Well it's all right, even when push comes to shove
Well it's all right, if you got someone to love
Well it's all right, everything'll work out fine
Well it's all right, we're going to the end of the line
'Perhaps Madam would be more comfortable waiting at the bar?'
I look up and try to smile at the waiter as he bears down on me, a hard look on his face. This is the third time he has asked me to move, with less and less patience and politeness each time.
'My colleague is just running late,' I reply. 'I'm sure he'll be here shortly.
The waiter forces a smile and nods before retreating. I'm not waiting for a colleague. I'm waiting for George. Goodness knows what the staff here will think when my 'colleague' turns out to be a Beatle, and a very late one at that. But that's our cover story, should anyone ask. I'm here to discuss the possibility of George producing a solo album for me. Or for me and Minnie. I can't remember which. It doesn't matter anyway, because the solo album is fictional.
This is George trying to make a gesture towards living a 'normal' life. I'm not sure what he terms 'normal'. I don't think I've ever had any normality to compare it to.
We're dating. Or at least, we're going out for the odd meal or drink somewhere. We've been a few times and so far, so good. We haven't had to use our cover story yet. But I don't see the point in doing this. We're not 'normal'. Nothing about us has ever been normal.
George has been bothered lately about how he can't do anything without there being special arrangements and a lot of fuss, because of who he is. 'I can't even have an affair like a normal person!' he said, again, the other day. 'We have to hide in this bloody flat all the time!'
But we're not exactly acting 'normal' when we're out together either. We have to keep our distance from each other. We can't hold hands or dance or even sit very close together. Just in case anyone sees us. Just in case someone suspects something.
I sigh and glance out of the window next to our coveted dining table. It overlooks the back of the restaurant. George will have asked for a table in the corner, out of the way. There's a garden behind the restaurant with lots of trees and plants. The garden is lit up prettily showing the trees covered in white and pink spring blossom.
'Madam, we have a rather large party of people coming in shortly,' the waiter says, tersely, standing over me again. 'We need the table. When your boyfriend arrives, we will find a nice table for you to...'
'I'm not waiting for my boyfriend,' I reply sharply, and put my right hand over my left, covering my wedding ring. 'It's a business meeting, and I'm sure my colleague will have requested a quiet table, at the back of the restaurant, specially.'
'Well then, when your colleague arrives, we will be happy to seat you at another table which will be equally quiet, but your reservation was for eight and it's already nearly nine, so-'
It's really that late? I can't see any clocks in here. Where is George?
'-While we have paying customers waiting to be seated and you're not dining yet, it seems rather unfair to...'
'Yes, yes, okay then,' I interrupt, wearily. 'I'll move to the bar.'
'Thank you, madam,' the waiter says, all plastic smiles. 'Perhaps we can freshen your glass?' He picks up the forlorn single glass of wine I've been trying to make last this whole hour and places it on the tray. I stand to follow him to the barside, picking up my jacket from the back of the chair.
'Spanner Hannah,' says a voice behind me. A voice I'd know anywhere.
I freeze, panicking, trying to think if there's a way I could keep walking, pretend I didn't hear him. Instead, I draw myself up, turn around slowly and smile. 'John.'
'Hello, Spanner,' he says, a little slurred, a little worse for wear, something that looks like brandy in an oversized round glass in his hand. He glances at the table I've just vacated, waiters standing at the edges, wanting to drag the little table over to make up part of the bigger table they're assembling in the middle of the room. 'Are you off, love?'
'I was, uh... going to wait at the bar. The person I'm meeting is running late and they need the table.'
'Who are you waiting for?'
'Just a friend.'
'Anyone I know?'
'No, I don't think so,' I say simply, shocking myself just how easily and plainly I can lie these days.
'Come and sit with us for a bit then,' John says, nodding his head towards an adjoining room through an archway. 'Just til she gets here.'
I smile weakly and unable to think of a reason not to, I allow John to lead me through to the private room next to the main dining hall. There's a party going on, packed with people, all on their way to being merrily drunk, and perhaps something more too. I see Ringo and his wife among them, sitting in the middle of a long table. Everyone is eating.
John sits down at a small table at the side of the room, and gestures for me to sit in the chair opposite. As I do, the waiter I didn't realise was following me, puts my half drunk glass of warm white wine in front of me.
'Not you-know-who, is it? The one you're meeting here?' John asks, his voice hushed as he leans over the table towards me.
'Who?' I ask, alarmed and struggling to hide it.
'Minnie,' John says, even quieter.
'Oh.' Relief, but my heart thumps in my chest. 'No, it's... a friend. A girl from the club where I work.'
John smiles thinly and sits back in his seat again, running his finger around the rim of his glass.
George isn't coming. Something has gone wrong. He knew John and Ringo, and whoever else, would be here. He must have found out too late to let me know. It's Monday and I haven't seen him since Thursday last week.
'Is she... well?' John mumbles, not looking up.
'Minnie? Yes, I think so,' I reply. 'She's doing modelling work. She's looking after herself.'
John nods, still studying his glass. At the moment, John's hair is the shortest I've seen it since about 1960. He had it cut really short - short for a Beatle - last year for a film he was in and it's not fully grown back yet. He's wearing old fashioned round spectacles that sit halfway down his nose, catching the dancing light from the candle on the table between us.
