Temper, temper! Beatle George's protest at unwanted press intrusion.
Every paper he opened, that bloody photo was there. Three days and it seemed to be spreading further and further with every stop along the tour.
There were stories in the Los Angeles papers the day after. George had opened the pages of one on the plane to Denver and found himself staring back, a menacing expression on his face that he didn't recognise in himself.
By Cincinatti, the following day, it'd made the nationals. Beatle George throws drink over photographer. More pictures of George being jostled and shoved, head first, arse in the air, over the crowds. The only way to get out of the shoebox that had been the Whisky a Go-Go. 'Not very dignified, George,' Brian said. He'd been right about that.
And now three days later and it was in the New York paper. On the showbiz gossip pages and only probably because the Beatles were playing there tonight, but still, this story didn't seem to be showing any signs of dying out.
The story centred on George, mainly because that bastard photographer managed to capture the exact moment he threw the water, aiming for him and mostly getting Della. It made for a dramatic image. They missed the more obvious story; John Lennon with Jayne Mansfield to George's left. Shortly before George had stood up to throw the water, Jayne had inched her hand up his leg, pushed her fingers in between his thighs and eventually found, to George's surprise, what she'd been searching for. She let her hand rest there. Over it. Just cupping it, casual as you like. He'd tried to catch John's eye, but he had his head down. No wonder. If that's what Jayne was doing to George, God knows what she was doing to John. John, who'd spent at least two of the three nights in Los Angeles in bed with her.
He'd been relieved when Jo got there and he could sit her in between them. He was, to a degree, used to being pushed and pulled around now, but a Hollywood movie star grabbing your cock in a public bar was a still bit of an eye-opener. Especially one like Jayne Mansfield. One of the women George used to dream about as a teenager. It was all a little... overwhelming, and he wasn't sure the reality of meeting her quite matched the fantasies he'd had in his teens.
Everyone seemed out for them lately. Movie stars, photographers and fans alike. They all wanted a piece of them and if the Beatles weren't giving it willingly, they were taking it anyway. Ringo was still upset after his shirt was torn and St Christopher's ripped from his neck earlier in the lobby of the Delmonico. That had been a fiasco. With little to no security, they'd been swamped when they arrived at the plush New York Park Avenue hotel. It feared George when it was like that. His grandmother - from the few sketchy memories George had of her - had been the same. Always warning him about some impending catastrophe that she could in her mind as clearly as a picture show.
George, don't run down the jigger like that! You'll trip and smash your teeth!
Peter, come down off that wall before you fall and break your head open!
George, don't you try and cross that hotel lobby! Those rabid Beatles fans will tear you to pieces!
George foresaw disaster too, but his wasn't imaginary. It wasn't even unlikely.
He looked at the crowds and crowds of fans and he imagined them pulling him to limb from limb.
He played in amphitheatres, like the one in Denver, acutely aware of how open and unprotected they were, amazing view though it was.
He saw the hotel lobbies, packed with people, all wanting their own bit of a Beatle, and knew he and his bandmates could be crushed and trampled and loved to death.
Ringo had lost his St Christopher's medallion and had been appealing through radio stations, forlorn and pitiful, for it's return. George thought he should be grateful it wasn't his flesh they'd ripped off him, rather than just his shirt and necklace. He wouldn't say that to him though. Even if he, and Ringo, John and Paul, were thinking it. There were things you could say and things you couldn't.
They'd been sitting in the helicopter for over half an hour, waiting for it to take them to Forest Hills Stadium. They couldn't get clearance to go or something. George didn't even want to fly in this bloody thing. They had been told they'd never make it through the New York traffic, but they'd arrive late now anyway. The helicopter was enormous. Not like any other helicopter he'd ever seen. It was like a bus with propellers. He really couldn't see how the huge, heavy chunk of metal was suppose to be able to fly.
That's why he'd started reading the paper in the first place, to take his mind off it. But it was hard to do that when all that ever seemed to be in the news was yourself. Today, Beatle George soaks photographer with a glass of water. Tomorrow, Beatles helicopter smashes into the ground at 500mph.
