It's so true it can happen to you all; there,
Knock and it will open wide,
And it only takes time
'Til love comes to everyone.
I've never thought of myself as ugly. By the same token, I've never thought of myself as beautiful either. I've always been astounded that there are people who do. People who must look at their own reflection and consider themselves, firmly and sincerely, beautiful. Those who aspire to be models, for example. For someone to choose a career like that, you must know yourself to be beautiful.
I wonder what it is like to live like that. I wonder how much people treat you differently to anyone else, just because you are the perfect example of what is aesthetically pleasing and desirable. I wonder if they even realise that they are treated differently.
When I've looked in the mirror before, it's been rarely to admire, or even appraise my own looks. Mirrors are functional things for me. To fix my hair, to do my make up, to make sure I haven't got something stuck between my teeth. There are others who seem unable to tear their eyes from themselves. They never miss an opportunity to admire themselves, catching their reflections in shop windows, the shiny bodywork of cars or even the curved, distorted surface of a dessert spoon. I've never been one of those people, but recently, I have caught myself looking at my own reflection more often.
This is not vanity on my part though. This is critical assessment. Very critical. I feel like I'm a donkey that's somehow found itself in a race with a thoroughbred.
Pattie Boyd is a beautiful woman. She's perfect, from her Vidal Sassoon coiffured hair down to her neatly pedicured and painted toes. I'm assuming this. I haven't actually seen her toes. It's still too cold for open toe shoes.
She's so tall and skinny, and apparently, that is what women should be. Gone is the desire for curvaceous figures, like Marilyn Monroe or Rita Hayworth. In this modern world, men only want women thin enough to hide themselves behind lampposts. Slender, flat, featureless bodies. Twiggy, Jean Shrimpton... and Pattie Boyd.
I am not one of these women. I never have been, and even if I never ate another mouthful again, I doubt I would ever be that slim. I have wide hips for one thing. They seem to have no muscles in their calves or thighs, and I do. I've had a 27 inch waist and a 34 inch bra size since I was fifteen and I doubt that will change anytime soon. Pattie Boyd must be a English dress size 6, if not smaller.
Why then, when he has this perfect example of womanhood waiting for him at home, would George be the least bit interested in someone like me?
This isn't me. I am not really this superficial. I am not obsessed by looks, mine or anyone else's, and I know that true beauty comes from within. I know that you could be the most beautiful girl in the world, but if your heart and soul are ugly, then you will be too. But I can't even take comfort from this, because Pattie seems as sweet and good natured as she is cute and pretty. She's polite, educated and vivacious. She's the tailor-made Beatle girl.
I should know. I've done extensive research.
I've tried not to, but it's hard to resist continually comparing myself to this woman; wondering, sincerely, why would George have ever wanted me over her?
Maybe he never did, truly. Being on tour distorts things. You're so insular, in your group, travelling from place to place. You get into a routine quickly and it's easy to forget what life is like beyond the next theatre, the next show, the next audience. I don't doubt George meant all that he said to me, when he said it. But if things had gone to plan, if Ricky's mother hadn't decided to die right that day - a parting act of spite, I'm sure - and I'd gone home with George, perhaps he would have seen Pattie and me, side by side, and thought, what the hell am I doing?!
Still, I cannot decide this for sure, because he did ask me to go home with him, after all. Because nearly a week ago he kissed me in the yard behind our terrace house, most unexpectedly and inappropriately, and wonderfully. And because he is coming here tonight, to meet me, to have dinner with me, and I daren't imagine beyond that.
He's supposed to be coming, but he's late. Forty-five minutes late, and it's looking less and less likely with every passing second.
I close the little compact mirror that I have been studying. It holds no answers, only more questions. I slip it back into my bag, resolving to leave it there. That was the third time I've examined myself since I've been waiting, perched on a tall stool in the bar of the restaurant, and it's starting to become habit forming.
I finish the martini cocktail I've been sipping. A martini, because that's another thing I've examined and found wanting. I'm just not chic, elegant, sophisticated enough. What I usually drink - glasses of sherry or Babycham are pedestrian and old fashioned. Cocktails are modern and cosmopolitan. In every area of my life, myself, right down to what I choose to eat or drink, I am lacking.
The bartender takes the empty glass away with a sympathetic smile. He thinks I've been stood up. He could be right.
'Can I have another one please?' I say to him, breezily, as if nothing is wrong.
'Of course, ma'am,' he replies and I twist my mouth when he turns his back to make it for me. At what point did I stop being a miss and become a madam?
'Hannah?' a voice says behind me.
I turn and nearly fall off the stool, because for a moment I think it's Bob Dylan. But it's not, it's just a guy with wild, curly hair, who doesn't look all that much like Dylan, now I look at him properly.
I must be the only person my age who hopes she never meets Bob Dylan again. I don't think I could look him in the face without dying of embarrassment. I've been in the same room as him twice; the party in 1964 where he was witness to George being so rude and mean to me, and last year, the Shea Stadium after show party, when Maria was flirting with Paul and Ricky dragged me out of there like I was a two year old having a tantrum.
Plus, what he said to me still haunts me.
'Your music's really... nice.'
I don't think I've received a harsher review. The thing is, I like Bob Dylan's music, to my chagrin. I wish I could hate it as much as he disdains mine, but I can't. I think he's a brilliant songwriter.
