My head was still spinning from Anna's announcement as I, Anna, and Bert Kaempfert walked across a large gray expanse to the entrance of the Friedrich-Ebert-Halle school. "Are you okay?" Anna whispered, her hand touching mine. "I didn't mean to upset you right before a recording. Stupid of me."
"Don't worry about it," I managed, my head still in a whirl, feeling her warm touch. What would happen to George?
Bert pulled open the main door and we walked down the hallway of the school, where another door was opened to a large darkened auditorium, the lights shining on the stage. Below, I could see the boys on stage with their instruments and Tony Sheridan, a man with a thin face and an Elvis-styled quiff standing in front of them. He waved at me as I walked inside. "Good to see you, Cora." I nodded and gave him a smile while collapsing into John's arms, hugging him tightly as he ran off the stage to greet me. "How are you feeling, love?" he asked me, taking the bass off my back.
"You look tired," I told him in response.
"Long night," he said and gave me a thin smile, but his eyes were lovely and warm. "Come on love. Let's go." We both walked back towards the stage; Anna lingered behind and chose to take a seat in the back in one of the red velvety cushions. I knew she would be mulling over what to say.
"G'head, set Cora up," John tossed to the band as his hands rummaged in his pockets for his usual brown helper pill to combat the bags under his eyes. I took them from him, taking two at once and handing the pills to George. He silently traded them for a cable without his usual jokes and I plugged in the cable and turned on my amp, plucking at the strings until they sounded tuned.
"Ready to take it from the top?" Sheridan asked when I was finished, giving me a slight smile. I nodded back at him and one of the sound recording blokes to the side gave us a thumbs up. Sheridan began his low croon to the start of the familiar song and I gazed into the audience, rows and rows of empty seats save Anna.
"Cora?"
The music had stopped. I glanced round. "What?"
"You didn't come in," George said like he was talking to a small child.
"I'm sorry, I must have been thinking about something else," I said, my cheeks burning, my heart beating faster from embarrassment. "Let's try again."
The second time I wasn't paying attention either; I noticed only when I saw Sheridan throw up his hands and turn around to face me. "You know, Cora, you're great. I heard you in the Top Ten, My Bonnie, Saints, Bony Moronie, whatever. What's the deal? Is it the stage? Is it that there's no audience?"
"Lay off," John suddenly snapped, turning around at Sheridan.
"Please," I cut in. "I just need a few minutes... just five minutes. And then I'll be ready, I promise." The bloke below nodded and said, "Take five," and I pulled the bass strap over my head and set it down gently, feeling irritated with myself for not being able to keep up. I was the only girl.
John kept his hand round my shoulders as we left to enter a back room with a wooden chair and a table. I flopped down on the chair with put my head in my hands, thoughts racing through my brain. After a while I peeked out and said, "I'm sorry. This is so frustrating."
"Love, you've got nothing to be sorry for," John said, sitting on the coffee table and looking at me intently, taking my hands in his. "It happens all the time, and you've had a rough night. But listen." His voice got quieter. "This could be our break. We get to record a song. It's shite that we just to backups but the rest, it's really quite extraordinary."
I smiled back at him. He really believed it, and it would, this was the song that would get Epstein's attention, would bring them to fame. And then I doubled over, suddenly hugging my stomach. Would I impact the set? Would I impact the future? I probably already had. I looked up sharply to see John back against the wall away from me. "Are you okay?" he asked, a note of panic in his voice.
"Yes," I said, the nausea gone with the shock of his reaction. "Yes."
"Okay." He stepped forwards and gave me a quick kiss on my forehead, his hands grabbing mine to reassure me again. "D'ya need some time alone to think? I find it always helps me."
"That would be great," I told him. "See ye outside, take yer time," he responded and silently closed the door behind him.
"Well, well, well, what a ruckus, what drama!" came a New York accent from next to me. I turned round on him.
"Michael, help." Hell, Michael and his neon blue pink jacket, his chiseled face and blonde hair with an amused smile on his face. "I don't know what to do," I continued, running my hands through my hair, my facial expression all worked up.
"Hey, hey, hey," he said, sounding like he was chewing on the word. "It's all gonna be all right. You're here for a reason, aren't you?"
"If I'm here, John won't die," I repeated his words back to him that he told me so long ago. "Correct. Darling, hey, look at this," Michael said, snapping his fingers. A mirage-like rectangle appeared before me. "December 8th, 1980." I closed my eyes, seeing blurry footage of the scene of the crime. The movie changed and I saw hundreds of people standing in front of the Dakota, just singing and singing.
