Hello, all! I do hope you had a very happy Christmas and a wonderful New Year's. I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who has voted on this little story, or just taken the time to read it at all – I'm so glad you're enjoying it thus far. Little bit of a change in this chapter, trying out a new narrative. I may do this a few times, but do let me know if it bothers you and I'll try to cut it down. Enjoy! Xx
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Somewhere in London... 8th of July, 1964
Have you ever wondered what it must feel like to be a secret agent? A spy? A James Bond-esque bandit, living in and out of the shadows, looking over your shoulder with every move?
Would you assume it would be fun?
I have terrible news for you – it's quite the opposite. How do I know?
Being out with a Beatle is a hell of a lot what I would imagine living life on the run would feel like.
The first order of business that day was to drop by George and Ringo's flat, a short drive to Knightsbridge from Harry's townhouse. Leaving had been a slightly awkward affair, unbeknownst to everyone else, as it had been nearly impossible to discuss any... sensitive matters with Harry. Every time I had tried to get a word in, a mop top had popped its head around a corner or waltzed directly into a room.
It had taken a concerted effort to sneak away for a moment and iron out any details... which, unfortunately, were few.
"I'm going to stay here, and you'll go out with George. Entertain yourself for a few hours and by the time you get back, I should hopefully have her ready for you."
Not the most perfectly laid of plans, but it would have to do.
The first order of business had been to sneak all four boys outside and into their vehicles, sight unseen. That itself was to be a momentous challenge. I was to be sent out as a look-out first, and immediately spotted a group of young girls posted across the street, fussing about with wildly teased bouffants and records in hand. If I hadn't seen it myself, I almost wouldn't have believed it – it seemed nigh on impossible to comprehend the full depth of the whole 'Beatlemania' craze, but I seemed poised to experience a crash-course.
"A small group of girls, just across the road."
A chorus of 'oh, bugger me' and 'bollocks' had rang out at my information, and a shoddy plan had to be made. It consisted of four things:
1) Get Paul and John to their respective vehicles.
2) Get Ringo, George and I to Harry's Beetle.
3) Haul absolute ass if we were caught.
And:
4) Pray to God we made it out alive.
"We'll go out one at a time. That way if they catch us, the others will at least live to tell the tale," Ringo suggested, straightening the buttons on his shirt.
"If you don't mind, I think I disagree," I had interjected, meekly. "I think everyone should go out at once and hope for the best. Like ripping off a band-aid."
"A what?" John said, screwing up his face.
I blinked for a moment before catching on, elaborating with a small smile. "A plaster – it'll be like ripping off a plaster. The sooner, the better I say."
Paul sighed, stepping toward the door with an expression reminiscent of a man heading to the gallows. "Damn it, lads, I think she's right. There's no use in dragging it out, we might as well try and make a clean break for it."
"I second that motion," George had peeped up from the stairs, finishing off tying his shoelace and standing, making his way to my side.
"I think you're all absolutely barmy," John had sighed, but rolled his eyes and joined Paul by the door. "But you're probably right, as well."
After making sure everyone had their respective belongings we all turned to the door, took a collective breath and slowly creaked it open.
"Godspeed, all," Harry had jibed, his voice full of mirth, before we stepped out.
The response was nearly immediate.
All of the girls had looked up, sights immediately poised on the boys, and they were setting off across the street before I had time to process they were moving at all. Harry's car was, mercifully, parked on the street directly in front of his townhouse, but John and Paul had parked across the street. I barely had enough wherewithal to register George's hand grasp mine before a petite girl bowled into my side, nearly knocking the wind out of me with the force.
Foolishly, I had expected some form of apology, ready and willing to receive it – only to be met with her back as she wrapped her skinny arms around George, grasping feverishly at his clothing. I had nearly forgotten his hand, still wrapped around mine, when he gave it a sharp squeeze.
"George! Oh, George, I can't believe it's really you!" she spoke, voice adolescently shrill. What I could see of her face was warped into an expression of pure distress, bunched up into a sob with great, fat tears running in waves down her face.