'She lives in Wandsworth, near to Battersea. You can see the power station from the living room.'
'Yeah, I heard she'd left Vince.' He spits the word 'Vince', like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
'I could give you the address, if you wanted? Of her flat?'
He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. 'Nah, that's okay.'
'Why don't you just tell her how you feel, John?'
'And how do I feel then?' he snaps, defensively, flicking his amber coloured eyes up at me. John sits up straighter, casting a glance around the room. I can't see Cynthia here anywhere, he must be here on his own. 'I don't feel anything for her, Hannah. Maybe once. Not now.'
I shake my head at him, although he's not looking. 'You're both impossible. You're as bad as one another. I don't see why you can't just...'
John snorts. 'Stop meddling, Hannah.'
'I'm not! I was just saying that maybe if you went back to her now and told her again, then things might have changed. She's not as...'
He turns back to me. 'That's your plan? Go and tell her how I feel,' he repeats, mocking me. 'I'm sure her new boyfriend would love that.'
'What new boyfriend?'
'I'm not going to beg her, Han. She had her chance and she didn't want to know, so sod her. I've forgotten all about Minnie James.'
'What new boyfriend?' I repeat.
John purses his lips. 'I've seen her. Out with him. He's a bit of cock if you ask me, I don't know why Minnie would be interested in him-'
'Who, John?'
'-She always picks the worst fellas she can.'
'Like you?'
He laughs humorlessly. 'Yes, exactly.'
'So who is it?'
'Brian,' John says, as if it was obvious. 'Fucking Brian bloody Jones.'
'Minnie's going out with Brian Jones?'
He swigs from his glass, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. 'Going out with, shagging. What's the difference?'
'I thought he had a girlfriend already?'
'She's a fuckin' hypocrite,' he continues, anger rising in his voice. 'I cannot abide hypocrites. Know why she didn't want anything with me? Because I'm married, but she's fine with shagging him behind his woman's back. When it comes to...' He stops himself and sighs shortly. 'Bloody hell, Hannah. I wouldn't have brought you in here if I knew you were going to wind me up like this!' He smiles thinly and I return it.
'You were the one who started talking about her.'
'It wasn't. It was you, with your "I can give you her address, John." You are a perpetual pain in the arse, d'yer know that, Spanner?' He smiles, more genuinely this time. 'Let's change the subject anyway. Have you read any good... Oh, here, this is yours.' He opens his colourful blazer jacket and pulls a paperback book, dog-earred and folded in half, from the inside pocket. He unfolds it, bending it back so the book stays flat and looks at the cover, blinking a couple of times before he says, 'Oh, no, it's not.'
'My what?'
'Your book. The one you lent me on the tour that time.'
'John, that was over a year ago!'
'Yeah, I found it the other day. I suppose I forgot to give it you back.'
'Well, why don't you keep it?'
He shrugs. 'Good thing you said that, because I think I've lost it. Here, you have this one as a replacement. I've got another copy at home.' He slides the paperback over the table top towards me. 'Brave New World, Aldous Huxley. Read it?'
I shake my head. 'What's it about?'
'A guy and a girl.'
The cover of the book looks quite severe. A dark charcoal grey with sharp blockish lettering and no pictures. I flick through the yellowy pages. 'A romance?'
'Not really.'
'I haven't read anything properly in ages.'
'Excuse me, Mrs West?'
I lift my head from John's book to find the waiter standing over me again. I cringe, but try not to show it. Please don't tell me George has arrived now.
'A message from your husband,' he says, with more than a tinge of sarcasm. 'He says he's been delayed. You should go on home and he'll see you there later.'
I force a smile. 'Oh. Thank you. I'd... Uh, I'd better settle the bill.'
'Add it to our tab,' John tells him.
'Very well, Sir. Madam,' the waiter replies and leaves.
I turn back to John. 'Thanks,' I say and push the chair back from the table, ignoring the questioning frown he's giving me. 'I guess I'm going home then.'
'Stay and eat with us if you like,' he says.
'No, thanks. I'd better get back.'
'You haven't got to rush home if he's going to be late.'
'No, but I don't want to impose. I don't want to crash your party.'
'It's not a party.'
'All the same.' I stand and start putting my jacket on, getting my hand stuck in the twisted sleeve in my haste.
'So Ricky's stood you up then.'
'Yeah, I suppose he has.'
'Only I could have sworn you said you were meeting a friend? A girl from the club?'
'No,' I say, and I can hear the high pitched falseness in my voice, as I hope John's just that bit drunker than he seems. 'No, I don't think I said that, did I?' I step away before he can answer, finally managing to pull my jacket on. 'It was, er, nice seeing you again. Say hi to Ringo and everyone for me...' I turn to go.
'Hannah,' John says behind me.
I turn around, innocent smile in place.
John nods towards the book, left on the table. 'Don't forget that.'
'Oh. Sorry. Yes, thank you,' I snatch the book up.
'I think you might enjoy that,' John says. 'I think you might find it quite... applicable to modern life.'
*
As soon as I take a few steps away from the entrance of the restaurant, I crumple like a paper bag, surprised to find I could easily burst into tears. Instead I clamp my hands over my mouth, still holding John's book which smells like old bookshops. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to control myself.
'What's the matter?' George asks, stepping out of an alcove in the side of the building that I didn't see before, making me jump.