'Are you Hannah?' the man repeats a little less confidently, because I realise I've been staring at him without speaking for far too long. That cocktail might have gone to my head.
'Yes, sorry,' I say, shaking myself to wake up. I smile at him. 'I'm Hannah.'
'Hi, I'm Terry,' he says, with a broad Liverpudlian accent that eases my confusion somewhat. 'Have you been waiting long? I'm so sorry. There was an accident at Vauxhall Bridge and traffic was at a standstill. It's raining so heavily out there, I think we might have to start building an ark.' He laughs as he removes his jacket, shaking droplets of rainwater from it before he hangs it on the back of a nearby chair.
'Uh, no, not long,' I reply, but Terry's not listening anyway. He's ordering drinks from the barman. The barman places the martini he's just made in front of me and Terry tells him to put it on the 'tab'.
Terry turns back to me and smiles widely. 'You're married to Ricky West, aren't you?'
'Um, yes,' I reply, taken aback.
'My mother loves Ricky West. She was always playing his records. Still does, in fact...'
Terry continues his monologue into how long his mother has been a fan, how he remembers Ricky's music from his teenage years. I nod along vaguely, not really listening, concern growing that George might have sent this man in place of himself. He seems to know who I am, he has a Scouse accent, but he's not yet mentioned anything to do with George.
'Sorry, is, um, George coming?' I interrupt eventually.
'Oh yes, he's coming. He's just, uh, doing something. He won't be long. Sorry, I probably should have said that at the start, shouldn't I?' He laughs. 'So, what do you think?'
'What do I... think?'
'Would he sign something? For my mum? It can be a late Christmas present. I'm sure she'd prefer that to what I'd actually bought her.'
'Ricky?' I ask, lost, and Terry nods. 'Oh, I'm sure he will. I'll ask him. You'll have to give me your mum's address and I'll post something to her.'
'Thank you, you're very kind.' Terry smiles, and picking up his coat again, he offers me his arm. 'Shall we find a table?'
I stand, reluctantly. Shouldn't we be waiting for George? I'm about to say so, when Terry takes my hand. 'You look nice,' he says, holding my hand out at arms length. 'What a lovely dress.'
'Oh, thanks,' I say, looking down at myself.
I've got a new dress on. I'm not too sure about it. It's blue with a yellow geometric sunburst around the neckline and over the bust. Short sleeve with an A-line skirt. It's shorter than I'd usually wear. A good two or three inches above the knee. I've noticed that the skirts here seem a lot shorter than they were in the boutiques in New York. The dresses have no waists either. It took me ages to find one with a more fitted shape. I need a waist, otherwise I just look like I'm wearing a circus tent. It was a bit more than I wanted to spend, but Ricky bought it. Ricky doesn't know he bought it. After that rather one-sided row we had about money, I've started taking the odd note from his wallet without asking.
Terry leads me to the mouth of the dining room and drops my hand momentarily so he can speak to the maitre d'. I glance back towards the steps that lead to the street above. The door opens and I take a deep breath, expecting it to be George, but it's not, it's just another couple coming in.
Terry takes my arm again as we're escorted to a circular table at the far end of the dining room. It's set for four people, and my heart stops. George wouldn't bring Pattie, would he? He couldn't have misconstrued my meaning when I asked him to meet me, could he? We didn't speak for long on the phone, but I think I was pretty clear.
George, I want to see you. Can we meet somewhere? Somewhere we can talk, but where we won't run into anyone...
I thought I made my intentions plain, but George sending this guy - nice, though he seems - wasn't part of the bargain. I didn't specifically say, don't bring a friend, but I wouldn't have thought I'd have to.
A waiter brings our drinks over and pulls back the chair for me to sit down. Terry sits down opposite, opening his menu.
'Is someone else joining us?' I say, unable to resist asking.
Terry puts his menu down and checks his watch. 'Just George, if he ever gets here. Do you think he's got lost?'
'Where is he?'
'Oh, uh...' Terry opens the menu again, suddenly cagey. 'He's just making a phone call, I think.'
I smile, but I'm suspicious. They have telephones in here. Why wouldn't he use one of those?
I open my own red leather bound menu and try to read it. My eyes scan the page, but I'm not taking it in. I keep glancing towards the entrance, looking for George.
The restaurant is covered almost entirely in red. The carpets, curtains and walls are all a bright postbox red. Even our chairs are upholstered in red velvet. Only the tables offer any contrast in painted glossy black. It's all a bit garish, if I'm honest. There's a piano player at the far end of the dining room playing soft music on a black baby grand.
'So, you're from The Pool as well?' Terry asks. 'You'd never tell, you don't have much of an accent.'
'I had to have elocution lessons in America,' I reply. 'Our manager at the time worried that no one would understand us otherwise.'
'There's the odd word I can still hear it in, but if I wasn't listening for it I think I might miss it entirely. I only know because George mentioned it. I've always assumed Ricky West's backing singers were Americans too.'
'Two of them were,' I tell him, ignoring the 'backing singers' label. 'Cat and Bet, the twins, they were American.' I put the menu down so I can drink from my cocktail glass. 'I regret getting rid my accent, actually. It was one of the last things that still identified where I was from.'
'You don't go back anymore?'
I shake my head. 'I haven't been back in years. I don't have any ties to Liverpool now. Has it changed-'
'Hannah,' George says beside me, and I look up, startled. For all my door watching, he's still managed to sneak up on me.
