Chapter 26
October 13, 1961
"Your hair's gone funny," I said, squinting at John. I sat cross-legged on my bed, and he stood near the door, leaning his shoulder against the wooden frame. "You and Paul both."
They'd only just returned from their trip, both of them coming to the McCartney home with their bowler hats still on their heads, looking refreshed and gleeful. But the moment the hats were removed, it was clear the lads had up and changed their hairstyle while on holiday.
"Met up with Jürgen Vollmer in Paris," John said with a shrug.
My eyes popped up. "Paris? Jürgen? The fuck you goin' on about... weren't you meant to be in Spain?"
John's lips pulled into a glorious smile, the one I loved so much. "We were a bit knackered, so we checked into a hotel for a night in Paris. Thought we'd go off hitching the next morning, but it was too nice having a bed after that shite travel." He took a step into my room, hesitating a bit. "And Spain was so far away, and gettin' there was gonna be bloody exhausting. So we stayed in Paris."
"Ah, la Ville Lumière. Très bien." I grinned at him as I leaned my back against the wall. "What's Jürgen doin' in Paris?" The last time I'd seen Jürgen Vollmer, John was punching him in the face back in Hamburg. I was glad their last encounter hadn't ruined their friendship.
"Studying photography or some shite."
"And what's Jürgen have to do with this hair you've come back with? You look so different I can hardly recognize you."
In fact, John looked a bit like Jürgen Vollmer, with his new flattened-down hairstyle with a fringe in the front. I bit the inside of my cheek as my body flooded with warmth. Time away from John, it seemed, had done nothing to get rid of my body's damned reaction to him.
"Dunno. We got to talkin' one night, and we went over to his place. Right then and there, he hacked our hair to look like his." He dropped down on the bed. "Paul's idea, I think."
"I'm sure," I said, smirking.
"We tried to change it back, but it just keeps flopping forward." He pushed himself back until he sat next to me, his thigh almost touching mine. "Easy though...wash it, towel it, giz it a shake, and that's it."
I gazed at his leg, my fingers itching to reach out and touch him, to feel him. I bit my cheek again to try to focus on anything other than John.
"If I remember correctly, you lot gave Stu a great deal of shite for cutting his hair just like this."
"Should get yer head checked, I don't remember it like that." A cheeky grin grew on John's face as he looked at me. "You like it?"
I almost gushed about how proper dishy he looked, about how I wanted to run my fingers through his hair, but I stopped myself. The inside of my cheek was getting raw from chewing on it to keep from telling him my every thought.
"Suits you," I said, tearing my eyes from his gaze. "Have a good birthday, then? I'm surprised you haven't come back with grey hair."
He nudged his shoulder against mine before reaching for a few pieces of my hair. "Grey hair? You mean like these right here?"
"Sod off, John," I grumbled. I pulled my hair from his grabby hands. "It was decent, though, your holiday?"
"Brilliant. Macca even bought me a hamburger to celebrate." He turned his head and looked directly into my eyes, his expression suddenly serious. "You see 'im, then? Yer dad?"
I pushed out a long breath and nodded. "I did."
'You did?" His brow wrinkled as he looked at me, barely blinking. His hand found my hand, and he threaded his fingers with mine. I almost pulled my hand away. Almost.
"Didn't go alone. Paul's arl fella came with me." I dropped my eyes to the blanket, finding something other than his eyes to look at. "It was fine."
John tightened his hold on my hand. "Fine? Hell Liv, you've gotta give me more than that."
I rested my head against the wall. "I said what I needed to say to 'im."
"That's all you've got to say 'bout it?"
"Don't really wanna talk about it. Not now, all right?" I pushed out a long, shaky breath. "Just one of those things I had to do, and now I'd rather not think on it much."
John's eyes scanned my body like he'd done after I told him about my father's abuse so many months before...like he was worried my father had hit me again.
"You all right, Livvy?" he asked, his voice low, his neck tight. "He didn't touch ye, did he? Cause I'll—"
"Murder 'im?" I asked, my brow raised. "You've said."
"I'm not joking, did he put his hands on you or not?"
"Course not." I shook my head and closed my eyes. "He didn't look good." I remembered how difficult it had been for him to stand, how his hair had seemed thinner, how he'd said they hadn't caught the cancer early.
"You feel better 'bout it, then, at least?"
I nodded and closed my fingers around his. His thumb moved against my skin, and I moved in closer to his comforting touch. I rested my shoulder against his, allowing myself a moment to break all the rules and enjoy the feel of John against me.
We fell into a calm silence for a minute before John sucked in a breath. "Listen, Livvy. I've been thinkin' 'bout you," he said. "Think we should talk."