That thought actually made him wince.
The report in the post was written in a light hearted way, making fun of George losing his temper. That was better than the ones that damned him in a who-does-he-think-he-is kind of way, but everytime another article was discovered, whatever it's nature, Brian would give him a disapproving look, worse than anything he could say in words, and a disappointed shake of his head.
George studied himself in the photo. It wasn't a good picture of him. His face was set in a way akin to a Liverpool docker looking for a fight after he'd had one too many. His arm holding the glass was extended towards the camera lens. You couldn't see the water, it'd probably already gone over Della.
To George's right, Jayne is cowering into John's side. To George's left, Ringo looks wide eyed and shocked. And somewhere behind him, more or less completely obscured by George and his new loose fit shirt that Della called a circus tent, was Jo. It wasn't poxssible to see her though. There's just her ear and the side of her head. You can't see her face at all. You wouldn't even know she was there if you weren't looking for her. Thank fuck. If Pattie saw a girl in a photo with George, she'd want to know who she was and the way things were currently, he didn't think she'd believe him if he said she was just a friend.
'Listen to this,' Della said, from the seat behind George. George folded the newspaper and shoved it down the side between his seat, hoping Brian, two seats behind him, wouldn't see it and ask to read it.
'George.' Della leaned forward and jabbed him, hard, in the side of his neck, even though he was already turned around to her.
He scowled at her and rubbed his neck. 'What?'
Della and George always spoke to each other this way. Brisk, no airs and graces, teasing and tongue in cheek insults. They'd been like that since they were kids and George didn't mind, but recently, it'd started getting a bit more... rough. When she prodded him like that, or punched his arm or kicked his shin and left a bruise, it was starting to annoy him. But he didn't want to tell her she was hurting him. She'd just laugh and he'd look like a fool, especially if she told the others.
'Listen to this article,' Della said. 'You'll like it. You as well, John.'
John, sitting next to George, twisted round in his seat, raising an eyebrow at George.
'Commonly known as the marsupial mouse or antechinus shrew...' Della started to read from a folded magazine in her hand.
Why was she sitting behind him, anyway? Just to poke him and kick at his seat like an unruly toddler? Why wasn't she next to him?
John was sitting next to George instead and he wasn't helping much. He wasn't the most confident of flyers either. Even though he hid it better than George did, he was nervous of the helicopter flight too. He looked pale and he was uncommonly quiet. He'd made George sit next to the window and that made George feel worse. More paranoid. He didn't like the... panoramic view.
A seat in front were Paul and Ringo. They were excited, laughing and shouting, like kids waiting to go on a fairground ride. Either of them would be preferable to John as a companion, but Della would be best.
He needed Della. It was okay if George wanted to hold Della's hand. It was alright if he leaned on her shoulder or stared at her face when they took off, so he wouldn't have to see the ground retreating in that nauseating way. He didn't know if she realised it assuaged his nerves to have her next to him, but she never mentioned it. For all her prodding and poking, barbed comments and jokes, she never took the piss out of him for that.
'-the mating habits of this creature are startling to say the least,' Della said and smiled as John cackled a laugh. 'Shut up,' she told him, and continued, 'Shortly before the male reaches his first birthday, he will spend two to three weeks mating with as many females as he can possibly find, continually and in rigorous, sometimes violent sessions, lasting up to fourteen hours at a time. During this period the mouse-like creature does not pause to eat or sleep. He can cause himself pain and injury, but it will not deter him in his pursuit of females. Eventually, at the end of his marathon breeding, he will collapse and die of exhaustion.' She stopped abruptly and looked up at them both. 'Remind you of anyone? This mouse who literally shags himself to death over the course of a couple of weeks?'
'I hope that's how I go,' John said. 'Death by shagging.'
'Well, that could happen,' Della said. 'Two or three weeks of continual shagging, never pausing pursuit of females, keep going at the expense of health and anything else... It's life on a Beatles tour, isn't it?'
John roared with laughter and George laughed too, but he didn't find it all that funny.