'Where have you been?' I snap at him, needlessly. 'You're more than an hour late! That telephone message was from you then?'
'Yeah, I'm sorry,' he replies, sweetly. 'I didn't find out they were having that do here until this afternoon, and then I didn't get chance to...'
'Do they come here? Do you all come here?'
'We've been here before. That's why I knew it was alright.'
'It wasn't alright, George. It wasn't...'
'That's not what I meant-'
'If we'd been in there together, then any one of your friends, anyone we know might have walked in at any minute. What if you hadn't found out they'd be there? We can't go to places like this, George, where we might run into someone, where we might...'
'Okay, calm down. No one saw anything. No one twigged, did they?'
I open my mouth, but stop. 'No,' I reply, a little calmer. 'But I was talking to John, and... No, I suppose not.'
'No harm done then.' George smiles. 'Anyway, even if they did, there could be a hundred reasons why we might be together. We can be friends, can't we?'
'Yeah, friends,' I reply flatly and step past him.
'I thought we could go somewhere else?'
'What? No, I'm going home.'
He puts his arm around my waist clumsily. 'Ah, come on, Han. I was waiting ages for you out here.'
'Whose fault's that?' I shake my head. 'No, I... don't feel like it now.'
'But-'
'I said no, George! I am fed up with this!' I wriggle out of his grasp. 'What's the point in going out together? We can't ever... It's exhausting, doing this with you! The whole thing! I hate it, and I can't keep...' I stop. He's looking at me hurt, like I'm scolding him for no reason. I sigh. 'I'm just in a terrible mood, Georgie. I don't mean it.'
He nods and gives me a small, sad smile. 'I'm sorry, Han.'
'I know. I'm sorry too. I just need to go home and get some sleep.'
Before I convince myself it's a bad idea, I lift myself onto my tiptoes and kiss him squarely on the mouth. Tentatively he wraps his arms around me and we kiss in the street. For just a moment I allow myself to imagine that this is okay, that it doesn't matter if anyone sees us because he belongs to me and I belong to him.
It's a nice thought, but it's just a dream, isn't it? Just make believe.
'I'll see you at the flat tomorrow, okay?' I say, drawing back from him.
George nods and I turn and rush in the direction of the tube station before leaving him becomes too much to bear.
* * *
Another night, another engagement, another party, another of these unofficial appearances the Krays like us to make with them. Except this one isn't like the others.
We're in a club in Marylebone, near to Oxford Circus, called the Speakeasy. The theme is 1920s prohibition; Al Capone, bootlegging and gangsters. How ironic. There's a restaurant, where we're sitting, and next door is a club room with live music, a bar and dance floor. It suddenly seems unbearably hot. It's only the last few days of May, it feels like it's going to be a hot summer.
Ricky and I are here as guests of Ronnie and Reggie, whose friend is the owner here. He was the manager at Esmeralda's Barn for a short while before he moved to open this last year. Along with us are the usual entourage; Bobby and his brothers, eating at a separate table with some of the others. Ronnie, Reggie, Frances, Ricky and myself are at this one.
Everything was fine. A little tiring, but fine. We ate the first course and then I went out to the ladies room in the hall between the restaurant and the club, and there he was, standing in the doorway to the bar, talking to a girl.
I tried not to react, kept going, went into the toilet and waited in there for ages before I dared to step out again. I didn't know if he saw me, I hoped maybe he hadn't, but as soon as I open the door, he was there, waiting for me, head cocked on one side and eyes glassy.
George.
'What are you doing here?' he asks, stepping towards me, hands going to my waist.
'Stop it, don't!' I hiss, as I avoid his grasp. 'I'm here with Ricky and everyone, through there.' I point into the restaurant. 'The manager here used to manage Esmeralda's. Why are you here?'
'We often come here. After recording and that.'
'You've been recording?'
'Not tonight.' A mischievous smile plays on his lips. 'Let's go back in there for five minutes.' He points to the door of the ladies room.
'No! George!'
George laughs. 'Oh, don't worry, I'm only kidding. It's ages since I've made you squeal "No, George!" at me like that.'
'Well, I'm glad you find it funny.' I step past him, but he puts his hand on my wrist, holding me there.
'George, seriously. Everyone is here with us. Ronnie and Reggie, Bobby... everyone.'
'Oh well, if it's everyone...'
'Let go of me.'
'Stop panicking. I'm here with everyone too. Paul, Ringo...' He sighs. 'Pattie as well.'
'Then we shouldn't be seen together.'
'Don't you think it would be stranger if we avoided each other? We're supposed to be old friends. If we ignore one another, they'll all think something's going on.'
'That's because there is,' I whisper, moving my head closer to his ear so he can hear me. As I do, George turns his head and kisses me briefly on the lips.
'Exciting though, isn't it?' he says, his voice low. 'And don't lie and say you don't like it. I know you must.'
I find my breathing has quickened. Still standing close to him, I inhale him, closing my eyes. 'Let me go, George.'
'Kiss me once and then I will.'
I glance around the hall furtively. There's no one out here. No one close by. No one watching. Turning back to him, I kiss him quickly. George wraps his arms around my back and pulls me into him, and I kiss him for just a couple of seconds longer before I put my hands on his chest and push him away.
As I draw back from him, he's smiling cheekily and I'm unable to stop myself smiling back.
