If I had to go back and pick a night where we time travelled, it wouldn't have been this one.
It was a normal night and we were staying in but June popped by and we had gone to a party. That being said, there's a lot more that went into that vague detailing, but things had wound up coming full circle. I suppose I should go back and properly explain.
After the shoplifting incident, John had left the house for a while to take a walk, and I had stared at my empty room and Mr. Lungs sitting on my desk and faced the fact that it was time for him to leave. And so I had consulted the book, staring at it through the glare of my desk lamp, but all it did was give me a blank stare of empty pages. Everything before John's photo—still intact. Just blanks afterwards. The chasm that was my room stared at me, its empty eye sockets of missing Beatles memorabilia drilling into me, reminding me that John needed to get home.
There was the bang of the front door, signifying John's return. He came upstairs and deposited a bag of takeout Chinese on my desk. "I'm home, darling," he told me in a satirical manner, playfully attempting to kiss me, but I swatted him away, grinning. "How was the office?"
"War efforts are going poorly. Almost had to stop Churchill from going at Hitler's throat."
"Oh, you, you're so strong, barely see any scratch marks on you at all," I shot back at him, satirically batting my lashes at him, and then my voice went back to normal when I smelled the Chinese. "Chinese! Why'd you choose this?"
"It's not because you're half Chinese, if that's what yer wondering." He turned his face and I couldn't read his expression.
"Mm. Good thing I love Chinese. Where'd you pick up the nosh?" I tied my hair back and let it go.
"Same deal with the bloke at the packie shop. Said I could have anything under £20. And so... here's your breadwinner, dear. Go get the kids and tell them it's time for supper."
The book was cast aside, the book with no title now, a shadow of its former self, my hunger replacing it. John parked himself on my bed and slurped up some hot and sour soup, picking up my guitar and strumming a little tune:
General Tso's Chicken / Finger Licking' Good
I didn't want to tell him he just ripped off the KFC slogan.
I couldn't tell John just how great he had the potential to become along with the Beatles. That, I felt, was against the rules or whatever game the universe was playing with me. In return, the universe had wiped out every figment of John that had ever existed. Last night we were watching the telly, and a special came on about a famous surgeon named Paul McCartney who died that earlier spring. Died. I changed the channel quickly before John could notice, my eyes tearing up. Why the hell was everyone dying?
I leaned back, accidentally falling against him and moving away. He said nothing, a strange look in his eyes. We both felt that unspoken connection.
The setting sun outside my desk window brought me back into reality. I leaned against my elbow and looked at John, who asked, "Any... luck with the book?" I could sense anticipation in his voice, but whether it was yearning of reluctant I couldn't tell. "Give it here."
Before I could hand it over, there was the ring of a doorbell. I walked over to my bed and stuck my head out of the window, at first wary at the sudden visitor but I ended up yelling down to her. "June! Come in. Door's open." A moment later she was upstairs, hopping on the bed next to John. "Hello, Scouser. You want to join us for a little get together tonight?"
"Marty's?" I said, almost forgetting about the party.
"How could you forget?" She asked me. "Here with... Long John," she decided on. He's your boyfriend, then, Cora?"
John shook his head, smirking slightly, waiting for my reaction. I was filled quickly with relief, disappointment, and then irritation—snap, snap, snap. "Nah, love," I told her airily. "Even though he wants me, won't happen in a million years."
"Like I would go for such a bossy bird in the—"
"All right, all right," June said, rolling her eyes. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. Finish your lovers spat and hurry up and get dressed. I've got us a ride."
***
The telly was blaring downstairs, courtesy of an impatient June, as I faced the problem of what to wear. John sat on my bed and said, "Well, what are you going to wear?"
"Let's do you first," I told him. "You should wear the Hawaiian shirt."
"But what if it's an indie party," he protested. "You're indie, aren't you, Cora?" He said the word indie like he was saying beatnik, and I liked this, but didn't want to show that I did. He flung himself on the bed, crossing his hands behind his head and letting his boots hang over the edge.
"I've got news, Len," I told him. "Hawaiian is the new beatnik." He took off his shirt without warning again and his bare skin made another appearance. "John," I groaned.
"You'll come back for me."
"You wish."
I knew what I was going to wear. I had an ash gray velvet dress that I had been waiting to show off. I took it out of the closet and showed John. "What do you think?" It was a sleeveless dress with a scoop neck and a low back, with a flared skirt.