I didn't open my eyes. "Are you still with her, John?"
He hesitated before mumbling, "Yeah."
"Then there's really nothing to talk about, is there?"
I unthreaded my hand from his and scooted away from him. I needed to somehow get over him, if that was even bloody possible.
November 9, 1961
I stood, my back pressed against the moist brick wall in the auditorium of the Cavern Club, as the boys played their lunchtime set. The horrid smell invaded my nose, but I couldn't seem to care. It was meant to be a day like any other. And then suddenly it wasn't. My body was a bit numb as the world went on around me, but I wasn't moving. I barely existed, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
There were no tears in my eyes as I stared at John, his legs wide, and an easy smile on his lips as he played one of his favorite songs. A cig dangled from George's lips as he strummed his guitar. His hair had also gone through the same transformation as John and Paul, pushed over his forehead and looking much tamer than it once had. Pete was now the only one in the band without the same haircut, his hair a bit too curly to be flat with a fringe in the front.
Two men standing near the snack bar stood out among the birds who had come to hear the boys play. One I recognized immediately as Brian Epstein, the owner of the NEMS music store. The lads were regular customers, and I'd been there many times.
Brian Epstein stood out by a fuckin' mile in the Cavern Club. He was a well-dressed lad, with a fitted dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and a perfectly tied polka-dotted tie. His hair was cut short, with a bit of a wave to it, and he brushed it to the side. He stood tall as he watched the boys perform. His eyes were wide as he took them in, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.
Next to him stood a man I didn't recognize. He also wore a suit, though he looked a bit less put together. Large glasses framed his face as he watched... but he didn't look nearly as entertained as Mr. Epstein.
Brian Epstein and his friend were undoubtedly at the show for a reason, though I couldn't imagine what it was.
Looking at the duo was a welcome distraction from the overwhelming thoughts brewing in my mind. Nothing about what happened should've been a surprise, but I still couldn't seem to wrap my head around it. I could barely even hear the music as the boys entertained the crowd, my thoughts too loud and too persistent to acknowledge anything around me.
It was only when the crowd dispersed that I realized the show was over. And I was still standing with my back against the brick and my hand pressed against my forehead, trying to decide what I felt. But it was hard to put it into words...grief, relief, guilt, loneliness, indifference? Every thought, every emotion I felt, conflicted with the other. What was I even supposed to do? What was life going to look like?
Mr. Epstein and his associate watched as Neil Aspinall broke down the equipment. Neil, an old friend of the boys and a good friend of Pete's, was now their part-time road manager and driver. The band used to take public transit to travel to their various bookings, but now that they were playing at two or three different locations every day, they needed their own transportation.
I pushed myself from the wall, finally finding a bit of energy to move, and I raised my hand to wave at Neil as he worked. Neil grinned and waved back at me before continuing to focus on the task at hand.
Brian Epstein, with the other man shuffling close behind him, made his way backstage. I narrowed my eyes as I walked a few paces behind the two men...because it was time to tell John what had happened. I was hoping he'd be able to tell me what in the bloody hell I was supposed to feel.
I followed the duo all the way to the door of the dressing room, keeping a bit of distance between us. What in the world was the owner of NEMS doing backstage after a lunchtime Beatles performance? Brian lifted his hand, stood a bit straighter, and then knocked.
George opened the door, letting it swing wide and keeping it open. His eyes broadened in recognition. "And what brings Mr. Epstein here?"
Brian's lips pulled into a controlled smile. "We just popped in to say hello." He took a step into the dressing room, which was about the size of a broom cupboard, and took a quick look around.
I stopped at the wall opposite the door and leaned against it, not wanting to interrupt whatever was happening. All of the boys popped up from their seats. Their foreheads were covered in sweat, and half-smoked cigs dangled from their lips as they stared at Mr. Epstein.
"I enjoyed your performance," Brian said as he lingered just a bit inside the doorway. His eyes fell on each Beatle, and he looked at them from head to toe.
"Cheers," said Paul, a slight wrinkle in his brow.
Brian smiled and motioned toward his friend. "And this is Mr. Alistair Taylor, my assistant."
Mr. Taylor merely nodded, not looking as enthralled as Brian, before speaking. "Well done, then. Goodbye."
Mr. Taylor abruptly turned on his heels and left, his eyes flicking to me before he walked down the hallway. Brian smiled one more time before following his assistant down the dank and narrow hall. And just like that, they were gone.
"What in the bloody hell was tha?" George asked as he peeked his head out of the dressing room, barely catching a last glimpse at the two men in suits. His eyes turned and met mine, his brow raising. "Oh, Liv. Didn't know ye'were comin'. Thoughtcha had work."
