asleep."

"Sometimes you talk in your sleep."

"Do I? Are you being serious?"

"I sleep with you, I should know!" I replied. "I would know better than anyone else!"


PAUL: Allie decided to stay at my apartment for the three days rather than hers, and once we got home, she told me she was going to go nap for a bit. I told her I was going to run down to the music store and pick up some guitar picks for George, but in reality, I was going to her father's house to talk to him. I didn't want her to know that, of course.

I was relieved to see that her father was indeed home when I got to the house, as I was hoping I had not chosen to speak with him on a day when he would not be home. I got out of the car and walked up to the door, knocking loudly. I heard footsteps and the door swung open a moment later. "Paul!" Mr. Morgan exclaimed. "What brings you here? And without my daughter at that."

"She's back at my apartment taking a nap. May I come in? I need to speak with you about something."

"Of course." He held the door open wider, and I stepped into the house, finding it a bit emptier and more sparsely furnished then the last time I had been here. But then again, when only one person was occupying it... Mr. Morgan led me into the living room and motioned for me to have a seat. "So, what is it you need to talk to me about? I'm starting to get an idea in my head."

"I think if you were to guess, you'd have it right, but I'd rather ask it properly." I took a deep breath before continuing. "You know how much I love Allie. I came here today to ask your permission to marry her. I didn't want to ask her before I made sure it was all right with you. I just couldn't bring myself to do anything without getting your prior blessing."

Mr. Morgan smiled. "I had a feeling you'd be asking this before much longer. You know my answer, Paul. Of course you may marry her. I would be rather disappointed in both of you if you didn't get married, and the sooner, the better! I knew the minute she came home and told me about you that this question would be coming sometime in the future. I can't quite see her with anyone but you, in all honesty. It's like you both were destined to be together from the beginning of time."

"That's always been my instinct," I replied. "Thank you so very much for your permission, Mr. Morgan. I feel so much better knowing that I asked you. Now I have to find her the perfect ring. Then make myself answer the question."

I stayed and talked with Allie's father a few more minutes before leaving to go speak with my own father and let him know what I was planning to do. He had no objections either, but I figured that would be the case.

Now to find the ring...