'Paul! Do you hear what Della's saying about you?' John shouted. 'She says if you keep on as you are, you'll shag yerself to death.'
Paul turned around from the seat in front. 'Eh? What?'
'And she'd know, wouldn't she? Being your old flame and all.'
It wasn't aimed at Paul though. Or John, or anyone else. The way Della was looking at him when she said it, it was definitely a jibe at George. Why? Because of Jo? Probably. Della hadn't been shy about telling George what she thought of her, and more pertinently, what she thought of George seeing her on tour while he had Pattie at home.
That was disappointing. Della was usually cooler than that. She was a girl, but she didn't usually behave like other girls. She was more like one of the lads when it came to girls and sex and that. He thought she'd have understood.
'Funny,' he said, flatly, and she smirked at him.
'What the hell are you reading, anyway?' John asked, reaching to lift the cover of the magazine from her.
'National Geographic,' she said, pushing it through the seat towards him. 'You should try it. Expands your mind more than Playboy does.'
The end of her sentence was drowned out by the helicopter's engines firing up. Fuck, this was it then. They were going. Fuck, those engines were loud. John had said something to him, as he took Della's magazine from her, but the noise of the engine reverberating inside the helicopter rendered conversation impossible.
George sat straight in his seat, facing forward, checked his seatbelt was still fastened tight and gripped the armrests with both hands, knuckles white. Fuck. Fuck. This was the worse bit. This was the bit he hated. Taking off.
He closed his eyes and then jumped when he felt her touch the side of his shoulder. Della had pushed her hand through the gap between the seat and the wall of the helicopter. She squeezed him. Prising his fingers from the armrest, George crossed his arm over his chest and put his hand over Della's.
'Stand there.'
That what George said to her, just before they'd took to the stage. Pointing at the floor, commanding Della to sit-and-stay like she was a puppy he was training, and dope that she was, she did. Only three shows along and it'd become a habit. At first, she'd found it endearing. She'd thought it was sweet the way he wanted to make sure he knew where she was while he was playing, taking care of her, ensuring she wouldn't get lost again.
But after a tense show in Denver, a hot and humid night in Cincinnati and a slapper named Jo in West Hollywood, it was starting to grate.
Della's job, ostensibly, was to look after George and the other boys. It wasn't for him to look after her, but that's not really what he was doing anyway. He wasn't positioning her in a place where he could see her and check she was okay. He was putting her on the route they'd take when they ran to escape the arena. At the Hollywood Bowl and in Denver, he'd scooped her up with him on the way and she'd shared a ride back in the Beatles car. It hadn't been possible in Cincinnati, it'd been too crazy, and who knew what would happen tonight, because the helicopter they'd arrived in was supposed to wait and take them back at the end, but obviously no one had told the pilot that. Nat Weiss was on the phone currently, trying to get him to come back.
Well, sod George. It wasn't because he was was worried about her or concerned for her safety. It was for saving time and so he wouldn't feel obliged to go and look for her if she got lost. What had she been thinking, getting all misty-eyed and gooey over that prat? It made her curl up with embarrassment when she thought how she nearly asked him if he might want something more with her.
It had all manifested in Della being unreasonably abrupt and cross with him over the last few days, and George, in his haze of adulation and idolization from all his fans was probably wondering what the fuck was up with her. She couldn't help it. It felt like he'd rather callously and unceremoniously dumped her when a better offer came along. That blonde tart he'd found from somewhere. He seemed to forget how ridiculously in love he was with Pattie Boyd when she came on the scene.
But not Della. Not Della. George didn't want Della and that still hurt. She could be more charitable to him and concede that he hadn't really done anything to encourage her, if it wasn't for the kiss. What the hell was the kiss about? It'd been a week and it was still playing on her mind. She'd have to ask him.
But asking him wasn't a prospect she relished. It could only result in more pain and rejection, and if she did bring it up, then he'd probably guess why she'd been so prickly towards him lately.
Still, she wanted to know. She'd have to do it.
Oh, but it would just be too humiliating, wouldn't it?
Maybe she could ask him for a private word, kick him in the bollocks and leave him to figure it out for himself.