At the edge of my vision, I see something move. I snap my head around. Frances stands there in her white crocheted dress and white, square toed, kitten heels, staring at us, her big eyes even wider than normal. The small handbag she's holding in one hand slips out of her grip, clattering on the floor as it spills its contents on the marble tiles.
'Frances,' I cry as she crouches down to scoop them up again.
'Sorry, sorry,' she replies quickly, getting back up and running into the ladies room, actually putting a hand to the side of her face to avoid looking at us.
I turn back to George. 'Go!' I hiss at him. He straightens up and almost runs as well, back to the safety of the barroom.
I put my hand to my mouth, steeling my nerves, then taking a deep breath, I push open the door to ladies room.
Frances stands inside beside the mirrors. She looks at me warily as I let the door swing shut behind me.
'Bloody hell, Hannah. A Beatle?' she says after a pause and a wide grin spreads across her face.
'He was... I...' I don't know where to start. What do I say? It wasn't what it looked like?
'I knew you were having it off with someone, but a Beatle?! Bloody hell, girl, you have some style!'
'You... What? You knew..?' I ask, taken aback.
'Oh, come on. No one visits their sister as often as you do! I knew there must have been a man involved, but him? Really? Which one is he again? He's... John? No, George?'
'George,' I confirm, despondently. 'He's George. Frances, please, you can't tell anyone...'
'Oh, I'm not going to. Who am I going to tell? Your Ricky?' She laughs. 'You take some bleedin' risks though. Kissing him in the hall. What if I'd been Ricky? Or Reggie? Or even Bobby or someone?!'
I sigh. 'It's... It's not quite like you might think. I've known George for years and...'
'You don't have to tell me. If he was my friend I doubt I'd be able to keep my hands - or lips - off him either! Isn't he married?'
'Yes...'
She laughs again, gleefully. 'Bloody nora, Hannah. I admire you! If you want something, you just go and get it.'
'I don't. It's not like that. I...'
'Don't you stop though! Don't ever stop being like that. Don't end up like me. I wish I could... My Reg would murder me if he found me doin' somethin' like that! Murder him and then murder me!' She stops and sobers a little. 'You know, for a while, I thought maybe you and him were...'
'Who?'
'You and Reggie. I know he fancies you.'
'What? I would never...'
'No, no, I know. I didn't think it for long and it was only wishful thinking, perhaps. Then I thought it might be Bobby, cos you're always with him. And especially cos you always defend him, don't you? I say he's a wrong 'un and you say he's alright.'
'I'm not...'
'But Jesus, a bloody Beatle! No one would think to look at you. You look so sweet and innocent. Butter wouldn't melt.'
'Frances, I...'
'I need a piss,' she says, distracted. 'Wait for me. You can maybe introduce me.'
*
I took Frances to meet Paul and Ringo, finding them around a square table by a pop art painting of Al Capone. George had disappeared. I thought maybe he'd left, which would be the wise thing to do, but then I saw Pattie standing near by, talking to someone.
By the time we returned to our dining table, the second course had been delivered, the food cooling as everyone had waited for us to return.
'Where the bleedin' hell have you been?' Ronnie snaps, directing it towards Frances, as I take my seat, smiling apologetically at Ricky. It's so hot in here. So unbearably hot. I feel dizzy, faint.
'Sod off, Ron,' Frances retorts, as she sits down. Reggie rolled his eyes at her. 'We've been talking to Beatles. Did you know Hannah knows them? From Liverpool?' she adds, looking at Reggie.
'Yes, they came to opening night at the Barn. You were there...' Reggie replies.
'Oh yes!' Frances says, gleefully, laughing a little manically. 'Opening night. George and Paul, wasn't it, Hannah? The quiet one and the cute one. Although, George should really be called the cute one. Don't you think, Hannah? He's so handsome, isn't he? George?'
I smile weakly. France is going to give me away. I know she is. I don't think I can trust her with our secret.
'They're here?' Ricky asks me, his voice plain.
'Yes,' I reply, carefully. 'They're in the room next door.'
'Who? Which ones?'
'Paul and... um, Ringo...'
'And George!' Frances interjects. 'George is here too, don't forget!'
I cringe and Ricky picks up on it. Reggie shifts in his seat too, looking at his wife strangely and Frances falls abruptly silent.
'George?' Ricky repeats. 'Seems you're always sneaking off to see George.'
'Wh.. What?' I ask, incredulous, panic choking me.
'Anytime he's within twenty feet of you, I catch you together.' Anger flares in Ricky's voice. He's drunk, I think. He drinks so much, so often these days I hardly notice anymore. Then again, Ricky doesn't need the aid of alcohol to lose his temper these days. 'In the kitchen at the house warming party. In LA when you "stayed over" with him...'
'Him and everyone else!' Ricky stands, I grab his wrist, trying to stop him. 'No! Ricky-'
'Time I had a word with that bastard, don't you think?' he says, glaring at me.
'Please, Ricky, don't! There's nothing-'
Ricky yanks his arm out of my grip.
'Reggie,' Frances says, quietly.
'Rick, sit down,' Reggie says.
Ronnie laughs. 'This should be amusing!'
'Reggie, don't let him,' Frances says and with a short sigh, Reggie stands up and steps into Ricky's path.