"Very beatnik," he told me.
The moment we got downstairs June snapped off the telly. "Danny Newsport is giving us a ride to Marty's," she called from the door. "Come on."
"He's that bloke—"
"Yeah," I responded to John. "We've got history. Right-o." I stepped into some black kitten heels, John pulled on his boots, and we stepped outside the house. I closed the door behind me, locking it up, and I saw Danny pull into my drive in an old Toyota. Another boy sat at the passenger seat. Do I know him? I thought to myself as we made our way towards the cherry red Toyota. My thoughts had an internal battle but I decided the party could be a laugh. It would be a lot of people and I could stick with John. I cast him a nervous glance, standing by the car with his hands in the pockets, staring at the sky.
June opened the door and we all slid in: June, then me, and finally a bemused John, still admiring the car.
"The lot of you look right toff," said the figure in the passenger seat. And then I remembered who it was: Ryan, who had talked to me in class about Dear Prudence and who I had bumped into at Martin's Charity shop. Both he and Danny were wearing shirts; Danny's was a light blue and Ryan's was a light pink that clashed with his short cropped red hair. The combination oddly worked. A piercing hung out of his lower lip. He was smoking a fag and looked extremely nervous.
Danny in the light, in the proper sunlight—wavy brown hair and dark eyebrows. Reminded me a little of 1967 George minus the frown, although both did a heavy amount of skunk at some point.
"Thanks," June giggled at Ryan's compliment. I debated whether or not to say anything to him, and I uselessly echoed June's thanks. Danny started to back out of my drive. His knuckles were white; his hand gripping the upholstery of the seat in front of me.
"Careful of the mailbox," I told Danny.
"Just cause I hit it once..." he responded. I raised my eyebrows in the back seat, sure he could see me from the mirror. "If you do it as a one off, there's always a chance you might do it again."
"Touche," Danny laughed. "You meeting Jane later?" I heard him ask Ryan. Ryan nodded, a slight, quick movement up and down. "Who's this?" Danny finally asked, addressing John. All I could see of Danny from my angle was a shock of brown hair and a pair of hands on the steering wheel.
"I'm John, Cora's friend." At friend I caught his hand making its way to my stockinged thigh and I almost kneed him in the balls, but settled for giving him a pinch. What a tosser. Double signals, much?
"Friend, huh." Ryan mused from the front seat. I looked behind me to see the suburban rows of houses disappear into a crowded freeway.
"Anyway, good to meet you," John said. It was at this moment that I noticed exactly how Liverpudlian his accent was.
"Got a Scouser here, now have we?" Danny asked him, seeming to read my mind.
"Liverpool, but I've played in Hamburg with me band for a while."
"Ooh, y/n, always knew you'd go for the musicians," Danny chortled. "Danny—" I started, but he interrupted, explaining "I asked her out a couple years back. Probably turned me down because I didn't know what side of the guitar was up or down."
"The upside is up and the downside is down. Have it any way you want," John speculated. "Historical quote by the famous Alexander the Great himself."
***
Marty opened the door. As he leaned in for a hug, I caught a faint scent of pot. He was wearing heart shaped sunglasses and a party hat with the tip ripped off. "Who's this, boyfriend?"
John and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows and grins and said simultaneously, "Friend." I didn't bother to read more into his look but turned away, putting a grin on my face. "John, Marty. Marty, John." Marty led us inside and gave us the rundown of the welcome tour. "Beers are in the kitchen, loo is first door on the top of the stairs, food is everywhere. Enjoy!" John handed June a beer and uncapped one for me, taking the top off against the countertop.
We walked through Marty's carpeted hallway towards the noise. When we entered the living room, I could tell the party was in full swing. There were conversations happening, games being played, and some music I had never heard before was coming from someone's iPod in the corner. Upon further investigation I saw that they were the Stones. But this wasn't a Stone song I knew, nor was it a sound I recognized. Something felt off. Whatever, Cora, you've got other things to worry about.
***
Nip it in the bud—I'd better get to the bottom of this now. And what better time to pounce at June than when she was slightly pissed with booze? I thought I saw Ryan in the corner, his arm around a red haired girl whose shade of red was only slightly lighter than his. Huh, I thought. I didn't know Ryan was going out with someone. This must be the elusive Jane. My gaze travelled to June, standing by the food table and I ran up to her, determined to get to the bottom of this.