George pulled me alongside him, angling his face away from the girl and not uttering a single word. The teen went on, wailing and hollering, and he kept completely silent throughout the entire ordeal. We reached the driver's side of the car and as I made to detach my hand from his grasp, George tightened his grip. In one swift movement, he used his other hand to lightly shove the girl from him, pull me into his side and lead me to the passenger's door, opening it and shielding me from view as I climbed in.
In all the commotion, I'm still not sure how he managed to extract himself from her grip, but seemingly before I could blink Ringo had climbed into the back seat from the driver's side and George had slid in after him, shutting the door, starting the engine and pulling away from the curb.
"Are John and Paul alright?" I spoke first, nearly sitting backwards in my seat to try and get a clear view of them on the street behind us.
"They're fine," George muttered, his voice strained. I sat back down – his jaw tensed.
"Are you sure? They had a lot farther to go, and we –"
"Charlie, they're fine. We've had a lot worse than a few eager schoolgirls, believe me," he interrupted, both hands tight on the steering wheel.
There had really been nothing to say to that, and a silence settled in the car as we sailed along the narrow street. The further we drove away from the townhouse, the more surreal the entire experience had begun to seem – a man strolled along one side of the street, walking a dog; two neighbours waved to each other over a fence... all of them completely oblivious to the scene just down the road, mere moments before.
"Let's have some tunes then, yeah?" Ringo spoke up, leaning forward to switch the radio on – my heart, in retaliation, nearly jumped out of my throat at the action. It was easy to forget just how lax things like simple vehicular safety were this far back.
The radio buzzed with static for a moment before picking up a signal – a jangly guitar, part-way through an immediately recognizable riff.
' – don't care too much for money, money can't buy me love...'
No one made to switch it off for a long moment. The air had become suddenly taught with tension, lingering for a stretch of time before it became impossible to hold in.
A squeak of a laugh erupted from my mouth, and both George and Ringo jumped.
"I'm sorry, this is just... well, it's all so ridiculous, isn't it?" I managed between snorts and giggles. "I don't mean to laugh at you both, but..."
"No, no, you're right," Ringo chuckled, sitting back in his seat. "It is quite mad."
"You can't get away from these wankers, not even on radio," George had grumbled, though his lip quirked upward into a crooked smile.
The flat in Knightsbridge was along a quiet street – if it could even be called that – just a short walk from a much busier city centre. It was easy to get turned around by it all. One moment, you were dodging people and bumper to bumper with another car; the next, you were meandering along cobblestone roads and squeezing along mews. It was all very wonderfully dangerous, as it continually seemed much too easy to fall in love with the peculiar charm of England.
George and Ringo pointed out various things to me as we puttered along; shops and buildings of interest and, as George put it, "the best damn chippy this side of the Thames."
We pull into a vacant spot just in front of a brick building with wide, curved balconies and George cuts the engine.
"Well, here we are," he mutters, opening the door and moving to swing his legs out. My hand reaches out, grasping his forearm quickly.
"Wait! What if there are people out there?" I speak in a hushed tone, my voice slightly panicked.
George smiles, raising an eyebrow. "'What if' nothing – you don't have anything to worry about here, love."
I let go of his arm and frown, sitting back in my seat stubbornly.
He sighs, leaning closer in the small space. "Trust me, will you? There's no one here but us three."
I step out of the car and straighten up slowly, scanning the area quickly – but we really are the only people on the street. I can hear the commotion of a busy metropolitan area a few blocks over, but it's faint.
I lock eyes with George over the roof of the car, and his smile is still firmly in place.
"You see? Nothing to fuss about."
Rolling my eyes good-naturedly, I step around the car, Ringo just behind me. We follow George into the building, and as the trip up the lift is short we're inside their flat in moments.
Inside, the walls are white and everything is bright with natural lighting. The furniture is simple, dark wood and deep leather, and there's a few pieces of art as well as a couple of plants. It's much more spacious than I would've expected from a flat in the middle of London, though I remind myself that this isn't anyone's flat – this is where two Beatles live. Half of a hugely successful, wildly popular, internationally famous band that can most certainly afford the most spacious apartment available.
The space is very nearly quaint and wonderfully lived-in; a newspaper sits atop a table just inside the entry way; a discarded pair of boots sit haphazardly beside the door.