George puts his hand on my back and bends down to kiss my cheek, then crosses to the other side of the table and sits in between me and Terry. He's dressed quite casually. I'm in the best dress I currently own, Terry, like nearly everyone else in the room, wears a suit, but George wears an embroidered purple and pink floral shirt with jeans and a black blazer, damp from the rain, which he takes off to hang on the back of the chair.
'You found her alright then, Tel? Told you you'd be able to pick her out, didn't I?' George says.
'Yes, no problem,' Terry replies.
George turns to me. 'We were talking about you. Terry's a Ricky West fan.'
'My mum is,' Terry corrects. 'And we've already done that conversation, you've taken so long to get here.'
George laughs hollowly. 'Yeah, sorry. I was, uh... delayed.'
'Well, now you're here, I'll just go and wash my hands,' Terry says, standing. 'Excuse me, Hannah.'
I smile and Terry walks away. George picks up the menu in front of him. 'Have you decided what you're having?' he asks, idly, as if we do this sort of thing every day of the week.
I stare at him and he flicks his eyes up at me over the top of the menu. George does have very deep, brown eyes. He has an intense way of looking at you sometimes. Somewhere in between a question and a challenge, and that's how he's looking at me right now.
'Who is he?' I ask, carefully.
'Didn't he introduce himself?'
'He said his name was Terry.'
'Yeah. He sells second hand cars.' I frown and George grins. 'He used to. He works for us now.'
'Oh, okay. So... why have you brought him to dinner?'
'I thought you might like to meet him,' George says and his smile has frozen in place. 'I thought the two of you would... get along.'
I sigh inwardly. He's plainly still pissed off. Still in the same petulant mood as when we were arguing at the party. I was hoping, after the kiss we shared, that we could skip over all this. I can see George isn't about to let us do that.
'What have you told him?' I ask.
'What about?'
'About... this.'
George shrugs. 'Nothing in particular. Just the truth.'
'The... what? What truth?'
'That you've just moved to London. That you sang in the Raindrops, but you split last year. That you're from Liverpool originally. That you're married to the teen dream, Ricky West. But you might not be for much longer, seeming as he's knocking you about these days.'
'You said what?' I say, sitting up straighter.
'They have attendants in the bathroom here,' Terry says, sitting down again. 'I do hate that. They expect a tip when all they've done is hand you a paper towel.'
George laughs and says something in reply to Terry, but I don't take it in. I stare at him. He meets my eyes cooly and sits back in his chair, resting his elbow on the back of it, cocking his head to one side.
I shift my gaze back to the menu again, making a concerted effort to read it properly as the small talk continues around me. A minute or two later the waiter returns to take our order. I pick the first thing I see. I'm not sure I should have ordered anything. I think perhaps I should have already got up and left.
I watch George and Terry talking. George is animated, laughing and chatting, but there's something underlying everything. A tension.
George leans across the table to me, fixing me with his chocolate brown eyes again. There's something else there now. I've seen that look somewhere before.
'Hannah,' he says.
He's leaning quite close to me. Intimately close, you might say. He has a perfectly bow shaped mouth. That's supposed to mean he's kind and compassionate. I could just lean into him...
'Han?' George says.
'What?' I ask, not concentrating.
'Terry's talking to you.'
I snap my head round to him. 'Sorry, I was miles away. What were you saying?'
He smiles at me. 'I was just asking how long you've been a singer for?'
'Oh, um, years. Only since 1961 professionally, but before that me and my sister used to sing in a couple of venues in Liverpool occasionally.'
'Venues!' George repeats, with a snort.
I look at him. 'Yes. Clubs, I mean.'
'Yeah, Tel. They were clubs. Cabaret clubs, strip clubs...'
Terry looks from George to me and laughs weakly, thinking he's not following a joke.
I smile at him faintly. 'That was only once. It was a mix up.'
'That's what she says, but I never saw her sing anywhere else. Not until she... uh, negotiated her way onto the Ricky West show.'
'What are you talking about?' I ask him, frostily.
'Got booed off, didn't you, Han? In that cabaret club? The audience were expecting strippers, y'see, Tel.'
'George...' I start.
'True, though, isn't it, Scarlett?' he says and then leaning over to Terry again, adds, 'That was her stage name back then. Scarlett. I don't think she had a surname.'
'For the one gig only,' I tell him. George raises an eyebrow.
Terry smiles. 'And what were you doing in this strip club then, George?'
George laughs. 'Ah, well, good point. It was my birthday. It was John's idea, if I remember right.'
'I'm sure Terry doesn't want to hear about this,' I say.
'And I'm sure he does,' George replies.
A waiter approaches, bringing the food and providing a reprieve, and we start to eat.
'Of course, I don't mean to suggest Hannah was a stripper,' George says, with a mouth full of food. 'She wasn't.'
'No, of course not. Perhaps we can change the subject-' Terry replies quietly, sounding nearly as uncomfortable as I feel.
'Though she always was a fucking tease.'
'George!' I cry, but he just gives me a satisfied smile. Kind and compassionate, my arse.
'What?' he asks, innocently but glaring at me. 'I'm only pulling your leg, Han. Teasing you. Like friends do. We're all friends here, aren't we? That's what you always tell me you want. To be fucking friends.'
I stare at him. 'Are you... Have you taken something? Are you high?