'Rick, come on,' Reggie says. 'It's just Frankie. She will have wanted to meet them, that's all.' Ricky glances at Frances. She manages a weak smile.
'This is nothing to do with that,' Ricky says.
'Come on, finish your dinner,' Reggie says, putting his hand on Ricky's chest.
'Leave him, Reg,' Ronnie says, gleefully. 'Let 'em duke it out, man to man.'
'Shut up,' Frances snaps at him.
'Don't you tell me to shut up, you whiney little bitch!'
'Fat bastard!'
'Please, Ricky,' I say, tugging at his hand again, aware that everyone in the room has stopped eating and is staring at us. On the table opposite, Bobby wipes his mouth on a napkin, dropping it onto his dinner plate as he catches my eye and shakes his head at me. I told you so...
Ricky huffs, wrenches his hand out of mine but sits down again, picking up his whisky glass from the table and downing it in one swallow.
'What are you all lookin' at?!' Reggie bellows and everyone turns away, back to their tables, pretending to continue eating and talking as if nothing has just happened.
'Thank you,' I say quietly to Ricky.
'This isn't over,' Ricky replies.
I glance up at Frances and she mouths sorry at me. I smile weakly and shake my head. Indicating to Reggie with my eyes, I mouth thank you back to her and she gives a small nod.
Despite what she may think, she has quite a lot of control over Reggie. He loves her, it's plain. He maybe loves her too much. He wants to treat her like a doll, buy her pretty things, keep her at home; perfect and beautiful and his. It's smothering her, it's what makes her so crazy and unhappy, but it also means that he doesn't often say no to her. If she wants something, he will get it for her. If she wants him to do something, he will. And that's the difference between Frances and Reggie and Ricky and myself. I can't control Ricky. He won't do anything I ask him to. Occasionally he does the opposite, just to spite me. Everyday we go along, more and more, Ricky is getting worse.
* * *
'Hannah?'
George's voice, somewhere near by, somewhere in the darkness.
'Han, wake up, love.'
I feel his hand on my arm and he shakes me gently. I open my eyes and for a moment, I can't see properly. Everything is blurred. I push myself up and wipe at my eyes on the back of my hand. Tears. I'm crying and for a brief moment I can't remember why.
Beside me in the bed, George smiles, half jokingly, half concerned. He holds an acoustic guitar on his lap as he sits cross legged on the mattress.
'I was dreaming,' I tell him, still bewildered by our surroundings. We're in Bobby's flat. It's getting late. The sun has set and it's nearly dark outside. By the bed, George has switched on a lamp which casts a soft orange glow around the bedroom. It's still hot and stuffy. It's only the start of June, but it has been unbearably humid for the last few days. We have the bedroom windows open but there isn't any breeze. There doesn't seem to be a breath of fresh air in all of London.
'It sounded like you were having a nightmare,' George says.
'It was just a bad dream,' I reply and lie back on the pillow again.
'What about?' George asks. He puts the guitar on the floor, leaning it against the wall and shuffles down in the bed, opening his arm to me, inviting me in.
I hesitate then go to him, resting my head on his chest while he holds me. 'I can't remember,' I lie.
'You were saying something. In your sleep.'
'What?'
'I don't know. I couldn't make it out. Then you started crying so I thought I'd better wake you up.'
I sigh.
'You often have bad dreams,' George says, and I'm not sure if it's a question or a statement.
'Every now and then,' I reply.
'No, quite a bit. At least you're always mumbling or restless.'
I don't respond. A silence descends and after only a moment or two, my eyes feel heavy again.
'Han?'
'Hannah?'
'Mmmm?'
'Time to wake up, love.'
I suck a lot of air in through my nose, like I've been swimming underwater and I've just broken through the surface. I raise my head and blink at George, bleary eyed. It's dark outside now. George's face is shadowy in the dim orange light.
'Was I dreaming again?'
'You were sleeping,' George replies. 'You've been asleep for ages. You've got to go.'
'Why? What time is it?' I push myself up, resting my weight on my palms, flat on the bed.
'Nearly eleven.'
I blink, still not fully awake. 'Georgie, you shouldn't have let me sleep so long. I've missed the whole evening with you.'
He smiles. 'You were tired.'
I sigh. 'I didn't get back from the club last night until nearly three. I am... really tired.' I lie down again, next to George's side, inhaling the scent of his skin. I put my arm around his middle and he puts his hand on top of mine.
'Did you have more nightmares? Just then?'
'No. I didn't dream of anything. I don't feel like I've been asleep very long.'
'But when you do have the bad dreams, Han...'
'I don't have bad dreams all that often. No more than anyone else does.'
'Yes, but when you do... Are they about...'
'What?' I prompt in a small voice, frightened to hear his answer, but he couldn't know, could he? He couldn't know.
'Ricky?'
'Ricky? No, they're not...' I raise my head to look at him. 'They're not about Ricky,' I repeat. 'Why would you think that?'
George's mouth twists. 'Because I know that he... I see the bruises on you, Hannah.'
I scramble to sit up, pulling the covers up over myself defensively, despite the humidity. 'There aren't any bruises on me.'
George sighs at me. He yanks the covers back forcefully and points to a purple mark on my side.
'That's not from Ricky,' I protest, covering myself up again. 'I walked into something. That's all.'
'Hannah, don't lie to me. I've seen him do it.'