George leads me through to the living room, where there's an unlit fireplace and a bottle of what looks to be scotch on the mantle. Just to the right is a stack of records and, on the shelf above it, an unframed picture of George – a portrait, one you'd see in some sort of teen magazine, him posed and looking just to the side of the camera.
I walk up to the photo and squint my eyes to study it. Someone coughs, and I turn.
Ringo stands, hands in his pockets as George sits on the arm of the sofa, a bashful look on his face.
"I put that one up. Brian sent us a whole whack of portraits to sign and George's picture was just one of the most ridiculous things I'd ever seen," Ringo elaborates with a smile. "So, I had to put it up. I won't let him take it down now."
"It's true. It drives me mad, waking up in the morning and having my cuppa while staring at... that," George says, holding a hand up to the photo with a grimace.
"I think you look very... nice."
"Oh, please, don't say that. Nice... that's what my Mam said when she saw it. 'Oh, George, you look so nice! Much better than all your school pictures,'" he explains, his voice going up a few octaves with the impression. I choke out a laugh and Ringo clears his throat again.
"Well, kiddos, I hate to love you and leave you but I've got places to be. I hope you don't mind I can't join you on your adventures," he says.
"You're alright, Rings," George replies, reaching out to pat Ringo's arm briefly. "There's always next time."
Is there? My thoughts pipe in before I have time to silence them.
Ringo sets off toward what I assume to be his room and leaves George and I alone. I remain standing, still looking around, noting different aspects of the flat – the small bar near the living room entranceway; the circular dark wooden table, a bowl of fruit and a teacup and saucer still sitting atop the surface.
George clears his throat, and my eyes snap to him. He's standing now as well, a small grin on his face.
"I just need to change out of this get-up and we can leave. Would you... would you like a cup of tea? Are you hungry?"
"No, I'm alright. Thank you, though."
There's a brief period of silence before Ringo calls out from the hallway that he's leaving. George and I sound our goodbyes, and the door shuts.
A long moment stretches out, where we regard each other and I'm stunned with a completely strange feeling. I need to keep reminding myself that I've only just met this man – but we're alone now for the first time. Really, truly alone. No party behind us, no people sleeping in the other room. Just us, just him and I.
The prospect of exploring the city pales in comparison to the overwhelming feeling of wanting to stay in this flat, with him, all day doing absolutely nothing. He could fold his laundry for an hour, and I would happily sit and watch him do it.
George steps toward me, his eyes on his shoes. He takes another step; his eyes meet mine. Another step. Another, and he's nearly right in front of me. He stops, and his lips quirk up into a crooked grin.
If he moves any closer, I'm afraid I might do something I'll regret. And I think he knows it, as well.
He keeps his feet planted firmly to the floor, and I can see exactly what he's doing – George is leaving it up to me. I want to thank him for it, tell him I can see how much of a gentleman he's being and I'm about to when he licks his lips and begins to talk.
"I want to kiss you. I've wanted to since the moment we spoke. I hope I'm not making you feel... weird, or anything," he says, his voice soft and melodic. "God, I sound like a right pillock now. I'm mucking this whole thing up, aren't I?"
"No," I say, my voice stronger than I feel. "You're not."
George lets out a half-hearted laugh and rubs the back of his neck. "It's alright, I am. You can say I am, I wouldn't blame you."
My feet are moving, stepping slowly closer. "Are you listening to me, George Harrison? You're not."
"I think I am. It feels like I am."
I sigh. We're close now. His eyes are the most intense shade of deep umber I think I've ever seen. The space between us is almost infinitesimally small, nearly nonexistent and his breath washes warm over my cheek as I lean in.
It only takes a couple of inches more and our lips meet.
Have you ever stepped into a warm bath after being in a cold bathroom? Or settled down into your bed, bundled in fluffy blankets after a long day? There's a warm wave that rolls down your spine, from the top of your neck to the small of your back, and it settles somewhere deep in your chest, warming you from the inside. It's an inexplicable feeling, like being with a friend you haven't seen in a very long time, or coming home, finally, after being away.
Kissing George feels just like coming home.