"June, we need to chat." She gave me a nod and we made our way into someone's office, probably Marty's mother. June snapped on the light with her left hand, holding a beer the other hand.
"Listen to me, June," I said. "Do you remember that day when we went to Martin's?" She nodded. "We were talking on the tube. You bought that orange coat for Harry. I bought a book about Paul."
"Paul?" she asked quizzically, confirming my worst fear. My words came out in a rush.
"I've been talking about him for months. Before John met me. Please, June, I'm going to go crazy." Perhaps it was the alcohol that night or just tiredness, but I started crying, leaning against the couch. "I don't know how much longer I can live with this guilt."
She simply looked confused.
"June... don't you remember the Beatles?"
She frowned. "Not... really... I'm assuming you're not talking about the bugs."
"Here comes the sun? Let it be? All my loving? Those are some songs the band played." I was hanging onto her every expression, but she took a swig of booze. "I'm sorry, Cora," she said quietly. "I have no idea who they are."
"Okay," I said quietly. I supposed I was on my own now. Just me and John. I got up clumsily, June asked me, "Is everything alright, love?" and I nodded my assent, leaving her in Marty's mum's office.
***
The situation that lay before me called for only one more thing: get another drink. I made my way to the drinks table, my eye catching a clock: midnight or something of the sort. I grabbed a beer and attempted to take the cap off with my bare hands, when a shadow came over me and someone said, "Cora. Let me help."
"Ryan," I said. I handed the bottle over and he expertly popped the cap off against the countertop and handed it back to me. "Beer tastes like piss," he remarked, leaning against the countertop in his six foot frame. I could see his height more clearly, as we were out of the car. His pink shirt was more rumpled now as well, but he was gazing at me like he knew something I didn't.
"So what did you drink, then?"
"Water. I'm not pissed out of my mind like the rest of them," he said.
"Water," I repeated, and put down the beer. "All right. I'll give it a go." I reached for an empty glass on the drying rack near the sink and filled it to the top. Ryan watched me. "I'd give you a hand but that bloke of yours would get his knickers in a twist."
"John?"
"Yes, John Lennon, always has had a possessive way about him," Ryan sighed, lifting his glass of water to his lips like it was the finest wine. "With Cynthia, with Yoko. Although I can't really say anything. Hypocritical."
"We're not going out," was all I had to say. "Right hungry, I am," I muttered as my fingers cleaned a nearby plate full of brownie crumbs into a neat little pile which soon after went into my mouth.
"Shouldn't have done that," Ryan said. "Not at least till you've had experience."
"Sod off," I told him drunkenly.
"One, five seven of four, four, four minor," he hummed. "Dear Prudence," I smiled, walking up next to him. "Careful," he said. "Sometimes I'm absolutely gobsmacked over all these bloody drunk tossers at these events. No offense. Jane wanted to come, experience a proper party. I'm sure your fancy man's been taking the piss tonight?"
Ryan, Ryan, Ryan. Like him or dislike his high and mighty stance, in our last few moments of conversation through the haze of his words one thought sprang to my mind. John Lennon. I never remembered telling Ryan his last name. I suddenly grabbed onto his arm. "Listen, Ryan, you said John Lennon, is that right? How do you know? How do you know about... and you said if he saw me with another bloke he'd..."
"You're faster when you're sober, love," Ryan told me.
"Naff off," I said again, feeling like I had stepped off an elevator. "All right. You know about John. So what?"
"The world doesn't know him. I bet I'm the first person—"
"Step of the high horse," I told him. "Listen, you've got dirt on you too. Otherwise, how would you know about John? Either you created the book, or you've got someone here as well. Is it Paul? Blimey, I hope it is," I groaned. "I love me some Paul McCartney."
At the words Paul McCartney he blanched and shook his head. He stood there in dress pants and pink shirt, fiddling with his tie. His lip piercing glinted in the kitchen light. Out of the shadows, a girl walked towards us, the red haired girl I had seen with him all night. The kitchen was dim; I couldn't see her face, but when she moved to put her arms around Ryan, I caught a glimpse of her face. So beautiful. I had seen it before. I knew exactly where I had seen her face.
"Cora," Ryan said hoarsely, running a hand through his rumpled red hair. "This is Jane. Jane Asher."