'Once. That was once, over a year ago, and alright, maybe he's lost his temper a couple of other times, but that's it.'
'Lost his temper?'
'All husbands and wives go through things like that.'
'All husbands hit their wives? No, they don't, Han. I'm... I don't like it, I don't like what he's doing and I can't do anything about it.'
'He's not doing anything.'
'Tonight, I could have let you sleep. I could have switched the light off and we could have both slept here, together. But then I think, what's he going to be like if you go home tomorrow and he asks where you've been? Is that why you won't stay over here with me? Because you know when you go back to him, he's going to...'
I take George's hands in both of mine. 'No, Georgie. Is that what you think? It's not... It's only because we can't raise suspicions. I have a husband. You have a wife. We have to go home every night.'
George purses his lips, shakes his head disbelievingly.
'I'm not scared of Ricky. I can handle him. You don't have to worry about me.'
'I think I do.'
'I'm fine, George. Honestly.' I let go of his hands and sit up straight. 'What if... What if I did stay here tonight then? With you?'
'You... We can't, can we?'
I move closer to him and kiss him, wrapping my arms around his neck. 'Maybe we can, just this once?' I say softly when the kiss breaks. 'One night? Here? It wouldn't hurt just one night, would it?'
*
As soon as I turn the corner of the street, I know something is wrong. There are cars everywhere, parked in a haphazard fashion, down the street. Some are double parked, leaving no room for anyone else to get through.
On the steps of the house are four young lads, loitering, smoking, talking in low voices. Joey is the only one I recognise among them.
'What's happened?' I ask as I near them.
He doesn't speak for a moment. 'Ricky's been looking for you,' he answers.
'I stayed at my sister's,' I say quickly, the excuse I've been rehearsing all the way home from the flat.
Joey smiles and it's almost a sneer. 'He's really mad.'
I sigh and climb the steps, pushing through the four of them as they don't move very much to allow me thorough. The front door is ajar. As I step inside, it appears the house is full. There are loud voices coming from the living room, many people all talking at once. Bobby sits at the bottom of the stairs. He raises his head as I come inside and set my bag down on the hall stand. He looks odd, upset.
'What's going on?' I ask him.
'Where have you been? As if I need ask.' He stands and steps closer to me.
'With... Uh, I stayed over at my sister's flat...' I say, weakly.
'No. No, you didn't,' Bobby says in a hushed voice. 'Because he's already telephoned there.'
'Really? Oh no. Why... Is this all because I was away overnight? Why would Ricky call Minnie? Where is he?'
'In there, with the others,' he says nodding towards the living room. I step towards it but Bobby catches my arm by the elbow, pulling me back. 'Gettin' more and more furious with every glass of booze they're all swallowing. I was about to come to the flat to get you.'
'I... I don't understand, what's wrong?'
'Frances is dead.'
'Frances is... What?!'
'She'd left him again, you know. Reg. Gone home for a few nights. She was supposed to come back home today. Her brother took her a cup of tea early this morning, thought she was asleep. When he went back a couple of hours later, she hadn't moved. Tea stone cold on the side. She'd... Looks like she took a load of pills. Barbs. She was on 'em for depression. She'd done it before. Been in hospital earlier this year for the same.'
'She... had?' I ask, whispering, shocked, feeling shaky with it.
'Didn't you know? She'd had electric shock treatment, the lot. Poor girl. Poor stupid bloody girl. Reg is beside himself.'
'She never told me. I can't believe...'
'Ricky's been looking for you.' Bobby shakes his head and lets go of my arm, putting his hands on his hips. 'Fine night you chose to go missing.'
I put my hand to my mouth. 'What can I say? What do I tell him?'
'I don't know, darlin'... Violet. You know Violet? She used to dance at the club? She's knocked up. You stayed with her, to help her.'
'Violet? I don't know her. I can't say...'
The door to the living room opens. Ricky comes out and stops, glaring at me. 'Where the fuck have you been?'
'I... uh...' I glance at Bobby.
'You've told her?' Ricky asks.
Bobby nods and steps back, towards the front door, still open behind us.
'Get in the kitchen,' Ricky snaps at me.
'I was just...'
'NOW, Hannah!' he yells, and I do as he asks. Ricky follows me inside and closes the door. Before he does, I see the hall is empty. Bobby has already stepped through the open front door.
'I've been... I stayed with... She needed some help because...' Before I can finish the sentence, he slaps me, hard, across the face.
'Don't lie to me, baby,' he growls as I put my hand to my cheek, feeling the heat from the red mark I know he will have left. 'I called Minnie. You weren't there.'
'I wasn't... It wasn't Minnie I stayed with. It was a friend, a girl from...'
'Do you know how fuckin' embarrassing you are to me? When they turn up here and I have to say I don't know where you are?' He bears down on me, I can smell the stale alcohol on his breath.
'I'm sorry. It was an emergency. It was...' He takes my hand from my face, gripping my wrist, twisting it. I pull back from him. 'Violet!' I half-shout, half-squeal. 'One of the dancers at the club. She's pregnant!'
'And she doesn't have a phone?'
'I... I didn't think. I'm sorry, Ricky. She needed help so I stayed with her. You can ask Bobby if you don't believe me.'
He releases my wrist and I nearly fall over. 'You fuckin' try my patience, baby,' he says, turning away from me.