'If I'm high, then you're drunk,' George says and pokes my empty martini glass with the butt of his dinner knife. The glass falls over.
'Stop it,' I say, warningly. 'Or I'm leaving.'
'Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?'
'Yes, pack it in, George,' Terry says, picking the glass up for me. 'You're being a bore.'
George glowers at him and purses his lips. 'Right. Then I apologise,' he says, stoically.
'I don't think it's me you need to apologise to,' Terry replies.
George looks at me but he doesn't speak. He puts his head down and carries on eating.
'Would you like another drink, Hannah?' Terry asks me.
I give him a weak smile and nod.
Terry orders me another cocktail from a passing waiter and I resolve to drink this one more slowly. I'm not drunk, but I am feeling a little lightheaded.
'So,' Terry says with small cough. 'How are you and Ricky finding London? Do you like it?'
'Yes,' I reply. 'Although we haven't had chance to see much of it yet.'
'Have you visited before?'
'I've only travelled through. I went from Liverpool straight to Hamburg, and then New York. This is the first time I've been here properly.'
'Oh, yes, you were in Hamburg, weren't you? With... er...' Terry glances at George who still has his head bowed. He changes his mind about what he was going to say but I nod anyway.
'I'm surprised you like London,' George mumbles. 'I'd have thought you'd hate it. The number of times I've asked you to come here before.' He looks up at me. 'You've always refused.'
'I'm beginning to hate parts of it,' I reply, tersely.
'Terry could show you around, couldn't you, Tel? Show her the palace and Trafalgar Square and the fucking tower. Show her whatever you wanted.'
'What?' Terry asks him, confused.
'You think she's pretty, don't you?' George turns to me. 'That's what he said when I told him who we were meeting. Ricky West's pretty wife.' Back to Terry. 'You should ask her out, go sightseeing. Hannah likes sightseeing. I'd give you her phone number, but I haven't got it.'
I feel cold suddenly. Is that what's going on here? Is that why he's brought Terry? To try and set me up with him or something? Has Terry been thinking this too? I can be a little naive when it comes to these things. I don't always notice. He did say he liked my dress. But why would he keep asking me about Ricky?
'I think her husband might have something to say about that,' Terry replies, good-naturedly.
'Oh, I don't think Hannah worries about that sort of thing,' George says. 'Or look at it this way. You can have a bit of fun with her and then hand her back.'
'Shut up, George,' Terry says, half joking and half meaning it. 'You're not funny.'
I turn to Terry. 'Does your mum live in London?'
'She's still in Liverpool,' he replies, taking a sideways look at George again.
'That's a shame. Ricky and I will be performing at a new club in Mayfair shortly. I was going to suggest you should bring her down. I'm sure Ricky would be delighted to meet her. We'll be there for a while, so perhaps we can arrange it?'
Terry smiles. 'I think she'd really like that. You'll have to give me the name.'
'It's easy to remember. It's called Esmerelda's Barn.'
George sniffs rudely.
'Have you been there, George?' Terry asks him, raising an eyebrow at him.
George gives a small shake of his head. 'I don't think it's open yet,' he replies.
'No, it's not,' I confirm. 'It'll be opening in April.'
'Well then, we'll have to make a date for when it is,' Terry says.
'Yes, definitely. If you give me your telephone number, I can-'
'That was smooth, Tel,' George interrupts. 'A date with Hannah James already in the bag. She wouldn't do that when we were kids. No dates. No boyfriends. No sex. No fucking doing anything with sweet, innocent Hannah.'
I study him, but George turns his head away. A flash of remorse, I think.
'I did have a boyfriend,' I say, softly.
George nods. 'Yes, that's true, she did,' he says, more calmly. 'I was her boyfriend,' he tells Terry. 'And she... she was the first girl I loved.'
I look at him in disbelief, wondering what on earth he's doing now, but George just smiles, a lot more warmly this time.
'Oh. Uh, right,' Terry replies, uncomfortably.
'That's what I was talking about earlier,' George continues. 'It's how we met. She was trying to sing with her sister, in the Cabaret club. It used to be at the top of Seel Street, do you remember it?'
Terry shakes his head. 'No, I don't think so.'
'Well, that's where we met. My seventeenth birthday. Hannah would have only been sixteen. I guess Minnie lied about your age for you then too?'
'Yes, I suppose she must have done.'
'I'm sorry if I upset you before, Han,' he says, softly.
'That's okay.'
'And yeah, she was in Hamburg with us, for a while,' he says to Terry. 'But I left for Liverpool and she left for New York. Broke my heart to go home without her. As if being deported from the country wasn't bad enough, finding out how very little you actually mean to the girl you love will really twist the knife.'
'You weren't in love with me, George,' I say, quietly.
George bristles and I wish I'd never said it. 'No, because I wouldn't be the one to know that, would I?' he says, flatly.
'You never said anything. At the time, you weren't exactly all that... It's only after - years after - that you've decided that you were-'
'Well, there was a happy ending anyway, wasn't there? For one of us at least. You went off and married the amazing Ricky West. Every girl's dream. Was it all a plan from the start, Han? Did you refuse to come back to Liverpool with me because you already knew you were going to New York?'
'There was a happy ending for you too,' Terry interrupts, leaning his elbows on the table. 'Pattie. Remember her? No wonder you didn't want her to come tonight.'