Brian was standing with another man a short distance away. Della moved from the spot George had assigned to her and went to stand behind him, waiting for him to finish his conversation.
Brian tended to fade in and out of the tour. Essentially, he wasn't needed in the whistle-stop dates, like Cincinnati had been, and he got bored in the smaller, more industrial towns or cities.
She hadn't seen much of him since Los Angeles. He'd come to the Denver show but disappeared after that had finished, not surfacing again until this afternoon in New York. Derek had been to collect him from the airport and both of them had returned in a dark mood. She'd normally give Brian a bit of a distance when he was in sulk about something, but she wanted to ask him about what he said in LA. He couldn't just tell her her future with NEMS was in jeopardy and then shut up about it.
The thing was, Della thought she might have had a change of heart. A few days ago when he'd brushed her off because he was going out for dinner, Della wanted to plead her case and ask him to let her stay.
Now she wasn't so sure.
Della loved George. That was half the problem. He wasn't just a boy she fancied. She had loved him since they were children, but if she stayed on this tour with him for much longer, there was a distinct possibility she might strangle him with his own guitar strings.
'Hello, Della,' Brian said, eventually acknowledging her. 'How is everything?'
'Good,' she said automatically, and then weighed up in her mind if that was true. Overall, yes, things were going well currently. The helicopter had buggered off, but they'd get it back, or else think of some other way to get back to the hotel.
Brian sucked air in through his nose and nodded. 'The Righteous Brothers have just informed me they would like to be released from their contract.'
'What?' Della said. The Righteous Brothers, who weren't really brothers at all, were second on the bill, going on just before the Beatles every night.
'They have a better offer,' Brian said, appearing quite calm about it. 'And they're complaining no one is listening to them when they sing. I must admit, it would be quite demoralising.'
No one really listened when the Beatles played either, but Della didn't point that out.
'Who will we replace them with?'
'Oh, I don't know. I'm sure you'll find someone.'
'Me?'
Brian raised an eyebrow at her. 'They've agreed to stay until we do find someone suitable, but sooner rather than later, please, Della.'
'Right. Okay. I'll make some phone calls.'
'Thank you.'
'I'm... Um, I'm surprised you want me to, though,' she said, cautiously, testing the water.
'Why?' Brian asked. 'You are my tour secretary.'
'Yes, I know, but... apparently I'm a distracting one.'
'Oh, Della,' Brian said, like she was being tiresome. 'That was just something I said when I was cross with you. You know I didn't mean it.'
Della nodded, although, no, on this occasion, she didn't know that.
'I would still appreciate it if we could have a talk. Tomorrow, perhaps?'
'Of course,' Brian said, but something had already taken Della's attention from him.
A girl ran towards the stage. She wore a dark coloured pencil dress and carried a little black clutch bag, so she looked quite odd when she streaked past them in her high heels. Della looked in the direction she'd come from. Police officers were wrestling with several other girls. One had obviously gotten through.
'That's a fan!' Della said to Brian.
'Good God,' said Brian.
The girl had already reached the side of the stage. John saw her and shock filled his face momentarily, replaced quickly by a mischievous grin. He stepped back to allow her through, and the girl bypassed him making a beeline straight for George.
She grabbed George from behind, as he stood side on to the audience, sharing a microphone with Paul, and wrapped her arms tightly around his waist. George stopped playing immediately, spinning round to face where Della and Brian stood, trying to get out of her bearhug. There was an expression of such pure confusion on his face that it made Della collapse into laughter.
He let the phone ring on and on. Echoing down the transatlantic line, distant and strange sounding, and going on long enough for George to calculate the time difference in his head three times over.
4am. 4 o'clock on Saturday morning in England. She was going to be furious with him for waking her.
If he woke her, that is. What if she hadn't even come home yet?
He'd called, as arranged, at 3pm that afternoon, 8pm in England, but there was no reply.
He tried again at 4pm, then 4:30, then 5. Nothing. She knew he'd be calling. Where was she?