'I'm sorry...'
'This stops. All this sneaking away to see... who? Your bloody sister? You need to be here. At home. Where you belong. Where I need you to be.'
I nod. 'I will be. I promise, Ricky.'
'Make them some fuckin' coffee,' he spits. 'Reg is blind fuckin' drunk already.'
Ricky leaves. I wait for the door to close behind him fully before I let myself cry.
* * *
George pauses momentarily, then resumes kissing his way down my stomach. Light, tender kisses that tickle sensitive skin, making me flinch and giggle beneath him. His eyes flick up, meeting mine, lips still on me, his expression plain, unreadable, sexy as hell. He runs his hands down my sides, tracing the contours of my waist and hips. More kisses, moving downwards, gentle, soft, and then suddenly painful, as he kisses one spot on my hip, a purple-yellow bruise about the size of a tuppence, a little harder than elsewhere.
'Ow,' I tell him, playfully.
He takes no notice, carries on, sideways across my abdomen this time, teasing, until he reaches another bruise, on my side this time, which he kisses harder again, definitely intending to make it hurt.
'George,' I say, questioningly.
He stops, resting his head on his hand. 'I'm just kissing it better,' he says, sounding odd, placing his palm flat on my stomach as he looks up at me. 'That's what you come to me for, isn't it? To kiss it better.' He runs his hand over me, trailing his fingers. 'This one is a new one.' He pokes the bruise on my hip with his index finger making me flinch again.
'Ow, George. Don't do that,' I say, not so playful now.
'Shame you don't say that to him when he gives it to you.'
I wriggle to sit up, trying to extract myself from underneath him. George stops me, blocking me with his body, moving higher up the bed himself and leaning over me, resting his weight on his hands, either side of my shoulders.
'You probably do, though, don't you? Ow, Ricky, don't do that.'
'Stop it,' I tell him, warningly. 'Stop it, or you'll spoil it.'
'Spoil what, Hannah? Am I supposed to just ignore all this? Pretend it's not there. Kiss it fucking better for you.' He moves back and puts his finger on the bruise on my hip again, gentler this time, not prodding me, just pressing it. 'What did he give you this one for then? Didn't you have his dinner on the table in time? Forget to iron the creases into his trousers?'
'George, please don't...' I start, weary.
'Or maybe just because he felt like it. Just in a bad mood. Having a bad day. Take it out on the missus.'
I shuffle down again, putting myself under him, closer to him. I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him down to kiss me. He resists for a second but then kisses me. It only takes a few moments for his hostility to evaporate and our kiss becomes deeper and more urgent.
It's getting harder to manage both Ricky and George. Since Frances died in the summer - since she killed herself - everything has changed. People are over at the house in Golders Green even more now. It feels like it's their house and we're the guests. I walk on eggshells all the time, between Ricky and the Krays, terrified something is going to upset someone. Ronnie and Reggie argue and fight frequently, even as far as coming to blows and having to be pulled apart. The atmosphere is constantly tense. We live on a knife edge.
The number of times I can slip away to see George have decreased significantly. Now it's stolen afternoons, a handful of hours every week. I've tried to explain why to George. He understands but we still argue about it. He's jealous, I think, though he wouldn't admit it.
George moves over me again, and I wriggle over into the centre of the bed. George rests his weight on one hand while he runs the other one over me, caressing me, running it around my back to lift me into him as he grinds against me. His hand goes lower and finds another bruise on my lower back and before I can stop myself, I wince again. George immediately breaks away from me. I look at him apologetically but he shakes his head at me, pushing me over so he can look at what his hand made contact with.
'Did he kick you there or something?'
'No,' I say quickly, trying to get out of his grasp. 'It was... off the corner of a table. It's nothing.'
'It's not nothing, though, is it? You're black and blue, Hannah.'
'I'm not, don't exaggerate.'
'You can't live like this. I'm going to have to speak to him. Have it out with him.'
'George! You will not!'
'There were women, back in Liverpool, who's fellas treated them like this. There was one three streets over from us when we lived in Arnold Grove. It happened so often that you only noticed when she didn't have a black eye. That's when she looked strange, because you were so used to seeing her beat up.'
I try to kiss him again, distract him. I run my hand over his chest, put my lips on his, but he moves back from me, avoiding me.
'Do you know what happened to her, Hannah? Eventually he killed her. Went too far and ended up killing her. But only after years of doing it. Long after we'd moved to Speke. They gave him twenty-eight years for it, but what good does that do? Doesn't bring her back, does it?'
'Georgie...'
'Is that what you want your life to be, Han? Years of letting Ricky do this to you until one day you let him kill you.'
I sigh. 'Ricky's not going to kill me. Don't be so melodramatic.'
'How do you know, Han? How can you say?'
'Because. He won't. I've told you before, it's not that bad. It's only when we argue and he loses his temper. Besides, he needs me for the show, doesn't he?' A joke, bad taste.
George stares at me, aghast. 'Yeah. Yeah, that's just it, isn't it? He never hits your face, or anywhere where someone might see it, somewhere which would stop you wearing the bloody dresses and that for the fucking show.'
Actually, that's not quite accurate. I don't think Ricky thinks about it that deeply. He rarely hits my face, but I still have had to cover the odd bruise or mark with the thick stage makeup. The fashion recently has been for mini skirts, and as dresses get shorter and skimpier, I do have to consider what I wear.