George shoots him a black look and I've had enough. I push my chair back from the table and stand up. 'Excuse me,' I mumble, not looking at either of them.
I cross the room quickly, weaving though the tables, towards the women's toilets. I burst through the door just in time before the tears overflow, choking me and making me cry out sharply like I'm in pain.
A woman, the powder room attendant, sits on a stool beside the wash basins. She stares at me with mild horror then stands. 'It's my break time,' she mumbles and steps past me, out of the room.
I draw a breath and pull myself together. I try not to cry these days. Tears have never helped anything. I think I've become quite practiced at swallowing it back, except for the odd occasion when I can't help it. Like on the floor of our old New York apartment, or bursting through toilet doors in restaurants, scaring bathroom attendants.
I run water in the sink and splash my face, before I realise it will smudge my makeup and I've left my handbag back at the table. Cursing my stupidity, I fetch some toilet paper and try to blot my spoiled mascara.
I give myself a small smile as I study my reflection in the large circular mirror over the sinks and wonder what I should do. My face is pale, slightly blotchy, now with black smudges under my eyelashes. My dress - my lovely new dress - suddenly looks cheap on me. Like I'm trying too hard. Trying to emulate something I haven't a hope of achieving. I've got water spots on the front of it now too. I bet girls like Pattie never have this kind of trouble.
I will have to return to the table. I can't leave without my bag. It has my keys and tube ticket in it, as well as a hundred other irreplaceable items. The question is, do I march back there with my nose in the air, snatch it up, swear at George and stomp out of here, or do I meekly return, try to apologise for hurting George - yet again - and try to salvage this... this... whatever this is.
Because that's what I guess is at the bottom of his behaviour. He's angry, he's confused, he doesn't know why I didn't come home with him and now he knows the truth about Ricky and my ersatz marriage. I can't blame him for being so pissed off with me.
Then again, is it a lost cause? Why has he brought someone else to dinner with us, if not to show me that things can't go any further than that kiss the other night. He's not interested, beyond trying to make me feel bad. Well, George, you can't make me feel any worse than I already do.
The door to women's room opens and I straighten myself up. I expect it to be another diner or perhaps the bathroom attendant returning, so I don't notice it's George until he crosses into the mirror behind me.
'Hello,' he says, lightly.
'Hello?' I echo, looking at him through the reflection. 'Is that all you have to say? After that... scene?'
'It was a bit of a scene, wasn't it?' he replies, and grins cheekily. 'I've been sent here to apologise, so, I'm sorry.'
'You were sent into the women's room to apologise?' I ask, turning around to face him.
George gives a small shrug. 'I waited outside, but you were taking forever.' Unexpectedly, he steps closer to me and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into him.
'What are you doing?' I say, trying to push him away from me with my hands on his chest, but George just tightens his arms around me.
'Kiss me,' he says.
'No!' I say, shocked and George laughs.
'Isn't this what we do now?' he asks, moderately. 'Sharp words and stolen kisses?'
'No,' I repeat, quieter, and a little sadly.
'What about just the kisses then?'
Then he does kiss me, but only briefly, because I'm holding back, and I guess he can feel it. He kisses me gently and sweetly, but it's over before I've have chance to think about what I'm doing, and I immediately regret not kissing him properly. I'm always doing this. I'm always too scared to take that step with him. Except for the other night, I am always too scared.
George remains holding me and smiles, although I can see he's not as confident as when he first grabbed me. 'All I could think of to stop you leaving,' he says, flippantly. 'Did it work?'
I sigh and he releases me, but keeps ahold of my hand. 'Don't go, Han. Come and finish your dinner, and I promise I'll stop acting like a twit.' He jerks his head towards the door. 'Terry's absolutely livid.'
'Why did you tell him to take me sightseeing?' I ask cautiously. 'Does he think that I might be interested in... him? Because of what you told him about Ricky and me?'
George shakes his head, an amused look on his face. 'Don't be daft,' he replies. 'Do you think I'd really bring competition? No, Terry's... Well, he's one of Brian's friends.'
'Brian who?'
'Brian Epstein.'
I frown. 'I don't understand. Why would that mean...'
'Never mind. Just... don't worry. And I haven't told him anything, about us or about... you and Ricky.'
'But-'
He tugs my hand, coaxing me towards the door. 'Come on, before we get thrown out for being in here like this.'
I let him to lead me into the dining room and back to the table where Terry waits for us. George is still holding my hand as we sit down and I notice Terry looking at this. I take my hand back and smile apologetically.
George pats Terry's shoulder. 'Sorry, Tel. Everything's okay now. We've kissed and made up,' he adds and winks at me. I widen my eyes at him, trying to tell him to shut up but George just laughs.
Good to his word, George totally changes. He chats, jokes, laughs but any tension is gone now. He's more like the George I know. The George I love. And he's flirting with me, I think. He keeps finding a reason to touch me; placing his hand on my forearm, brushing the back of my hand, his foot finding mine under the table. We take our time over dinner, talking more than eating.
'Do you want a sweet?' George asks, looking at the dessert menu after we've finally finished the meal. He lays it down on the table, pretending to read it, but really just using it as an excuse to move closer to me. I feel his hand searching out mine under the table. I let him take it, entwining my fingers in his, holding it in my lap.
'No, thank you,' I reply. 'I don't think I could eat another thing.'