It's almost terrifying, how easy it is to fall into him, how my hands find purchase on his body like they've been there a thousand times before. And his hands touch me like they know me just as well – his fingers lace into my hair and he tilts my head slightly, pulling me into him.
And then it ends slowly, petering off with small kisses and the light brush of noses.
I step away, straightening my hair and smoothing my skirt with the palms of my hands. George's hair is positively disheveled, and I chew on the side of my lip.
"You should go and get changed. We have a lot to see," I manage, turning to study the picture once more.
He doesn't leave for a moment, and I can almost hear his confusion – his struggle to keep silent is nearly palpable. And then he turns, striding from the room with purposeful steps.
--
An interesting fact about George Harrison: it seems as if it's entirely impossible for him to tell a lie.
The chip shop down the road is, as described, the best I think I've ever had. George had strolled right up to the counter and placed a note down atop it. Holding up two fingers was all that was needed, as almost immediately we were presented with two great rolled cones of newspaper, overflowing with greasy fried fish and chips.
And something I don't think I'm soon to forget – the look of absolute astonishment on his face as I head straight to the glass bottle of malt vinegar and proceed to douse half of my food with it.
"Christ, I certainly wasn't expecting that," George said, sidling up next to me whilst popping a floppy chip in his mouth. I offered the bottle to him and he had taken it, pouring it over his own.
"I wasn't raised by a fool," I responded, breaking a chunk of flaky white fish and batter off with my hands. It was much too hot, but it smelled divine and I truly hadn't realized how hungry I was until we parked in front of the shop and the smell of fry oil wafted past me.
We carefully meandered back to the Beetle, balancing our food and a bottle of Coke each and were soon off, down the street once more. The quiet hum of the radio provides a small amount of background noise, as well as the quiet puttering sounds of the engine.
Eagerly eating my food, I take in all the sights around me as we drive past – closer than I expected was Hyde Park, busy with people of all walks. George sighs, reaching into his lap for a chip.
"I was thinking I might take you into the park," he says, almost wistfully. "But there's too many people. It's bound to be hell if I even try."
Smiling around a bite, I shake my head. "That's alright. I really don't care much for parks, anyway..."
"And that's how I know it's a lie. Who doesn't like parks? No one," he grumbles.
"It's true! What is there to see at a park? Children screaming and fighting over toys, dogs doing their business on the lawn?"
George turns his head a bit, a crooked smile on his mouth. "You are a strange one, aren't you, Charlie Blue?"
"Don't I know it."
I stare out the window as we putter along the streets, perfectly content. George is, unsurprisingly, a gracious and thorough tour guide, slowing when possible at points of interest, telling me facts about this building or that statue. We come around the bend of an enormous roundabout and I'm so distracted with laughing at a joke he tells about Churchill I nearly miss that we're smack dab in front of Buckingham Palace.
Gasping, I turn sharply in my seat to watch as it moves past us, mouth open and eyes wide. I couldn't count the amount of times I've seen the grand building in pictures and video, but it doesn't quite compare to the real thing.
"That's me Mam's house," George says, once I face forward again. "I'll take you there for tea later, if you'd like."
"Dinner with your Mum, so soon?" I say, hand to my chest. "You'll make an honest woman of me yet, George Harrison."
George opens his mouth as if to protest, but stops at my short laugh.
"You're quite the comedian, I see..."
"Me? A comedian? What about you, Mr. 'Me-Mam's-House'?"
"Well, she is, isn't she? The Queen Mum and all that."
I regard his profile for a moment, lips twitching upward to hold back his laughter, and break out into a grin of my own.
The radio crackles with music as we cruise along further, passing Big Ben as we go. I sigh, coming off a little wistful and George looks at me, his brow furrowed a bit. We come to a stop at an intersection and he pivots toward me.
"All right?" he asks.
"Of course, it's just weird... seeing that. I've always wanted to. It's a little silly, but I wish I had a camera to take a picture of it. You know, proof that I was actually here."
It's a thought that crosses my mind quite a few times over the course of the morning. Usually, Granddad wants us to stay away from any physical evidence of our travels. Everything is very carefully planned – we've never been caught in the background of a picture, or on film or video anywhere. But this... this feels different.