"Stop," I whispered the command. The noise disappeared and I opened my eyes. Michael was staring down at me, looking somewhat sorry. I took my gaze off of him, his bright self, and around the empty back stage. Cream colored walls, a wooden floor, the two pieces of furniture. I nodded at Michael's bright form and left the room.
***
"Brilliant, Cora!"
I smiled up at Sheridan. He had a smile on his face. "That last bass lick—fantastic." He closed his eyes and basked in the lingering mood of our performance. "You know, I'm glad we took five. Everything sounds so much better now." I gave my A string a few plucks and said modestly, "Well, it's really all you, Tony."
"Saints" was just as good. We went through the rousing song a couple of times. Paul was grinning, which seemed to set George off. He threw in a couple of complicated sounding licks at her and I too glanced towards the back. She was a small dot with a red spot, still wondering what to say.
"Wonderful, boys—and Cora," Bert said. "We'll take it from here for now."
"Will it be on vinyl?" John asked, swinging himself up so that he sat on the edge of the stage.
"We don't know yet, but we'll certainly try. That's the goal, innit?" Bert smiled, adjusting his tie. I carefully zipped up my bass in its case and sat next to John, quietly putting my head in the crook of his neck, swinging my feet against the side of the stage. "Thanks for the pep talk, love, it really helped me."
"Everyone needs a bit of pep in their life," he told me, giving me a soft kiss. The rest of the band stood around chatting. I saw the pills being passed round again and against my better judgement shrugged when the packet was handed to me and took two more. Twenty four hours of no sleep? No bother. Why bother when the pills could create such a magical amount of energy?
Paul hopped down from the stage and joined me and John. "Nice job," he directed at me, giving me a soft unexpected smile. Macca. I remembered the very first day I met him—he was right pissed, wearing a black shirt, black jeans, and an Elvis quiff. Now his—their look had changed—leather, all around leather: leather pants, leather jacket, hair now slicked down across the forehead, a smile. Oh, how I had fought against and for gaining Paul's approval, and now here we were. A sudden grin broke out on my face as I gave Paul a gentle shove. "Nice job, Macca, back at you." John's grip on my hand tightened, but my attention was caught between two figures near the back of the room: George and Anna.
"Oh, shit," I murmured.
"What is it?" John asked, his eyebrows furrowing along with his questioning glance.
"George."
"He's with his bird, are they arguing?" Paul asked, turning his body so he too was facing them.
"They're breaking up," slipped out of my mouth. "Shit... I probably shouldn't have told you that."
"They're—what the fuck?" from John.
"Mila is very ill," I tried to explain. "Not from the car accident—the doctors found other things wrong with her while they were checking for injuries after the accident. She needs to go recuperate somewhere else, the doctors suggested France. You all didn't hear this from me—"
"You're all free to go," Kaempfert said suddenly, blissfully unaware of the drama surrounding. "Go out for lunch, come back at three. Here—I'll pop for sandwiches."
"Let's go," Sheridan said, taking the money with a grin. I took another glance back at George and Anna. They were hugging and then she was gone. George lingered for a few seconds, and then walked back down the aisle towards us, without a hint of what had just happened.
"Mate, is everything okay?"
He struggled with his facial expression. "Fine. Listen, Anna and I just broke up. Her mother is ill—"
We listened to his explanation, the third time I had heard it, and gently consoled him, me with quiet words, the boys with their Liverpudlian jokes and jabs. George was the type who when he knew something was set to happen, he let it go, as gracefully as possible. This had to happen. Paths diverged and you had to live with the pain of it. I remembered Pattie Boyd, whom he had loved so much, and her split with him to his best friend Eric Clapton. This thought made me grow somewhat emotional, putting myself in George's shoes, having to let go of someone you loved. I didn't notice John and I were clinging on to each other as George spoke and we all listened. John's fingers round my waist, squeezing so hard I wouldn't have been surprised to find purple bruises there. But I was the same, holding tight to his arm, feeling his fingers.
"C'mon, George," I said at last, my voice choky. "I know what'll make ye feel better." I gestured to Tony, who held up the money and said, "Sandwiches. The lad's favorite."
***
Lunch was strange and diametric in mood, a somber affair with a few splashes of laughter. When his egg sandwich arrived, George picked it up and ate it mechanically while John cracked a few jokes. I kept glancing over at George, replaying the scenario in my mind. Logically it was the best timing you could get for a breakup. We were leaving in eight days and had just recorded a single. On the way down from the high Anna dragged him down as softly as she could, leaving him time to move past it while we made our transition to Liverpool. But it still hurt. Breakups hurt.