'Sweet enough, eh?' George says and runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
Terry clears his throat and sits up straighter. 'Could you...' he starts and I realise it's the first thing he's said for the last twenty minutes. I'd been concentrating too much on George to notice. 'Do you think you pair could knock it off? Please?' he says, softly but bitterly.
'I don't what you're talking about,' George says, but he takes his hand back.
'This,' Terry replies, his voice low. 'All the bloody giggles and smiles and hand holding. I can see what you're doing, you know.'
'What am I doing?' George replies facetiously, trying to hide a smile. He takes a surreptitious sideways glance at me.
'Just stop it. I think it was better when you were fighting.'
'I don't know what on earth you mean, Tel,' George says, raising the menu in front of his face but not high enough to hide the salacious wink he gives me.
'Okay,' Terry says, annoyed. He lets the dessert menu in his hand drop onto the table. 'I think I'll call it a night. I'm sure you can find your own way home, George. That's if you're planning on going home.'
'Oh, Terry, don't be an idiot. I'm only having a laugh. Calm down. We can go for a drink somewhere in a minute.'
'And carry on watching you try to shag her? I think I'll give it a miss, thanks.'
'Hey,' George says, warningly, losing his levity. 'That's not on...'
'No,' Terry says, cutting him off, but still speaking in a hushed voice. 'This is not on, George. You just act as you damn well please. Any girl, any night, isn't it?'
'Since when were you so interested?' George says, curling his lips and I shift uncomfortably.
'She's not some girl on the road, is she? She's married. And she's married to Ricky West, at that.'
I try to catch George's eye, but he's glaring at Terry. 'I don't care who she's fucking married to. It's none of your business, Tel.'
Terry shakes his head at him and stands, throwing the napkin from his lap down on the table. 'Bloody well is my business when you need someone to cover for you with your wife, though, isn't it?' he says, crisply and turns to me.
I lean back in my seat, away from him, afraid of what he's about to say.
'Goodnight, Hannah,' he says, tersely and taking another glance at George, adds, 'If you've any bloody sense, you'll go home now too.'
Terry stalks out of the restaurant as both me and George watch him silently. George sucks in a deep breath and turns to me, shaking his head and shaking the bad atmosphere off. He smiles. 'Sorry, Han. I don't know what's wrong with him.'
'You do,' I reply, quietly.
'Terry's normally a bit cooler than that, otherwise I wouldn't have brought him.'
'So, why did you, George?' I ask, unable to look at him. I run my finger over the rim of my cocktail glass. It's empty again.
'I didn't think he'd know who you were, but when I told him we were meeting you, turns out he's the bloody president of the Ricky West fan club.' He rolls his eyes.
'But... I wanted to see you. Not anyone else. Why would you bring another person with you to witness... everything?'
George pushes his chair away from the table and leans back. 'Honestly?'
I nod.
'Because...' he starts but falters and bites his lip. 'Because I didn't want to sit here and listen to you say all the same things again. And I didn't think you would, if there was someone else here.'
'What things?'
'"We can't do this. You're married now. Lets just be friends. It was a mistake kissing you..."' He says it all flatly, his voice trailing off. He looks away and sighs. 'I just wanted to delay the inevitable a little longer. See if I could...'
'What?'
He shakes his head, still avoiding my eyes.
I study him for a few seconds then lean forward and put my hand on top of his. 'I don't think it was a mistake to kiss you the other night,' I tell him. 'And I wasn't planning on saying any of those things to you.'
George looks back at me, doubt in his face.
'This time,' I add and smile.
George sits up. He turns his hand over so that he's holding my hand properly. 'Lets get out of here then,' he says.
*
Soho is the heart of London, minutes walk from anywhere you might want to go; Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus, Shaftesbury Avenue or Carnaby Street. Because of this, the streets of Soho are always busy. Always full of people. Businessmen, shoppers, tourists. That is, until it rains.
I'm talking quickly, rambling, the effect of too many martinis I think, and nerves. That's surprising. I'm nervous. It's only George. What's to be nervous of? It's only George, but yes, it's only George. It doesn't matter. He doesn't seem to be listening anyway. He is and he's not. He's nodding along, but he's not saying much, anything, and his eyes are drifting, over me, down me. His body is angled to face me, sitting nearly sideways on the sofa. I'm facing him too. I'm not sure when it happened but we've moved closer together.
It's packed in this tiny barroom. Not an inch of spare space. We've found a shabby sofa to share, but people are encroaching on us, standing too near. A few have approached George and asked for autographs, which he's signed, smiling, but I can tell he's getting irritated. He's doing his best to try to ignore anyone pointing and whispering to their friends, but I can tell by his taught mouth and furrowed brow that he's not enjoying it in here. He'll want to leave soon.
I'm still talking. I can't seem to shut up. Inane rubbish about London, being back in England, the rain outside, which is still coming down in sheets, battering the window we're sitting next to. I think I know why. I don't want him to go. Not yet. If we keep chatting, then he won't. But this conversation is one-sided. All George is doing is observing me.
He trails his index finger down my arm, as I lean my elbow on the back of the sofa. He watches the path of his finger, stopping just before my hand and I watch it too. When he touches me like that, so lightly, it makes me shiver.
'Hannah...' he says softly, and I stop speaking. His eyes are still on his finger, barely touching my wrist. 'Can you tell how much I want you?'
Then he looks at me, his eyes meeting mine and I feel weak.