I gnawed at my lip and tried desperately to smile. "Somethin' came up. Sorry to be a bother."
He tipped his head to the side. "Not a bother." He took a careful step toward me. "Aye, Liv, you all right? Lookin' a bit pale."
"Can I...." God, I couldn't even ruddy talk. I pulled in a breath and tried to ignore the lightheadedness that was slowly taking over. "John here?"
"Course he is, where else would he be?" George said as he took another step toward me, his eyebrows drawing together. "Oi, John, Liv's here," he hollered, but he kept looking at me. He reached out and held onto my shoulder.
My knees suddenly felt weak, and I almost slid down the wall to the floor, but John appeared before I had the chance to collapse. He stepped out of the dressing room, his eyes meeting mine.
"What did Mr. Epstein want with you lot?" I asked, gripping onto the only normal topic of conversation I could think of, not sure if I was ready to utter the words that would force me to acknowledge that everything was real.
"Fuck if I know," John said, as he rubbed at the back of his neck. He looked between George and me, his eyes glancing at George's grip on my shoulder.
"He looked rather pleased watching you," I said, my gaze falling to the floor, my mind numb. Tears welled in my eyes, and I bit them back. I didn't want to cry. My knees felt weak again, and I leaned into George's hold on me. "Hope they didn't leave 'cause I was here."
"Didn't even know you were here, I'd bet," George said, his tone gentle. He knew something wasn't right, and he tightened his solid hold on my shoulder. I was very sure George's hand was the only reason I was still standing.
"Livvy." John reached for me, wrapping his hand around mine. "Ye look like shite."
Normally I would've bitten out some sarcastic response, but I didn't have it in me. I stepped toward John, practically falling into his arms. I pressed my forehead against his chest as I tried to breathe through the unrelenting tightness in my chest. I was finally where I needed to be...with John.
He was stiff for a moment, as if trying to figure out what in the hell was going on. But soon one of his long arms wrapped around me, pulling me tight against him, as the other came to the back on my neck. His thumb rubbed at the nape of my neck, soothing me. He enveloped me in his embrace as I breathed into his chest, soaking up the feeling of being in his arms. It helped ground me, like I was a part of the world again rather than having it move on without me.
"The fuck happened, Liv? You all right?" he murmured into my ear.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. I couldn't say it yet, my mouth refused to form the words. So I stayed silent and shook ever so slightly in John's secure hold.
"Christ, you're scaring me. Just tell me you're okay." His voice was louder this time, filled with worry.
Was I okay? I wasn't really sure.
"My dad...he died this morning," I whispered, not even sure if I was loud enough for him to hear me, but at least I'd bloody said it. Tears still didn't fall from my eyes, despite the wetness welling in them. But maybe I wasn't meant to cry...was I even supposed to be sad?
John's hold on me tightened as he swore under his breath, and George's hand was on my back. I slipped my arms around John's torso, under his leather jacket, and gripped onto him. His shirt was a bit damp with sweat, and he smelled of smoke.
"I don't know what to do." I pushed my head harder against John's chest, needing to feel him. "I don't know how to feel." My voice quaked, and it got louder the more I spoke. "I don't know, John. I don't know."
"Sshh, Livvy." His heart pounded in his chest as his thumb continued to massage my neck. "It's okay, love. You're okay."
"I shouldn't be sad." I pinched my eyes closed. Everything I'd kept inside for hours rose to surface. "H-he did awful things. I should be happy he's gone, but I don't think I am, not happy at least. But sometimes I feel relieved, and I feel like a monster for feeling that way." A chill shivered down my spine despite the Cavern Club's sweltering temperature. "Am I a bloody awful person, John?"
"Course not, Livvy," he said, but I barely heard him. "Don't be daft."
I shuddered against him. "I've only just turned nineteen and now I'm alone in this world. No parents. Nothing."
"You're not alone, got it?" John said, his hold on me tightening even more. It was almost hard to breathe. Another hand was on my back, probably Paul's. "You've got me, you've got us. And we have you."
"What do I do?" I picked my head up from his chest and looked at him, my entire body trembling. "I feel so many things, and I hate half of what I'm feeling. What am I supposed to feel?"
"Sshh, I've got you. Just breathe." His eyes were narrow, and his brow furrowed.
I needed to know what to feel...why wouldn't he just answer the bleeding question?
"I'm gonna get ye back to Paul's, all right? We'll figure everything out there." He moved me in his embrace, wrapping his arm around my waist, holding me securely against him. "Grab Nell, wouldya?" John spoke over his shoulder. "We need to go. Now."