'How can you say that? Not that bad-'
'George, stop talking about Ricky. I come here to get away from him. I don't want to think about him when I'm in bed with you.'
I kiss him again and he kisses me back, but then rips himself away. 'I can't. I can't do it. Leave him, Hannah. You'll have to leave him.'
'Oh, George,' I sigh, falling back against the pillow, covering my eyes with my hands. 'Please stop this. I don't keep asking you about Pattie, do I?' I uncover my eyes again, finding George just above me, leaning over me. I put my hand to his cheek, brush his hair back. 'Please, love, we don't have long to be together, do we? Don't waste it by arguing with me the whole time. Lets not talk about things we can't change.'
'I'm not arguing, Hannah. And this is something you can change. I am telling you, leave Ricky. Before he really hurts you.'
I take my hand back. 'Oh, you're telling me, are you?'
'Yes.'
'George orders. George commands.'
'Just... Just listen to me...'
'And then what? Move in here? Just stay in the flat, waiting for you, for when you might have two minutes to spend with me? You have your wife at home and I can be your spare, for weekends.'
George purses his lips, getting annoyed. 'Not for me. I'm not asking you to leave him for me, I'm asking you to... to... Where are you going?!'
'To have a shower,' I reply, as I manage to push him off me. I untangle myself from the sheets and slide out of bed.
'I'm talking to you.'
'Well, I'm not talking to you. Not about this. Not now.' I scoop a towel up from where it has been left to dry on the radiator and wrap it around myself, crossing towards the bedroom door.
'Don't walk away from me. I haven't-- GODDAMMIT, HANNAH!'
I stop when he shouts. He rarely does, George. We might argue, bicker, say mean things to each other occasionally, but he very rarely yells at me. It's shocking enough to stop me dead in my tracks, just as I'd reached for the door handle. I turn back to him.
'Listen to me, will you? Don't walk out of the room when I'm talking to you.'
He's sitting up now, bedcovers pooled around his waist, hair mussed up where I'd been running my fingers through it only minutes ago, before he started all this.
I shift my weight from one foot to another and put on hand on my hip. Not the hip with the bruise on it. 'Go on then. Say what you're saying.'
'I'm not asking you to leave him for me. I'm telling you to leave him for yourself.'
'Not for you.'
'No.'
'Right, well, noted. Thank you, George.'
He shakes his head at me. 'I can't do this with you anymore, Han.'
I sigh. This is his latest threat too. Whenever we argue, if he can't get his own way, he'll say he's breaking it off.
'Fine then,' I say, flatly.
'I mean it, I can't. I can't be... frightened to look at you every time you take your clothes off, wondering whether there's going to be new bruises or cuts on you. I've started to count them, catalogue them. I don't intend to, I can't help it. I'm keeping track, trying to figure out when and where new marks appear.'
'George, I know it's because you care, but honestly, leave whatever is between me and Ricky alone. We've talked about this before. It won't work, us being together, if you start obsessing about him...'
'I can't close my eyes and pretend it's not happening. How... How can you do this?'
'Couldn't I ask you the same thing?'
'No, I... How can you love me one minute and make out like it all means nothing to you the next? You do it all the time. Like you're doing now. If I ask you about anything too... too sensitive for you, you close down, shut me out.'
'Oh, George, really...' I say, rolling my eyes at him. 'You're getting everything out of proportion.'
'Am I not allowed to care about you?'
'Georgie-'
'Do you love me?'
'What?'
'Do you love me, Hannah? I've told you that I love you enough times. You know how many times you've said it to me? Exactly zero. So do you? Or does this - after all the time we've been together - does it mean just that to you? Exactly zero.'
I sigh, as if he's being particularly wearisome. 'I have said it to you.'
'No. No, you haven't.' He pulls his legs underneath him, kneeling up on the bed. 'You've never said the words. You say "I do," or "me too." It's not good enough. I love you, Hannah. Do you love me?'
'How can you love me, George? You're married to another woman. If you loved me, you would...'
I stop myself. I've never said that to him, though I can't help but think it. If he loved me, like he says he does, then he'd leave Pattie, wouldn't he?
'We both know this can't last forever. If you don't want to do this anymore then stop coming here. It's simple. Just stop coming to the flat.'
'And that's it. That's what you do,' he says, spreading his hands to me, like I've proved his point. He gets off the bed. 'You don't say what you mean, what you feel. You say flippant things like "Stop coming here then." Like you couldn't care less. But you must do. You must feel something, because if you didn't, it would make you a cold, hard bitch.'
'If you're going to start name calling, I'm not talking to you anymore.' I turn back to the door.
'Hannah,' George says, standing behind me now and I pause. 'When did you become like this? You've always pushed me away, but now...'
'It's November,' I say without turning around.
'What does that mean?'
'You wanted things to be different. By the end of 1967. It's what you made me promise you last Christmas?'
'Yes.'
'Well, it is, isn't it?' I swallow and pull my towel around myself tighter. 'I'm going for a shower.'
I spend a long time in the shower, just standing under the warm water. It's the only place I allow myself to cry these days. He's wrong. I'm not hard, not as hard as I should be, as I need to be. I'm just as soft as I always was.
When I get out again, George has gone.