He sighs, just gently, silently. I see it more then hear it, his chest rises and falls, his lips slightly open. He looks down and takes his hand away. He leans back from me, moving to sit more forward facing on the sofa and I move with him, into him, my hands on his chest, my lips on his, kissing him, hard, hungrily, more desperate than in the back yard a few days ago, more wantonly than in my bedroom, over a year ago.
He's surprised, I think, just for a moment, but then he kisses me back, his hands going to my waist, around my back, through my hair. I'm leaning over him so much, I'm nearly sitting on top of him. I can feel the eyes of everyone else on us. The bar is quite crowded. It's the centre of London and it's pouring down outside, they're all sheltering in here, like we are. I think I hear someone say one of the Beatles... I push it away, ignore it, concentrate on George, the taste of his mouth, the firmness of his chest under my fingertips. I'm kneeling now, knees on the sofa, bearing down on him. I feel his hand go to my thigh, my skirt riding up and the paranoia creeps back in, forcing me to break away from him and fall back onto my side of the sofa, breathless.
'Yes,' I say, self consciously tugging the hem of my skirt down. 'I can.'
'Fuck, Hannah...' George breathes.
I stare at him, unable to take my eyes off his mouth. His lips are a deep red colour, like they're blushing from the way I just kissed him. He casts his eyes around the room, checking, I think, to see if anyone is watching us.
His gaze rests on me again. 'You know,' he says, finding his voice. 'This place is a hotel too.'
'Yes.'
He looks at the small coffee table in front of us. 'We've finished the drinks.'
I nod.
'We could get another, if you wanted...' Glances to me again. 'Or we could get it sent up to the room?'
I don't move, paralysed for a moment, a feeling inside me like I've never known, but it's not fear this time. I'm not scared anymore.
George looks away, embarrassed, a little bit ashamed, maybe. 'Or perhaps we've had enough,' he says, flatly. 'Perhaps we should just go home.'
I edge closer to him again. 'I haven't had enough...' I tell him. 'Have you?'
George stares at me for a moment. He moves closer, his mouth by my ear as he says, 'Wait for me by the lifts.'
*
'Hannah, Hannah, hold on,' George says, sternly, against my mouth as I try to kiss him. 'I can't get it in.'
I stop and draw back, grinning at him, my arms still around his neck and I swear George turns slightly pink.
'I can't get the key in the lock,' he says, unamused, as he holds up a hotel room key with an obnoxiously large fob attached to it.
'Sorry,' I say and release him, stepping aside, so he can open the door, but as soon as he does, I grab him again.
I'm not sure what's come over me. I'm sure George is wondering the same. Maybe it's because he left me waiting by the lifts for so long, I thought he'd changed his mind and gone home. Maybe it's because since he kissed me in the back yard last week, I haven't been able to close my eyes without thinking of it, imagining it, reliving it. Or maybe it's because it's finally the time for us to do this. It's been a long wait.
When we slept together before my wedding, it was unexpected. For me, anyway. I was so surprised and scared, I don't feel like I gave myself to him properly.
This time will be different, because this time I'm kissing him against the wall, I'm grappling with the buttons on his shirt, running my hands over his skin as he flinches at my touch. But this time is different too, because it's not just me cheating, it's George as well, and as he breaks away from me, ostensibly to close the bedroom door, I can't ignore his hesitation anymore. It has been there since we were holding hands in the lift, since we were falling down the corridor, kissing, touching, fumbling outside the hotel room door.
I step into the middle of the room and turn around to him. 'Are you alright?' I ask, lightly.
George pauses, by the door, turning the latch to lock it. 'Yes,' he says, quietly.
'What did you tell them?'
'Them?' He turns around to face me.
'Downstairs. At the reception desk.'
'Was I supposed to tell them something?'
'They'll have recognised you. They'll know I'm not your...'
George gives a half shrug and another silent sigh. He leans against the door, his hands behind his back, like he's holding it shut.
'We don't have go through with this, Georgie,' I give him a small smile. 'If you've changed your mind...'
He gives a shake of his head and I'm not sure if that means no, he hasn't changed his mind or no, he doesn't want go through with it.
'Han, I can't... do you what you want.'
'What do I want?'
'You weren't there. In Los Angeles, you didn't come... You were supposed to be there, but...' Another sigh. 'You weren't.' He looks up at me, but I can't see his eyes properly.
I take a small step towards him. It's dark inside the bedroom. The curtains are open but there's thick floor length nets covering the glass and the rainstorm continuing outside means there is little natural light. We haven't switched any lamps on yet.
'I don't want you to do anything,' I say, although I'm not sure of the validity of the words. I'm just trying them out in my mouth. 'I don't want you to worry about anything, or think about what happens tomorrow or after that. I just want you to be here, with me. I want us to be together, tonight, and I want... I just want you, George. I want you.'
'For just tonight?' he asks, carefully.
I nod. 'And I think that's what you want as well.'
A risk, because I don't know that. I don't really know anything.
I step closer again, testing, but he doesn't move. When I kiss him, gently, tenderly, he holds back for a few seconds, then I feel him give himself to the kiss. His hands go to my hips, around my back, moving down and pulling me into him. I let him take over as our kiss becomes deeper and heavier.