"Well then," George sighs, putting the car back into gear and taking off with purpose once the light turns green. "We'll just have to get that sorted, won't we?"
"What do you mean?" I ask, carefully. George just throws me a quick wink and a smile, eyes intently scanning the road.
George drives like he could've made his way there with his eyes closed, dodging traffic expertly until we slow and he makes a left onto a small side street.
"Come on, then!" George says, sensing my hesitation. "No need to fret – do you think I'd be here if I thought it were a bad idea?"
I shake my head, and he laughs.
"Alright, up you get!"
I cautiously get out of the car, shutting the door behind me uncertainly. George comes around, looking as carefree as can be – smartly dressed in a button-up sans tie, jacket, drainpipe trousers and boots. He bows a bit, a silly expression on his face, and presents his hand for me to take. I raise an eyebrow at it.
"Don't you think it seems a tad conspicuous? A Beatle, holding hands with a random bird?"
George snorts, straightening up and coming over to me. He puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me into his side as we begin to walk down the road.
"In this neighbourhood, no one is really too fussed. You'll see," he says vaguely, as we come to a small intersection. I look up at the street sign and fight to hold in another gasp (one of many, to be sure) – Carnaby Street.
My head whips back and forth so often, I feel as if I might give myself whiplash – there's just so much to see, so much to take in. It's still early days for the street, a few boutiques here and there, although all men's. A few colorful flags hang from lampposts and store fronts, and it's difficult not to think about how exciting all of this will be in the coming years.
We meander along, talking about nothing of too much consequence, until George abruptly grasps my hand and pulls me through a store door. The bell chimes above us as we enter, and I'm immediately hit with the musky smell of leather and cigar smoke. Inside, glass cabinets showcase various sparkly bits and bobs, men in perfectly tailored suits waltzing around the expanse. One passes us, taking a great puff of his cigar.
I waft the smoke out of my face, trying not to cough. George shoots me a wry smile, heading straight to the counter.
"Well, well, if it isn't Mr. Harrison..."
Dread pools in the pit of my stomach. I assume, wrongly, that George has been caught until he turns with a jovial expression and faces the man behind the counter.
"Mr. Digby! How are we this fine morning?" George replies, leaning an elbow against the counter.
The man smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling, a heavy greying moustache resting atop his upper lip.
"Nothing's cocked up so far, so it seems to be a good start," he chuckles. "What can I do for 'ye?"
"I'm looking for a camera."
I gape at George, stepping forward to place a hand on his arm, trying to turn him toward me. He resists with a cheeky grin, eyes set on the man, who looks at me with his own beam and a raised eyebrow.
"George! If I had known that's what you were doing – "
"What kind of camera are 'ye looking for?"
George strokes his chin, looking down into the glass case below him.
"Got anything new? And I'm talking brand new, Diggs."
"George," I say, more firmly this time. He blinks, but otherwise doesn't acknowledge me.
"I just got a few of these new Pentax in. 'Spotmatic', they're callin' 'em. Don't know much about them myself, they came out around a fortnight ago."
George pretends to consider it for a moment before nodding, taking his wallet from his back pocket.
"I'll take one."
"George!" I say lowly, through clenched teeth. "I am not letting you buy me a camera."
"Who said I was buying it for you?" he replies, turning and leaning against the display, crossing his arms as Mr. Digby goes to the back.
I'm almost certain I'll be able to feel the flush that takes over my cheeks for days from now.
George snorts, snorting turning quickly into laughter, and Mr. Digby returns with a box in hand.
I don't catch the price, because I've very quickly scurried away, busying myself with inspecting a pocket-watch in a tall, vertical cabinet.
"Lovely, isn't it?" a voice speaks from beside me, much closer than I was perhaps comfortable with. I turn, and a man with a crisp grey suit and sharply combed and styled hair meets my eyes. He's so close I can smell the sharp, alcohol scent of his aftershave.
"Oh, um... yes, I suppose it is." It isn't, really – I was just thinking how hideous it was when he walked over, but to each their own. I turn back around, walking a few steps to the left. The man follows.
"What brings a lady like you to a men's boutique?" he says, cutting me off with one long step, positioning himself right in front of me. "Shopping for a husband?"