I brought my lemonade to my lips and took a deep sip, feeling the sugary liquid slip down my throat with its sour kick. Setting my glass back on the table I asked, "George?"
"What?" he said, but it was resigned and tired, not annoyed, not like it had been for the past few hours.
"No, really, George, are ye okay?" I asked him. "I'm sorry about what I said."
"Why did you say it?" he responded. 'Why did you say we're all cheaters? And then... and then the next thing Anna is breaking up with me. And I didn't bloody cheat."
"It's coincidental, George, I swear," I said, trying to choose my words carefully. "Listen... maybe I was wrong. Maybe what Paul said had some weight. Maybe I am afraid of losing John and I took it out on you."
He looked alarmed at my sudden honesty. "Cora..."
I took a bite of my sandwich to disguise my embarrassment, Paul's accusation hitting a little too close to home. John, Paul, Pete, Bert, and Tony were all having a conversation at the other end of the table. Paul leaned over to try and engage George but he saw us and refrained. I gave him a quiet smile and he returned it. Oh, how good it felt to see McCartney's smile again.
"It's going to be okay, George," I reiterated.
He looked at me directly and said, "I know. It's done and I'm glad it happened." Then he went and ordered two more sandwiches.
It was only later when we were walking back to the Friedrich-Ebert-Halle school that George quietly asked, "Do you believe in fate?"
"Yes," I said firmly. "Listen, you're talking to an alien here."
He chuckled. "Yes. I'm just..." his face contorted with thought. "Thinking if this... I mean, I knew it wasn't meant to be."
"I... I don't think it was. Differences, ye know."
"Then it's fine," he said, and Paul's arm came behind and patted him lightly. We walked in silence for a while. "The end of an era, eh? Hamburg, I mean." I remarked as John took a fag out of his pocket and flicked the lighter, sparking a bright yellow flame.
"It's not over yet," Paul said. "George, ye want a cig?" George hesitated for a moment before briefly nodding. John handed one to him and fumbled round with the lighter, and George yelped as John suddenly brought the flame close to his jacket like he had on New Years Eve.
"Bloody hell, Lennon!" he swore. The yell was loud, unusual for George, and he angrily tossed the cig to the ground. I paused in my tracks and felt Paul's nervous glance, trying to be a diplomat, assessing the situation. George's gaze was on the ground at the tossed cig. He rubbed a hand on his leather jacket, assuring himself it was unharmed. His hand made a fist round the material on his left arm.
"Just fooling around with ye," John said grumpily around his cig, unaware of the warning signs.
"C'mon, let's head back," Paul said, tapping his foot. "We're nearly almost there." His voice faded as there was a silence and then George suddenly swung his fist at John. I let out a yelp, my heart racing. George almost never, ever caused conflict. John was usually the offender. George's face was contorted in pent up frustration, his now eighteen year old face, clad in dark leather.
"Fuckin' Bugger—" John swung back at George. It was like a light had gone off in his eyes, like a bloodhound catching scent of the fresh smell of a fight. My mind shot back to the torn aluminum casing of the pills. Good side, bad side, worse side. Paul turned to me, his hands moving in the air, wanting to do something. "Cora!"
"John. John! Step back!"
He moved backwards, his heels digging into the sidewalk, crazy light in his brown eyes, waiting for another opportunity to smash his fist into something and I saw my chance. A stupid move, an utterly daft move, but I jumped in between them before John started to bring his fist towards George and stopped with an obvious effort, panting and looking at his hand like it was a foreign object.
"What the hell, Cora? Ye could've died! I could've hit ye!" He suddenly slumped over on the ground with his head in his hands, his voice shaking. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Cora, I'm sorry George... please..." I caught a glimpse of his expression, panic in his eyes at what he had almost done, overpowering the preludin. I avoided Paul's eyes, remembering when he had saved me by the docks. Ye could've died.
"John," I said, but George had beat me to it. He sat down next to John and looked at him with an intensity only George could produce. "Yer fine, mate. Sorry for jumping on ye like that."
Paul, Pete, Tony, and I stood and watched them for a while, George murmuring something. John looked up at me and held his hand out. I took it and firmly pulled him up and into a hug. "I'm sorry," he said.
"I jumped in front of you," I responded softly. "Bloody daft of me. Come on. Let's go back." I took his hand and he stood tall over me, his facial expression set in protecting me, but I could see I wasn't the one that needed protecting.