The room isn't huge. It's just a double bed in the middle of one wall, a wardrobe and a chair. I allow him to guide me towards the bed, nearly tripping but George holds me up. Without taking his mouth away from me, he encourages me to sit and then lie on the bed. I kick my shoes off and he follows suit. As he follows me down, he breaks away abruptly, putting his head next to mine. I stay still, waiting, half expecting him to tell me he can't do this.
'I don't want you to regret it again,' George says, surprising me.
I put my hands on his sides. 'I didn't regret it before.'
'You did, though, Hannah.' He draws back to look me in the face. 'The next morning.'
George gets off me, scrabbling back to sit on his knees on the end of the bed. 'When you told me to leave... you looked so full of remorse and shame. Like I'd made you do the worst thing in the world. Like I'd done the worst I ever could to you.'
I push myself up. 'George, I didn't think that. I was... I was scared and... yes, I was ashamed but...' I move closer to him, tucking my legs underneath me, and take his hand in both of mine. 'I was ashamed too, because I didn't regret doing that with you, Georgie. I have never regretted anything I've done with you.'
He looks at me for a moment and then he's kissing me again, his hand around my back, pulling the zip of my dress down, and he's good at that, because he manages it smoothly, fluidly, well-practiced. It's things like that which make me think he's not quite as innocent as he sometimes appears.
I sit back and George helps me pull the dress over my head. He pauses to watch me as I unfasten my bra and drop it to the floor. He takes his shirt off and resumes kissing me, moving down to my neck, his hand on my breasts and then his mouth. I arch towards him and moan with the feeling of his lips.
He pushes me to lie down again, him on top of me. The sensation of his cool, bare skin on mine is delicious. George is still wearing his jeans as he positions one knee in between my legs, moving them further apart. He returns to kissing my mouth and slips his hand under the waistband of my panties. I can't help but gasp as his fingers explore me. I feel him hard through his jeans as he pushes against me, making me think of a night a long time ago. A narrow dormitory bed in Hamburg. A seventeen year old George, eager, excited, desperate to make love to me. A frightened, crying, shaking girl, unable to explain to her boyfriend why her reaction is so excessive for just a few kisses and fumbles in the dark.
I won't be that scared little girl anymore. I don't want to be her. She's ruined my life for long enough. I wonder sometimes how differently things might have turned out if I'd slept with George then. Maybe it wouldn't have changed anything, but I can't help but think if we already had that kind of relationship, he might not have been so quick to discard me with a flippant we might as well give up now.
George takes his hand back so he can reposition himself over me, resting his weight on his hands either side of my shoulders as he continues kissing me. I run my hands over his chest, making him laugh when I accidentally tickle him. My hands find his belt. I attempt to unthread it for him, fumbling and failing, so George has to lean back to undo it himself. He unbuttons his jeans and wriggles out of them and his shorts quickly, but not so quickly that we don't have a pause long enough for thoughts to crowd back into my mind.
Naked, George climbs over me again. He smiles at me and I try to return it. 'Okay?' he asks quietly.
'Yes,' I reply, and before I can convince myself otherwise, I put my hand between us and grip his cock firmly. It makes him jolt, surprised, but it also makes him moan, his lips returning to kiss my neck, my shoulder, then across my collar bone.
'Say it again,' George whispers in my ear, moving against my hand.
'What?' I whisper back, confused momentarily.
'What you said before.'
It takes me a moment to remember exactly what I did say.
I kiss him, forcefully, putting my hand to the back of his head. I push him onto his side next to me so I can sit up and remove the last of my clothing too and then move over him. He shuffles into the centre of the bed and I straddle him, planting a knee either side of his waist. I lean over and kiss him again, my hand finding his cock so I can guide him inside me.
I sit back, enjoying the solid feel of him. I bite my bottom lip as my eyes lock on his, then I finally repeat for him, 'I want you, George. I want you now.'
George rolls his eyes back in his head and moans as he lifts his hips. I try to move with him, but I can only keep him like that for a few moments before he launches himself from under me, pushing me onto my back, the wrong way around on the bed so that my feet are on the pillow. He pauses on top of me, breathing raggedly, waiting, so I whisper again, 'I want you,' and he kisses me hard as he enters me.
I whisper the same thing to him several times during the night. I want you. It's funny, because in my mind, this was about the opposite. This was about proving that he still wanted me. That we might be in this impossible situation, where I can't see any way we can be together, but he still wants me. He's still mine.
We make love all night, until it's the early hours of the morning and we're both too tired to do anymore. Then we lie in each others arms, not speaking, just holding each other, listening to the storm outside which hasn't abated throughout. This is the first time George and I have shared a double bed. It's always been one person, single beds previously. Now we have all this space but we're still entwined, wrapped around each other as if we might be pulled apart at any moment.
George eventually falls asleep but I force myself to stay awake. I planned to slip out when he was sleeping. I would gather my clothes and my bag and get dressed in the corridor outside the room so I wouldn't wake him. Then I would disappear in order to avoid the morning, when we would have to part again and when I think my heart would break. But I can't. I want every stolen minute with him. I can't leave him. Whatever he thinks, I never could.
I wait until I'm quite sure that George is fully asleep. He's breathing deeply and slowly and his grip around me has slackened. I brush his hair back from off his face and kiss his forehead. He doesn't move, doesn't stir, so I know that he's in a deep sleep. Only then do I dare whisper to him, 'I love you, George.'
***
Author's Note:
Special thanks to neoninkling for her help beta-reading and advising on this chapter.