I see George just behind his shoulder, replacing his wallet and grabbing the bag off the counter. He says a few more words to Mr. Digby and turns, meeting my gaze. He raises an eyebrow. All I can do is implore him with my eyes.
"What? No..."
The man's face lights up and he scans my figure, making my skin crawl a bit.
"No husband? A boyfriend, surely?"
George makes quick strides over, resolute and succinct, and steps around the man to place his arm around my shoulder once more.
"Yes, actually," he says, his voice lower than I've ever heard it. "A boyfriend... surely."
The man gives George a tight-lipped smile, eyes looking over my body lecherously once more.
"Right. Well, I'll let you get back to it then," he nods.
"Cheers, mate," George responds, falsely cheerful, turning us toward the door.
Once onto the street, I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Thank you. That was..."
"He was giving you a pull, he was," George laments, shaking his head, his accent immediately thicker as he rants. "How... inconsiderate. He must've seen you walk in with me. Who did he think I was, your brother?"
I purse my lips, trying and failing to hide my smile. "I'm not sure what he thought."
George shakes his head, leading us back to the Beetle. "Well whatever it was, he got it dead wrong, the wanker."
I relax back into my seat, listening to George quietly grumble the whole way. Only once we've settled in and the key is poised in the ignition does he turn to me, presenting me with the box from the shop.
"What? George, no! I told you not to!"
"And I didn't. I bought it for myself, but I've just remembered I have one of my own sitting at home. A gift from Epstein, our manager – top-of-the-line, just came out. I completely forgot about it, I did. Silly me... so, I really don't need this one, do I?"
I gape at him, almost impressed by his explanation.
Almost.
"Alright then, you can take it back. It hasn't even been opened yet."
George winces, still holding the box toward me. "That's the thing about these small little boutique shops, you see," he says, mouth slowly turning upward into a grin. "No refunds."
There's a long pause, where George holds the offending object out to me and I sit back, arms crossed, refusing to take it. It's becoming abundantly clear, however, that we're not going anywhere until I do, so I grab it from his hands with a sigh.
"Don't look so smug! I'm paying you back for this!"
"You're not. Thank you anyway, love."
"And what makes you so sure I'm not?" I huff.
"Simple," he says, starting the ignition. "I won't let you."
--
It's not clear what George is up to until I realize we're back-tracking through the same streets we took to get to Carnaby, snaking along and re-tracing our steps until we pull out onto the busy thoroughfare just by Big Ben. He makes his way across the intersection, finding a spot to park just in front of the towering structure. Clock Tower rises high above us as we get out of the car, and I strain my neck upward to look at it.
George lingers by the car for a few moments, fiddling with something I can't quite see. When he walks over, he's got the camera around his neck hanging by a black leather strap and his jacket is off, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He comes over, puts both of his hands on my shoulders and maneuvers me around, left and then right, and then left and still more right until he has me seemingly positioned just right. He steps back, squinting, and then comes forward again, tucking a lock of my hair caught in the wind just behind my ear.
"Perfect," he says, and my chest tightens.
George steps back a few paces and then lowers himself to one knee, bringing the camera up.
"Alright, love – give us a smile, you look as if you've eaten a dodgy mince pie."
The phrase is so ridiculous I erupt into a fit of laughter, bending forward to rest a hand on my knee. A click goes off and George lowers the camera just as I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye.
"Wait, no – that must have looked dreadful!"
George waves a hand at me, getting up. "Nonsense. It couldn't have come out any better."
A middle-aged couple walk between us, but stop as they regard us.
"Would you two like a picture?" the woman says, smiling kindly and gesturing between us. I'm about to politely decline when George takes the camera from around his neck and walks up to the pair, handing it to them.
"Yes, please. Thank you very much," he says, jogging over to me.
"Are you sure about this?" I interject. "That means there's going to be physical proof you were with me. What if the girls find out?" I fake a gasp, putting my hands on either side of my face.
George rolls his eyes, coming up behind me and wrapping both arms around my waist. He rests his head on my shoulder and whispers in my ear, "oh, hush, you."
I turn back around just in time, as another click goes off.