He tried her flat. He tried her sister's. Finally, he tried the newly installed phone at Kinfauns, on the off chance she might be there. She had a key, but after the fuss she'd made about living so far from London and how she'd be so lonely out there on her own while George was away, he thought it unlikely she'd be there on a Friday night.
No one had answered anyway and George had gone off to catch a helicopter to Forest Hills Stadium with a heaviness that was becoming familiar to him.
The international operator came back on the line. 'There's no response from your party, caller. Would you like to keep trying?'
'Um, just for a minute more, please,' George said.
There was the possibility she'd heard something. Or seen something. He thought they'd patched things up since that row the night before he left for the tour, but with George thousands of miles away, that peace had been fragile. It wouldn't take much to break it.
Perhaps she'd seen a candid photo of George with Jo at the Whisky. He'd scrutinised all the pictures he'd found in the papers and there didn't appear to be any of the two of them together. Nothing incriminating, anyway, but that didn't mean there weren't others that could have been printed in the British press. It didn't mean that Pattie wouldn't be suspicious of even an innocent looking photo.
Or perhaps she'd heard about what happened in Vancouver. He'd spoken to her there, buoyant and glad to hear from her then. He'd been unable to get in contact earlier and just at that moment, Della was found and safe and George was relieved. But he hadn't told Pattie why he was there. She didn't ask, she'd expected him to be staying in Vancouver, so George didn't volunteer the story. He didn't think Pattie would like it.
Abruptly, the phone clicked and the ringing ended.
Nothing happened. Had the operator cut him off?
'Pattie?' he said, hesitantly.
'Goodness, George, do you know what time it is?'
'Why didn't you say anything?'
'It's the middle of the night. I didn't know who was ringing. You could have been one of those... heavy breathers.'
He laughed, but she didn't join in. She sounded tired, like he'd woken her up. He was more grateful than he thought he'd be.
'Yeah, I'm sorry. I tried earlier, but there was no answer.'
'When?'
'What?'
'When did you call? I was here all afternoon.'
'Oh. Um, about... It would have been about eight there, I suppose...'
'Well, I'd gone out by then,' she snapped. 'It's Friday night. I told you I wasn't going to be sitting by the phone while you were away.'
There was a vitriolic tone creeping into her voice. Was she trying to provoke an argument? Trying to make him jealous and make him accuse her of things again? Indignation bubbled up into his throat but he forced himself to swallow it and give her the benefit of the doubt. She was probably just annoyed because he had woken her in the small hours.
'Where did you go?'
'Just around Soho. We ended up in the Ad Lib again.'
'Who's we?' He couldn't help himself.
'Me and some friends.'
'Oh. What friends?'
'I don't think you know them. There was a group of us. They're just my friends.'
'Male friends?'
'Male and female.'
He bit his tongue again. The irony hadn't escaped him. He knew he was being a hypocrite, quizzing Pattie on where she'd been and who she'd been with, while all the time he was crossing his fingers that she wouldn't do the same to him.
But it wasn't the same thing. Pattie was going out with men in London while George was on tour. George just saw the odd girl on tour. And tours were just tours. You didn't take it home with you. Whatever happened while you were away was meaningless. Pattie was his girlfriend. Girls on tour were just girls, sex was just sex and Jo... Jo was just Jo.
'Well, okay,' George said, dully and sniffed. 'I'll let you get back to sleep.'
'No, it's alright. I'm awake now, we can talk for a bit,' she said, surprising him. 'Umm... How was the show?'
'Chaotic,' he said. 'A girl managed to get onto the stage with us.'
'Oh my! How did she do that?'
'I don't know. Slipped past, somehow.'
'I bet she thought all her Christmases had come at once.'
He laughed, but he hadn't found it so funny at the time. He hadn't seen the girl coming. When she'd put her arms around him from behind, he'd yelped, not knowing what it was. He wasn't going to admit it to anyone, but he had panicked for a moment. He didn't understand what was happening until he turned around and saw Della wetting herself with laughter at the side of the stage.
'Where are you tomorrow?'
'New York again. We've got two shows here then we're going onto New Jersey.'
'You're always travelling on.'
'I know.'