--
The cobblestone street leading to Harry's house is quiet, the kerfuffle from earlier apparently forgotten about. We pull up just in front of the townhouse and George cuts the engine. Dread settles heavily in my chest as I glance at the blue door.
"I'll have to get Harry to drop me off at mine. I caught a ride with Paul last night, and I can't very well walk home from here," George jokes, but it's a struggle to muster up a smile.
Everything is beginning to feel so... final.
"Are you alright?" George says, putting a hand on my arm. I turn sharply and he takes it back, quickly.
"Sorry, yes I'm... I'm fine," I swallow, sounding anything but.
"Listen, I..." George hesitates, looking off to the side before facing me once more. "We're going to be heading back to Liverpool, in a couple of days. The film has a premiere there, then we're back in London to do a live bit for the television. Would you like to go for tea with me, that evening after the show?"
I stare at George for a bit too long, clenching my jaw. I feel as if I might cry. It's impossible to tell him why I won't be able to, just like it feels impossible to comprehend leaving this car and going inside, getting in Sally and leaving everything I've done so far behind.
The best option would be to say no. To tell him I've had a wonderful time, but I'm just visiting and it would be a bad idea to start anything with him. To tell him it's kind of him, but I think we might be best as friends. I open my mouth, the words poised on my tongue.
"I would love to."
I can't do it.
George's eyes light up, his mouth stretching into a beautiful, dazzling smile.
"Brilliant," he beams, his shoulders relaxing. I hadn't even realized how tense he'd been until that moment. "I'll ring you, that morning before we leave. You'll be here still, I can call Harry's number, then?" I nod, my throat constricted. "I'll let you know when, and I'll pick you up here... in my own car, this time."
All I can do is nod, a tight smile on my lips.
And before I can think about it, before I can stop myself I'm leaning forward, cutting George off as he goes to say something more. Our lips meet and it feels like I'm falling, but nothing like a freefall – like I'm flying without a care, hurtling towards what I know to be a soft landing.
It's brief, and I'm turning and opening the car door without another glance back. That is how I want to remember him, and how I want him to remember me.
But it's never that simple, is it?
I'm halfway up the path, eyes on my boots in the early twilight of the evening, when George catches up to me. He intercepts my stride, hands resting lightly on the sides of my biceps and he's leaning in, capturing my lips in a kiss that makes my toes curl and my stomach ache.
His forehead rests against mine, the hairs of his heavy fringe tickling my skin, and in the blue glow of the London night it's perfect. He's perfect.
Warm yellow light envelops us as the blue door swings open, and we step apart from each other.
Harry stands in the doorway, a smear of grease on his cheek and all over his white t-shirt, a dirty rag clutched in his grip. I gape at him and he looks back to me, eyes wide and frantic.
"Harry, mate! We were just coming to see you," George laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck and mistaking Harry's expression for something completely different. I swallow, looking between the two. "We were – "
"Need a ride home then, Geo?" Harry squeaks – yes, squeaks – rubbing his hands on the cloth and stepping outside.
"Uh... yeah, mate, ta," George replies, utterly confused. Harry walks past me and levels me with an altogether troubling look. He walks straight down to the car, getting in to the driver's side and running a hand through his hair. George and I watch him for a moment before turning back to each other. The front door is still open, bathing us in light. "I'll see you soon, then."
A sigh escapes me before I can stop it and I lean forward, wrapping an arm around George. "Soon, then," I repeat, truly beginning to think I might not be too far off.
He steps back, taking the camera from around his neck and placing it around my own. George leans forward, pecking my cheek quickly before turning and bouncing down the steps, waving with one hand over the roof of the car and ducking into the passenger's side.
I watch the Beetle take off down the road before walking into the townhouse, shutting the door behind me and immediately making my way to the backdoor. One of the first things I noticed about Harry's backyard – the large garage, off to the back and just to the side. My strides are quick and short and I'm to the slightly ajar door in no time.
Inside, Sally sits with all four doors open as well as the hood. A thin plume of smoke rises from inside the cab, and when I make my way over I can see the source – the console. A spark flies from one of the buttons. The screen flashes, lights up and then powers off.
"Shit."
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