'I miss you, George.'
He smiled. 'Do you?' he said, just to hear her say it again. How funny. She was pissed off with him a minute ago, now she was telling him she missed him.
'Still, you'll be back soon.'
'I miss you too.'
'I think I had better go back to sleep. I have a photoshoot tomorrow and I don't want puffy eyes. Call me again tomorrow. Afternoon, this time, George. Goodnight.'
'Oh, okay, good-' George started but she'd already rung off. 'Night,' he finished to the dead line.
George straightened and reknotted his tie, before pulling the stupid thing out from his collar and discarding it on the bed. He felt nervous again. A different sort of nerves from the ones he got from flying, more pleasurable in a way, but also more intense.
He'd met a few people on this tour. Edward G Robinson and Burt Lancaster had been a gas. Jayne Mansfield had been entirely unlike anything he expected. But he'd taken all it in his stride. After all, they were meeting them, really. They'd come to meet the Beatles.
But this one was different. This one felt more important.
George returned to the suite's dining room where they waiters were still clearing plates and glasses from the large oblong table, and the other Beatles, Mal, Neil, Brian and Al Aronowitz who was one of the journalists travelling with them, were standing in a circle, having a stilted conversation with Bob Dylan.
Bob fucking Dylan.
All George had done at the start of the year was play Freewheelin'. He'd took it to Paris with them and played it over and over. He'd bought Della a copy after they'd made up in February, insisting she play it whenever he went over to her flat and badgering her into saying she loved it too. He'd even considered sending a copy to his mum and dad, but it probably wasn't quite their thing.
And now here he was, in a brown suede jacket and turtleneck jersey, standing in their hotel suite with them. Bob Dylan. This could only be second to meeting Elvis.
'Get through to England okay?' Paul asked, as George joined the circle.
George nodded and lit a cigarette. He offered Paul one and he took it, then Bob. Bob looked at it like he didn't know what it was and shook his head.
'Would you like a drink?' Brian offered.
Bob smiled. 'Got any cheap wine?'
Whether that was a joke or not, Brian looked flustered. 'We only have champagne, but, uhh... Mal? You could go out and get some, uh, suitable wine for us, couldn't you?'
'Sure,' Mal said, already stepping away. 'If that's what you want.'
'Your man's handing round the uppers,' Bob said to George, and jerked his head towards John. 'You were on the phone.'
John, on the other side of Bob, stepped forward with his little Altoids mints tin, which he now employed as a pill box. Small, blue triangular shaped pills were inside, folded within the still present Altoids wrapper paper. Purple hearts. The last thing George needed, while he was feeling like this. John munched his way through them as if they were peppermints but one of those would keep George awake for hours.
'No, ta,' he said to John. 'Not right now.'
George looked around. Next door in the hospitality suite there would be tons of press, photographers, the usual hangers-on, all queuing up for an audience with them. Dull and boring. There might be more girls with them, sent by Capitol Records perhaps, who'd kept them well stocked with women while they stayed at the Bel Air house, but even that was starting to get mundane.
Across the room he found Della loitering by the door, probably waiting to show some of the visitors in. She sipped from a wine glass while she talked to their American lawyer, Nat Weiss. She'd changed into a red sleeveless pencil dress he'd not seen her in before, with six fabric covered buttons in two rows down the front and a tie belt around the waist. She wore her hair loose tonight too, instead of having it pinned up like she usually did. She somehow looked more Della like that.
Sometimes, he couldn't help but think it would all be so much better if it'd happened with Della. He knew it couldn't, and it was dangerous to look at her like he was doing now; eyes skimming her legs looking shapely under her skirt, her breasts being hugged by that dipped neckline, but he couldn't help it every now and then. It was easier since he'd met Pattie. That had helped him get things into perspective. More than anything, he wanted to preserve their friendship now, after nearly losing it entirely when she broke up with Paul. And apparently, that was something George had to fight for, in more ways than one.
'You seem tense, man,' Dylan said, interrupting his thoughts. He stepped around Paul so he could stand shoulder to shoulder with George. 'That's not good for you, you know.'
'Just, uh... tired,' George said.
'Perhaps we could have something a bit more relaxing, then. Perhaps something organic?' Bob said and looked behind him. 'Al? You got the stuff?'
'Organic?' Ringo asked.
'Yeah. You know. Grass.'
'Oh,' Ringo said, looking around the others. 'Right.'
Bob looked at him, squinting his eyes slightly. 'What is it, man?'
Brian coughed and cleared his throat. 'We don't normally smoke marijuana,' he explained for them, glancing around. 'Well, I don't think we... ever have.'
Bob laughed loudly, but stopped when he realised the others weren't joining in. 'But... You have that song about getting high,' he said, seemingly mystified. No one spoke, so he sang, 'And when I touch you, da-da-da, I get high, I get high...'
'Um, that's not the words,' John said, strained. Even behind his dark glasses, George could see the embarrassment on his face. 'It's actually, I can't hide, I can't hide...' He spoke the lyrics. They seemed lame suddenly. The Beatles, everything they were, suddenly felt lame. Yesterday, they'd conquered the world, and now in the space of a few seconds it all felt childish, puerile, pointless.
'Well,' Bob said, graciously. 'It's about time you learned to fly.'
Al Aronowitz, their mutual friend who'd brought Bob Dylan to meet them, produced a small plastic bag with what looked like oregano in it. He and Bob had a short discussion over who was going to roll the joint, neither of them wanting the task, but eventually Bob retired to the dinner table to do it.
Mal hadn't returned with the cheap wine yet, but enough of the champagne had been swallowed to mean Bob had a hard time keeping the exotic cigarette he was making nice and neat. The contents of the little bag of "oregano" were spilled over the table cloth and somehow in the fruit bowl, which a waiter helpfully cleared away.
Bob eyed him, cautiously. 'There's a lot of cops out there,' he said, indicating to the hospitality suite and the people inside who were getting more rowdy by the minute. 'Maybe there's somewhere more private we could go?'
'The bedroom?' George suggested, looking at Paul, his current roommate. 'It's on the other side of the hotel. You can't hear a thing in there.'
En masse, and not looking shifty in the least, they left the suite lounge for the bedroom, going out of the side door into the long corridor to avoid their other guests.
'George!' Della called him back from the door of the dining room.
George paused, letting the other walk on, and waited for her to catch up to him.
'Where are you all going? There's people waiting to meet you.'
George glanced at the group moving further away, down the corridor. 'I don't think we'll be talking to anyone tonight, Del. We're gonna have a... private party.'
She widened her eyes at him. 'You can't do that. What are we supposed to tell everyone? They've been waiting for more than an hour. Derek's in there now, trying to beat them all back with a stick!'
'Well, you don't have to tell them anything,' George said. 'Come with us instead.'
Della looked down the corridor, but everyone else had rounded the corner now and disappeared. 'Why? Where are you going?'
'Just to the bedroom. Bob Dylan's here. Don't you want to meet him?'
'You're all going into the bedroom with Bob Dylan? What for?'
George raised his eyebrows. 'Come' ed and find out.'
That was supposed to make her laugh, but Della hesitated, unsure. George slipped his hand into hers. 'It's alright. Bob's got some grass. We're going to smoke it with him. That's all.'
'Grass?'
'Yeah, weed. Pot. Marijuana,' George said, like he knew what he was talking about. 'Come and sample it with us.'
'I'm working.'
George laughed. 'Brian's there, too.'
She sighed and shook her head. 'No, I can't leave Derek on his own. It wouldn't be fair.'
She's scared, George thought. That wasn't like Della. If anything, she'd always been the adventurous one of the pair of them. 'After, then,' he said, kindly. 'Once you've sent everyone home, come and find us then.'
'Yeah,' Della said, with a faint smile. 'Alright. After.'
George watched as she walked away from him, not moving until she'd slipped back into the main room and gone from view. Della did look good in that dress.
In case anyone would like to see the "pictures of George being jostled and shoved, head first, arse in the air, over the crowds," in the Whisky a Go-Go, here they are: