“Please fasten your seat belts and make sure all seats and trays are in the upright position for take off.”

It was May 17, 1964 and I was sitting there totally on my own for the first time in my life.  First class was practically empty.  I’d never flown, nor had I ever been anywhere outside New York, except to my cousin's house in New Jersey and out to Coney Island in summers.  What was going to happen in about six hours was more than a little hard to fathom.  Yet there I was, about to cross the Atlantic to be met at London's Heathrow Airport by The Beatles.  Maybe.  Ritchie had not been too clear on that.

It would sound comical if it were not the truth.  His last phone call was rushed as he caught a few minutes between taping overdubs for their film. I was so proud that they had used the title that he came up with, and that John wrote a song around it. 

All he managed to say was, “We'll pick you up at the airport, your ticket will arrive special delivery and Brian took care of everything.”  My ticket arrived the next afternoon.  My passport was ready.  But I was definitely not.  Panic set in, coupled with ecstatic anticipation.  What if they hated me? 

That call was three days before, but the past months had been a whirlwind and a blur; excitement and joy the like of which I had never known.  Things seemed to happen very quickly in Beatleland…

***

My first glimpse of them was a news clip I saw on T.V. the previous fall, when they arrived at Heathrow from Sweden.  The news people were calling their wild reception Beatlemania, and saying that these boys from Liverpool were going to be the next Elvis.  Watching them wave at the crowd, I literally found myself dumbstruck by their incredible good looks, their walk, that hair.  For me, the sexual excitement was already palpable.  My mouth was agape, as I had never seen anything like them.  And all this without hearing them sing a single note!

Before long, I started hearing their records being played sporadically on the radio.  Magic.  I did not yet know whose voice belonged to whom, but the sound was totally new and fresh, and their lyrics were full of exciting innuendo.  No need to go too far to get the

drift of what they meant by “Please Please Me.”

My friends and I got every fan magazine we could get our hands on, ooohed and aahed over who was cutest, and devoured every bio and piece of information we could ingest.  It was intriguing to learn that they composed their own songs, yet that they could not read or write music. 

Of course, Paul was definitely most handsome and the favorite of most of the girls.  George seemed to come in second in the cute department, but everyone agreed that

Ringo was adorable, and he seemed to be picked most often as everyone's second favorite. John was a little intimidating in those early days; seemed a little too much man for us mere girls to handle, but his looks appealed to me in a most disconcerting way.  I did not yet know that the voice that sent shivers down my spine to places unmentionable belonged to him.

But Ringo was my favorite by a mile.  Any interview I saw or read, he always made me laugh.  The first time I saw a full color photo of him I got lost in those huge blue puppy-dog eyes.  I was a goner.  Mr. Starkey definitely belonged to me, sweet and unpretentious.

Ed Sullivan three Sundays in a row!  What could I say?  Seeing them live and in action for the first time stopped my life's breath and bored its' way into my soul for what I knew would be forever.  This quad-headed creature had four very separate and distinct personalities, which shone through, but they all seemed to be plugged into the same joke.  I saw it all that first night, an aura you could almost reach out and touch. 

I was so charged I could hardly keep still, and I could talk of nothing else at school the next day.  The shocking revelation was that so many of my friends were equally obsessed.  Even some of the more enlightened boys thought they were cool.  A couple of them said they were going to grow their hair long.  It somehow felt that the whole world was going to change.

Some of the girls had written gushy fan letters to their favorite Beatle, but I said they were out of their minds.  These guys hadn't the time or inclination to read fan mail.  They got thousands of letters.  But I was so restless to do something, to make some sort of contact.  It was all so frustrating, like being in an emotional straitjacket.

I sat down one night with pen in hand and committed my heart to paper, which started out in a very wiseacre sort of way.  The greeting read:

“To whomever is reading this instead of the intended addressee:
 Do you always open and read mail addressed to others?  Are you
 Richard Starkey?  I think not, but since you are reading this 
 anyway, please take pity on me…”

I proceeded to pour out my heart, mixed with jokes and silliness that I thought he or the reader might find amusing, and prayed he or she would pass it along.  At the bottom, I drew a little stick figure of a girl in skirt on bended knees, praying and saying, “Have a heart.”  Two re-writes later, I stuffed it into an envelope addressed to Mr. Richard Starkey, Esq., c/o NEMS Enterprises.  I even used glitter stars on the envelope (anything to be noticed) and sent it off.

My thought was that at least I tried. Maybe when they came back to New York I’d be able to catch a glimpse, but the very thought of being that close and going unnoticed as part of the crowd depressed me.  No way. I'll stay home, thank you very much, I thought.

Three weeks went by, and I got a letter postmarked London, England with a post box return address -- no name.  Hmmm.  Small envelope.  I'd have thought someone at NEMS would have at least had the decency to send an official 8 x 10 glossy of the boys.  Still, this had arrived pretty quickly, considering.  Hmmm.

With trembling hands, I ever so gently opened it with a kitchen knife, careful not to tear the flap.  Small scratchy handwriting:

“ 19th March, 1964

Dear Lee,

You've touched me heart to the very core and gave me a good larf at the 
same time -- rare qualities in a bird.  Great letter!  Not that we have the time
to read many these days, (truth be told, we never do anymore) but we were
dragged off to Brian's office to sign some damn contracts or other for the 
film we've already begun shooting and one of the office girls said, “Ringo,
read that one on top, you might enjoy it.”  They usually just sort 'em out
and send some phot-ees to the nice ones and drop the sick-ees in the rubbish. 

 I even let the lads read your letter at lunch and they got a big kick out
of you.  I never had a pen pal, but I'm learning to use a pen and some of
down time between setting up the scenes can get boring as all get out. 
If you'd like to keep this up, I'd really enjoy it.  Use the special postal
box number and I will be sure to get it directly.  Please write again.  John
says I'm daft as I can hardly read.  I often room with him on tour and can
kill him when he sleeps.

    Hugs and kisses,
   Ringo”

He even drew his little star under his name.  My heart was racing, but I wasn't quite buying it.  Someone was having me on, laughing their asses off at my expense.  It simply could not really be him.  Still...

I ran the one flight down to my best friend Jane's house and dragged her quickly into her room.

“Read this and tell me what you think,” I said.

As she was reading, I was pacing.  She started doing this mad dance, saying, “Ohmygod,  ohmygod!”

“No, it can't be.  Not really!” I said.

“Why not?” she asked.

“I'm not that lucky.”

“Your ship just came in.”

I sent off a quick note to the post box, saying that if he was some perv getting his jollies at my expense, the enormity of this cruelty would bring the angel of death to pass in front of him and cause him to become mute. (This bit of folklore compliments of my grandmother and an Italian-Catholic upbringing.) 

“But if you’re really HIM, please send some convincing proof,” I wrote.

The next letter was not a letter at all, but an 8 x 10 close-up of the four of them holding up my letters and glitter envelope and making goofball faces.  It was signed:

“Spastics and Mutes on location.  Jock, Geoff, Prig and Bonzo.”

Paul was giving his usual thumbs-up.  I framed it immediately.

And so it began.  My heart rate doubled that day and seemed to stay that way ever after.  I wrote him at least three letters a week, even though he hadn’t the time to write as often.  He asked for my phone number and started calling, but couldn’t seem to keep the time difference straight (“Are we ahead or behind?” he would ask) and once he sounded a little “droonk,” having just gotten back from a club.  The odd hours of the calls made my father nuts.  I didn’t even want to think anymore about the job I had convincing my parents to let me have the trip:

“Of course I’ll be chaperoned.” (God forgive me.)

“I’ll be staying with Mr. Epstein’s secretary.”  (A boldfaced lie.)

“Think of how educational the travel will be for me.”  (Oh, one could only dream.)

Ring would often let his mates add some quips and barbs and sometimes pages to his letters, and it was excitement heaven.  He also started signing them all “Love, Ritchie.”

They sent lots of photos and little gifts, and even wanted a picture of me, which brings me to my guilty secret.

They didn’t exactly know how old I really was.  I alluded to the fact that I was almost finished with school.  What I didn’t add was, “for this year.”  Sixteen and a half (don’t forget the half).  Almost seventeen (not until December).  Isn’t that the age that kids are through with school in England?  It could be college, couldn’t it?  I wasn’t going to think about it anymore.  Was it not a woman’s prerogative not to tell her age?

After six rolls of film, I finally got a decent enough picture to send:  long hair, ironed straight like an English dolly bird (I hate them).  Bangs, teased bump on top, a little eyeliner, mascara…thank God I was well-enough endowed.  Black turtle neck sweater, black slacks.  I’d pass the age test.
Ritchie said I was beautiful and that he was glad I was a brunette.  He was sick of all the washed out blondes he saw in the clubs.

“I’m enclosing a giftie you could wear with that sweater,” he wrote.

Inside a lovely velvet box was a gold heart-shaped locket on a beautiful chain.   I quickly undid the clasp, hoping he’d managed to slip in a tiny picture of himself.  Inside, it was simply engraved, ‘RICHARD.’  I cried my heart out.

Surprisingly, it was John who suggested my coming over.  It started with all the talk of A Hard Day’s Night being wrapped up soon (I was learning all the movie jargon), and wouldn’t I like to come over for the London premiere?  He might as well have asked me if I enjoyed breathing.  I had assumed I wouldn’t get to meet them until they came through New York again in late summer, as we had discussed. 

The premiere was scheduled tentatively for early July.  They’d be gone before then on their World Tour, which was set for June.  They had just bought the entire top floor of a London building, which had once been four apartments that the previous owner had broken through to create one huge one.  It had a wrap-around balcony, and they were calling it “Beatles Central,” a flat where they all could live whenever they were in town.

It had a huge central sunken living room (great for parties, and they’d ordered a grand piano for it), surrounded by a railing and ten other rooms throughout, six destined to be bedrooms, plenty of baths, and the remainder to be made into a large kitchen and “music rooms” for them to work and store their gear.  It all sounded so wonderful. 

The initial plan was that I would go over to London for the premiere and then travel with them on the American tour in August, which would end up in New York, where I could be dropped off.  I immediately applied for my passport and told my father to “sign this for school.”  (He never read anything.)  This was too big to miss.  I would find some way to convince them.

It seemed that some sort of pow-wow had happened in London, because Ritch’s next letter proposed that I come on out sooner and help them set up the flat, and then come on the June tour as well.  Their confinement on tour was a drag and they’d love my company.  It would be a blast.

John chimed in, writing:

“Please come now.  We could use a woman’s touch (tee hee), with the flat, I mean. 
And besides, I’m getting mighty sick of these three never shuttin’ their gobs mornin’,    moan, and knife – if you take my meaning madam.  Besides, I need some fresh blood to tease.  Everyone here has heard all me jokes and ‘ave stopped larfin’.  Please come.

   J.W.L. W/L

P.S.  Bring food.’  

P.P.S.  Don’t bring him anything.  He’s a heifer.  Just bring yourself, luv.  G.H.”

***

My musings were abruptly interrupted.

“We are making our descent into Heathrow…please fasten all seatbelts…trays…

and thank you for flying Pan Am…”

Wha?  Surely we ccouldn’t be there already.  Surely it hadn’t been six hours.  Oh jeez, this was worse than going to the chair.  Bathroom again.  Scared shitless.  Of what, exactly?  Taking deep breaths.   What could possibly happen to me?  You could be rendered mute yourself, you moron.  See what you get?  All tongue-tied and spazzed out, like they teased.  John and Paul rolling on the floor laughing hysterically.  Ritch saying, “Can I get you anything, luv?”  George waving his hand in front of my eyes and shaking his head in dismay…..STOP IT!  Stop doing this to yourself.  Take out your mirror and fix your face and hair.

I gathered up my things, put on my raincoat, thanked the stewardess and made my way down the stairs and across into the terminal on someone else’s legs.  I can do this.

I had to stop and show a man in a cap my passport, and he asked me if I had anything to declare.

“Yes.  You caught me on the happiest day of my life.  You have no idea!”

He smiled, stamped my passport and said, “Welcome to London.” 

I was in London.  How in hell did that happen?

Passing through the gate, my eyes darted around, not knowing what to expect.  What now?  People were waiting for passengers.  I’d been told Paul liked to don disguises. I started looking for someone five-foot-eleven in a hat and false moustache; perhaps a turban.  No.  No one here like that.  Should I pick up my bags and wait outside?  I didn’t know. 

Just then, someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind.  “Lena?”

I turned to face a gentle giant in black horn-rimmed glasses with a huge warm smile.

“Hi.  I’m…”

“Malcolm!  Oh, Mal, they’ve talked about you so much and sent some photos.  I feel as if I know you.”

Impulsively, I hugged him, partly to steady my nerves.  He blushed and hugged back.

So far so good.

“These are your bags, right?  I’ll bring the car ‘round.  It’s startin’ to rain, ‘ya know.”

I smiled.  “What’s London without a little rain?  Perfect!”

Mal picked up the bags and walked me to the door and told me to wait under the shelter while he got the car.  Quickly grabbing his arm and turning him around, I asked, “They’re not…”

He laughed.  “No, they’re not.” 

I narrowed my eyes and looked doubtful.

“Honestly, I swear.  They’re waiting for you at home.  Relax, girl!”

THEY were waiting for ME at HOME.  Home.  I felt the tears stinging behind my eyelids.  Stop!  It would not do to arrive with red eyes.

When Mal came around, he put the bags in the trunk, no, sorry, the boot, and opened the rear door for me with a sweeping gesture.  I went around him and climbed into the front passenger seat.

“Don’t ever do that again,” I said.

Mal assumed a Texas drawl.  “Just bein’ courteous ma’am. Din’ mean no offense.”

“None taken, suh.”  We both burst out laughing and that relieved a little of my anxiety.

“Well, lead me to the slaughter, then,” I sighed.

“Won’t be quite that bad,” he said, as he repressed a smile.

Mal had to be the biggest sweetheart on this earth.  In no time at all he was teasing me and filling my head with stories about their tours and the crazy stunts they pulled just to relieve the boredom and tension…like the time John and Ring shoved a wardrobe in front of the door of their adjoining suite so they wouldn’t be bothered too early.  Well, George was up, and he wasn’t having any of it, so he kept pushing and shoving against the door, ‘til he pushed so hard the wardrobe crashed to the floor, breaking to bits.  As the other two jumped out of their skins, George just stood in the debris, saying, “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine!”

“That is so great!” I said, when I finally stopped laughing. 

Stopped at a traffic signal, Mal was quiet for a while, staring at the windshield wipers.  Then he said softly, “I’m glad you’re here.  They really need you right now.”

“Need me?” I asked, a little incredulously.  “They don’t even know me yet.  Not really.”

“Do you know them?  Really?” he asked.

I hesitated.  I understood his point.  Lowering my head and fidgeting with my nails, I answered softly, “I feel as if I do.  But I guess that fans all think they know celebrities.  But in this case, it might be different.  For instance, Ringo called me one night and we talked for two hours.  He told me a lot of personal stuff.” 

I smiled, remembering.   I looked over at Mal and continued:

“Ya see, I don’t think of myself as just a fan any more.  I’m their friend and I hope they don’t think I want anything from them at all except their friendship, and hopefully,

their respect.  That’s asking a lot, I know.  I think we’re all connected already on some level.  And I’m amazed that they think that I was special enough to want to meet and bring me over like this.  I just don’t want to let them down.”

Mal said reassuringly, “You won’t.  You’re a very easy girl to read.  You speak from the ‘eart.”

He pulled the car over and said, “Look, a few things you ‘ave to understand about these guys.  They are all the things you think they are – funny, talented, lovin’ and generous – but they are also very human blokes who put their trousers on one leg at a time like the rest of us.  They ‘ave tempers and can really take yer head off.  Neil and I catch it plenty.  Brian too.  The amount of pressure they’re under is staggering.  We went to America in February.  March and April, they shot the movie.  In between, they were writin’ all the time and recordin’ the tracks for the film.  Now, come June, World Tour – August, back to tour America.  A few too many thousand people passing through, pullin’ at ‘em.

“So, they like to keep their inner circle as small as possible, for the sake of sanity.  We’re a close-knit family and no one new gets in.  Don’t forget, they’ve been moving ahead and touring non-stop for four years now.  Even the inner circle can start to get on the nerves.  This, my dear, is why I think you are just what the doctor ordered.  What these inmates need.”

Mal went on, saying, “Too much bloody testosterone.  They need the female.  Why do you think they took to you so quickly?  Like I said, I think they need you – a lap to rest their heads on at night, and talk.  Northern men don’t open up to each other.  That would be considered queer.”

I smirked at him and got quite animated.  “What are you talking about, Mal?  They’re beating girls away with a stick – and beautiful ones at that.”

“You mean, slam bam thank you ma’am, one night stands?  You’re right, plenty of those.  Too many.  And starlets and spoiled rich girls whose dads know the lord mayor are no better.  Beautiful, sure, and totally without a clue.  The birds just never seem to get the jokes.  I’ve only just met you and can tell you’re our lot.  Just be yourself and don’t put them on a pedestal, or you’re screwed.  They can spot a phoney a mile off.

“Tell you a little secret.  When Ring started writin’ you, they taunted him mercilessly, him writin’ away and askin’ how do you spell this or that.  Then they’d grab the letters away from him on the excuse of proofreadin’ – “Don’t wanna make an arse outta yaself, mate.”  But the truth was they all wanted in on the act. They’re really very close to each other, and when one does somethin’, they all wanna do it.  They’re always askin’‘any mail, Ring?’”

I smiled and just sat there a minute replaying everything he just said in my mind, picturing everything that had happened, but from his angle, letting it all wash over me.  Mal cut into my reverie with, “I’ll get the bags.”

“What?”

Mal said, “We’re here.  I’ll get the bags.”

“Here, here?  Now?”

He just grinned and got out.

The rain had stopped, and I slowly opened the door, got out and glanced upward.  It was a corner building, white, beautiful architecture, six stories, and sure enough, the top floor had an ornate black railing balcony all around.  They were in there.  My feet went kind of numb and the heat rose up in my chest.

A doorman appeared and picked up the bags.

“Come ‘ed,” Mal said to me, offering a hand.

I climbed the four marble steps into the beautifully decorated Victorian-looking lobby.  It seemed cozy and familiar, which was odd as I’d never been anywhere like this before.

Mal said, “Wait here.  I’m going to put the car in the carpark.  Bill, this ‘ere is Ringo’s cousin from America.  She’ll be staying for a while.”  He winked at me and was off.  The doorman touched the brim of his hat.

“Nice to meet you, miss.”

“Same here.  Bill, is it?”

“Yes, miss.  Will you be staying long?  I’ll need your name and how long you’re staying for the security list.”

I gave him my name and said I’d be staying through the summer whenever they were here in London.

“Good.  Thank you.  Enjoy your stay.”

I wandered around looking at the paintings on the walls, yet not really seeing a thing.  The wandering soon became pacing, and if I didn’t stop soon, I’d be hyperventilating.  Mal seemed to take an eternity to return. 

“I’ve got the bags, Bill,” Mal said, as he picked them up.  He walked them over to the lift and pushed the call button.  The doors parted immediately, but I couldn’t seem to move as I watched him load in the bags.

“You all right, girl?”  He walked over and took my arm, but I was not budging.  Mal turned to the doorman. “Bill, da y’think y’could manage a glass of water from the office?”

“Sure, Mal.”

Bill brought the water and Mal placed the cool glass in my hand.

“Drink this please,” he said firmly.  “Yer all flushed.”

He pulled me over to a chair and pushed me into it.  Then he walked over and picked up Bill’s wall phone and dialed.  “Yeah, it’s me…Yeah, we’re here…No, not still at the airport.  The lobby…I can handle it.  Just a little nervous is all…No, don’t come down.  Give us a couple a minutes…Okay.”  He hung up.

 I drank the whole thing down.  I guess I needed it.  My throat still felt dry, and I wondered if I’d be able to find my voice when the time came.  Mal took the glass from me and placed it on the side table, and crouched down to eye level.

“Good job it wasn’t vodka,” Mal said.  I let out a breath and smiled.

“Who were you talking to?” I asked.

“George.  You look better,” he said as he moved a few strands of hair out of my face.  He stood up and held out his hand.  I took it and we walked into the lift.  He pressed six and the doors closed in front of us.

***

Everything seemed amplified – our footsteps in the corridor, the jingling of Mal’s keys as they turned in the lock – so loud.  We stepped into a foyer onto brand new burgundy plush carpeting with brown paper rolled out in lengths in different spots.  It smelled of fresh paint, which was an off-white color.  The moldings and doors were a contrasting beige.

“We’re still moving stuff in,” Mal said apologetically.  “Gimme your coat,” he added, and hung it in a hall closet. 

I touched the gold locket on my chest to make sure it was still there.  I’d changed into the black turtleneck sweater on the plane especially for Ritchie, but chose a gray tweed

skirt for the occasion, black stockings and shoes.  I hoped I didn’t look like a cow.  I wore flats because I was five foot seven and did not want to stand taller than he.  He was going to think I was a hulking cow.

It was eerily quiet, and there did not seem to be anyone around.

“C’mon in,” Mal said.  I ventured in and saw the pretty brass railing ‘round this enormous room that was two steps down, and I realized that this is where Ritch and John

sat when they spoke to me that night.  There were four openings in the railing, with steps that were white and gray marble leading to different areas of the flat.  The room in the middle was covered with the burgundy carpeting, and near the far left corner stood a shiny new black grand piano.  There were cartons and crates everywhere around the perimeter, but the lower room, with the piano and a small French settee facing it, was pristine.

“It’s beautiful,” I said.

“Will be, when we get a bit a furniture innit.  You could play football in ‘ere.” 

Mal picked up my bags and wandered off around a corner with them.  I stepped down the two steps and ventured a few feet into the room. When Mal came back out, he yelled out,

“’EY!”  Darlin’, I’m home – and I brought company.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than I saw Paul appear from where Mal had gone with the bags.  Even though he was walking briskly, my mind’s eye was seeing it in slow motion. 

He was incredibly gorgeous in his white shirt and black vest and blue jeans.  He’s coming!  Do I hug, kiss, shake hands, what?

“’Ey,!” he said.  I had one hand down and one arm up to hug him, and the kiss landed somewhere between his mouth and his nose.  Brilliant. 

“Sorry.”  I’m sure I turned all shades.

“Shall we try that again?” Paul asked.  “Take two?”

“Definitely,” I said.

He put his hands ‘round my waist and I put my hands on his shoulders.  He moved in close, said, “Welcome” and landed a perfect sweet kiss on my mouth.  I’m sure he felt me shaking, but didn’t mention it.

“Much better, that,” Paul said.

“I’d better rescue you before he goes for take three. ‘es a greedy git,” came another voice.

I turned and smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

“George!” was all I could manage.

Unlike Paul, who I expected to be especially cute, George’s photos did not do him nearly enough justice.  The bone structure in his face was exquisite, and that lopsided toothy grin went straight through my heart.

“I’m really happy to finally meet our notorious let-ter wri-ter,” he drawled, and he put his arms clear around my waist and pulled me close, forcing me to put my arms around his neck.  The kiss was longer than Paul’s, and he parted his lips.  My knees were about to buckle.  He must have felt this, because he held me closer and whispered in my ear,

“Hang on, luv.  It’s okay.”  And he rubbed my back. 

When I regained my equilibrium, I loosened my hold around his neck and we parted, but he kept hold of my hands and rubbed them between his.  They felt warm and reassuring.  It really helped me relax.

“So how was your trip?” George asked.  “Did our guy ‘ere take good care of ‘ya?”

“He’s the best.”  I smiled over at Mal.  “I hope you’re paying him enough.” I quipped.

“He expects to be paid now?  Bugger that!” George shot back.

We all laughed and Mal said, “Cute!”

Paul started talking about what they were going to do with this room.

“We’d like some nice bookshelves around the top ‘ere, and cabinets for the stereo system, and down ‘ere we want to get three, maybe four large plush sofas, maybe a table in the middle.  You know, a nice conversation circle.  The kitchen is up there on the right – not much food in the fridge yet, but plenty of Cokes, juices, drinks right now.”

“Drinks, huh?  Then why don’t you go make us some?  Make ‘yaself useful, like.”

Deep voice.  I bit my bottom lip and my eyes finally filled with the tears I fought all day.

“Ritchie.”

I turned to find him, and all I could see were those limpid blue eyes I knew so well.  I didn’t even remember getting there, but we were in each other’s arms.  He lifted me and spun me around and held me tight.

He pulled his head back and looked into my eyes.  Taking my head between his hands, he wiped my tears away with his thumbs and said, “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.”

When we kissed, he parted my lips with his and it felt so intense, I started to tremble immediately.  When the kiss broke he came back for another.  Then he let out a little chuckle and held me close.

“’Ey, ‘ey,” he whispered.  “It’s only me.” 

“Not only,” I said.  “Most especially you.” 

He gave me a really hard squeeze and we parted.  He took my hands in his and said,

“That’s a very interesting necklace you’re wearing.”

“Yeah.  Some guy sent it to me in the mail.”

“I won’t ‘ave you writin’ to strangers.  He must like you a lot, though.”

“Oh, I’m so hoping that he does,” I said, enjoying the banter.

“He already does.  Most especially.”

Paul started this mock crying, putting a handkerchief to his eyes, and George pretended to comfort him.  “There, there, now…”

Ringo barked back, “Oh bugger off!”   I hid my head in his shoulder to hide my giggles.  He let go of one hand and turned me around to join the others, who moved more toward the center of the room.

“So, where’s those drinks, then?” Ritch asked. 

“Right!” Paul said, with a hand in the air. 

As I turned around, I caught a glimpse of a head in my peripheral vision and I stopped.

There on the settee was John, with this lascivious grin on his face.  He must have been there the whole time, lying down, or I would have seen him sooner.  He had a book in his hand, and he just sat there a long while, staring at me through squinted eyes that reminded me of that line in Gone With the Wind, when Scarlett O’Hara says that Rhett Butler looks at a girl like he knows what she looks like without her shimmy.

He got up, dropped the book and languidly walked toward me, suddenly dead serious.  He was wearing a black suit and white shirt with two buttons undone, the tie was hanging loose, and the sight of his Adam’s apple coming toward me was very unnerving.  He might as well have been naked.  I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

Staring down his nose, which was now about two inches from my face, he said, “What, no kiss for Beatle John?”

I knew he was just trying to make me nervous, and he was making a very good job of it.  I might have been young and inexperienced, but I recognized a man who oozed sex from every pore.

“Of course Beatle John gets a kiss,” I stammered.

He continued to just stand there, staring down that almost right-angle nose of his and not moving a muscle to help.  No meeting me half way. 

Ringo had moved off to stand with the others, who were stifling laughter.  Paul had his hand over his mouth.  I shot them a ‘help me’ look, but it was clear that I was on my own.

Resolving to someday get him for this, I reached up a hand to John’s head and felt his silky hair slide between my fingers.  I could do this.  I placed my other hand on his shoulder and planted my slightly parted lips firmly on his mouth.

Just as I felt him start to respond, I panicked and broke the kiss.

John said in sotto voce, shaking his head, “Oh no, darlin’.  You can do better’n that.” 

And with that, he slid his right hand slowly behind my neck, his left arm completely encircling my waist, and he bent me to the left and back.  I gasped in surprise, losing my balance, and my arms flew around his neck, and he just seized my open mouth and all reason departed my brain.  I felt his warm tongue meet mine.

All sense of propriety left me as I surrendered completely to his kiss.  I didn’t know how long it went on, but from somewhere in the lovely heavenly fog I heard Ritch say, “Awright, John.  Yev made yer point.”

Someone wolf whistled.  We kept at it.  Because he had me bent back, I clung to him for dear life, my eyes tightly closed.  Sensations were washing over me that were new and more than a little scary, and – absolute bliss!

“He’s markin’ his territory, ya know.  All dogs do,” Paul observed.

“Should’ve never opened the cage,” bemoaned Ritch.

“Now we’ll have to take ‘er for the shots.  I understand they’re quite painful too!” said George.

When it started to seem like John would never stop, I heard Richard say firmly, “Fuckin’ ‘ell, John!  Enuff!”

I felt myself being turned and stood upright, and as we pulled away slowly, I opened my eyes.  John seemed to have a puzzled expression on his face, as he gave me another quick peck and tenderly smoothed the hair from my cheek with his hand. 

Applause, catcalls and whistles rang out, giving me a start, and I buried my face in John’s chest, mortified as hell.  He gathered me in his arms protectively.

“C’mon, don’t embarrass her,” he admonished.

“US?” they all said incredulously.

Paul pointed a finger at his partner and added, “You live in bizarro world, mate.”

“Don’t make you a bad person,” John quipped.

“Bollocks!” Richard chimed in.

And John led me with the others to the kitchen for our celebratory drink.

“So what do ya think, ‘ey?”  George asked Paul, with a backward glance at me.

“Better’n having pet – and you can take it anywhere,” said Paul, nodding his head conspiratorially.

I gave Paul a shove from behind and he turned on me and put up his dukes.  I did the same and he started jumping and jabbing.

Ring got between us and cautioned me, “Just don’t hit ‘im in the face.  We need ‘im pretty.”

***

It was 4:00 a.m. and I was still too wired to sleep, even though I hadn’t slept for two days.  On the dresser in my room was a vase with three-dozen long-stemmed red roses, the little card signed by all of them.  So I was unpacking and thinking about this day and how wonderful and perfect it had all been and wondering how I got so lucky, and how could it be that they could had exceeded all my dreams and fantasies of what it would be like to know them, and how I loved them all so much…

They’d taken me to an Italian restaurant called Luigi’s for dinner, where they went sometimes because they could sneak in through the kitchen door in back.  We were seated in a large alcove booth behind a screen that Luigi set up for them.  They weren’t usually bothered there, but George said it was only a matter of time. 

John raised the first glass of wine to the “new Eye-tie in our midst”.”

Neil was able to join us for dinner.  He was bit more reserved than Mal, but very sweet all the same.  Somebody had to be responsible, and they were lucky to have them both.

We talked for hours, getting to know more about each other.  They were competing with each other with funny stories, or to see who could shock me the most or get the most attention.  I laughed so much my face ached.  The wine flowed as freely as the laughs.  Whenever someone said something particularly outrageous, they were likely to get a napkin or chunk of bread to the head.

“There’s goin’ to be plenty of snoggin’ on this tour, and at home too,” George observed.

John agreed, “Yeah, she’s a right snogger.”

“First rate,” said George nonchalantly, chewing on his food, and staring at me intently.

“And what in hell is snogging, if you don’t mind my asking,” I demanded, looking in Mal’s direction with the hope of a straight answer, knowing full well I would not get one from any of them.

Mal lifted his hands in innocence.   “Leave me outta this!”

Paul said, wringing his hands, “All in good time, my dear.”  

Neal and Mal stifled laughs and Ringo shook his head and suppressed a smile as he said, “Yer better get yerself a chair and a whip, luv.  Yer gonna need it.”

“I said snoggin’ – not shaggin’!” reminded George.

“’Ey, don’t any of you lot even think that,” warned Ringo.

“Too late, son,” John said, looking at me with that narrow-eyed squint again.

My confusion was their amusement. “What does that mean?” I demanded.  And the napkins came flying at me.

They also took great delight in mocking my ‘New Yawk’ accent.

“Waita, anutha glass a wawda for Miss Lowa East Side heeeah,” John said, as he waved him over.

“Tell you scousers what,” I said, “I’ll start pronouncing my ‘R’s,’ when you stop droppin’ yer ‘G’s’.”

“Deal,” Ritchie said, and put out his palm for me to slap.

The waiter called John a buffoon in Italian to a fellow waiter.  I made a noise through my nose, trying to stifle a laugh.

“You understood him!  What’d he say?” John demanded.

“He said you’re a really funny guy,” I fibbed.  The waiter winked at me.  John’s eyes darted from the waiter to me, and back.  The muscles in his face tightened and he said, “She’s with us, mate.”  Then he turned and pointed at me and added, “And you’re gonna get it!”

“Promises, promises,” I said, as I flipped my hair.  George found this particularly amusing.

John smiled his big ‘all teeth’ smile, despite himself.  He looked really little-boyish with his chipped front tooth, and I wanted to hug him.

“Better watch it, babe,” Paul warned. “He’s hit guys over less.”

“Only if they weren’t looking,” John reminded him.

“Of course,” they all said, matter-of-factly, as if on cue.

Also as if on cue, the cigarettes all came out at the same time.  Ritchie offered me one.

“No, thanks.  I don’t smoke,” I told him.

“Good for you.  Nasty habit,” he said, lighting and inhaling deeply.  As much as I hated it myself, I had to admit it was like an orgy watching them all giving each other

lights.  It was like a shared sensuality, and they just looked so good doing it.  But then, they would have looked good scratching their noses. 

When we left, Paul and George got in Neil’s car, saying simply they were going “out” – to places mysterious, no doubt.  They promised to take me someplace special soon, and were off. 

Mal took John, Ritch and me home.  I learned that Neil and Mal were sharing the roof flat that you couldn’t see from the street and which was only accessible from the stairs in our hallway.  They were also having an intercom system installed between both flats. It really was Beatles Central.

When we got to the building, Mal threw his arm over the front seat, turned to us in

back and said to me,  “Your day turn out okay then, luv?

I leaned forward, threw my arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.  “Perfect.  Thank you for everything, Mal.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and blushed beet red.

“Oh jeez, Malcolm’s in love,” Ring said, as he took my hand and yanked me out of the car.

Back home, John and Ritch hung out in my room for a bit, talking about music, asking what was currently on the charts in America. The room had lovely mahogany furniture and a couple of upholstered armchairs that matched the drapes and a door that led out to the balcony.  I asked them who picked out the rather frilly bedspread.  It somehow didn’t belong.

“Brian, of course,” John kidded, as he swished his hands up and down and then sat bouncing on the bed.  I’d just learned from them tonight that Brian was homosexual and I berated John to be nice.

“No fun being nice.  Come, tell Father Christmas what you’d like for Krimble, girlie,” John said, as he arched his eyebrows up and down and patted his knee.

“I think I already have quite enough, thank you, Santa. Christmas came early this year.”

“You can never have enough, that’s what I always say.  Don’t I always say that, Ring?”

“Well, I’ve had enuff of you,” Ritchie said, and gave John the ‘scram’ signal with his head.

“Ah, evil doings afoot.  Well don’t you forget that we sneaked a look at her passport, which just ‘appened to be sticking out her coat pocket,” John said, as he bounced on his heels and looked at me accusingly.

My first thought was that they saw that horrible picture of me; then came the dawn, and my hand flew up to my mouth as I gasped.

“You dirty sneak!” I said with a smile.

“What’s this?  The pot calling the kettle a sneak, Little Miss Jailbait?  I love it! Give a yell if you need reinforcements,” John said with a wink, as he took his leave.

Once John was gone, Rich sprawled out on my bed and patted the spot next to him.

“Come hither, my dear,” he said.  “I won’t bite.  Not on our first date, at least.”

“Is this a date, then?” I asked.

“Officially unofficial.”

And so we lay there face to face, heads resting on our hands, leaning on our elbows, and it didn’t feel strange or awkward at all.  I mean, I was lying in bed with literally one of the worlds’ most sought after rock stars, and it felt warm and close, as if I’d known him always.  He was the most natural, sweet and down-to-earth man I’d ever met.  Truth be told, watching his smile and the light twinkle in those incredible eyes made my heart lurch, and I was wishing he’d make a move.

Instead, we talked.  He told me that he’d become the local hero.  They all told him on the quiet, “Yeah, she’s great.”

“Like the house mascot?” I asked.

“Not to me, my love,” he smiled.

“Does everyone know about my passport?” I asked apprehensively. 

“I dare you to try to keep anything secret ‘round ‘ere.”

“Are they upset or annoyed?”

“No one cares.  Just don’t tell Brian.  He’ll have a hissy fit, going all legal on us.  Besides, you’re more mature than any of this lot anyway.  It will unleash their protective instincts.  I can tell they all love you.”

I let out a sigh of relief.

“When do I get to hear the new songs from the movie?” I asked excitedly.

“Oh, we’ve got the tapes.  Remind me tomorrow.  They really outdid themselves.  The

tracks are incredible.  I work with bloody geniuses.”

“And what are you, chopped liver?” I admonished him.

“Oh, I’m just the drummer and a little comic relief.”

“Don’t you ever forget or underestimate your importance in this band.  I’ve seen it from the other side.  I’m the adoring public, and I know.  You are truly loved, Mr. Starkey, all over the world.  And you give the music exactly what it needs.  No ‘one’ of you is The Beatles.  You all have your roles to play.  And speaking of roles, they all told me how fantastic you are in the movie.”

I said all this while poking him in the chest to make my point, and he grabbed my hand and put it quickly behind his neck, and his mouth took mine, and our tongues met for the first time, and I think my heart stopped as I felt his arm pull me close.  I won’t mention what was happening to me elsewhere.  My body was on autopilot.

Making out with Ritchie without an audience was tender and passionate all at once.

“You think that much of me?” he asked seriously when we came up for air.

“Of course.  Don’t you know that yet?”

This time I pulled his face to mine, and the slow sensuality of his tongue entering my mouth and the rhythm it took and his hand brushing against my breast, coupled with the juices that were already flowing from me, put me over the edge.  I gasped and shuddered.

I hoped he couldn’t tell, but only a fool would not have been able to.  I didn’t know that could happen without even being “touched.”  It had almost nearly happened with John earlier -- the only thing saving me from it then were the eyes of the peanut gallery. 

He finally pulled away and looked down into my eyes, dead serious expression.

“You okay?  Where’d you learn to kiss like that, girl?”

“Certainly not from the idiot boys back home,” I said. 

He kissed me again – hard and long.

“Where?” he repeated roughly.

I felt dizzy.  “From you…absolutely, without a doubt, positively, you.”

I smiled up at him and smoothed the hair back from his face, exposing his gray streak and smoothing his partially white eyebrow with my finger, exploring what little I dared that first night.

He broke away abruptly, saying, “If I don’t stop now the game will be over.”

Ritchie got up and put out both his hands to me, pulling me up and gathering me in his arms.  He kissed my neck and whispered in my ear, “Now you get some sleep.”

As he headed for the door, he turned and said, “Oh, and yer likely to be chucked out if you try to wake any of us before one or two, ‘specially if we raised a couple the night before.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

And I rushed over to give him a final hug and whispered in his ear, “And thank you for all of this.  You’ve made my life.”  And not being able to control it, the tears spilled over onto my cheeks.  I guess it was the culmination of trying to convince them how cool I was all day.  Now the floodgates opened up.

“’Ey. c’mon.  Shhhhh, it’s okay, baby,” he soothed as he rubbed my back.  “How am I gonna convince them to keep ya if yer bawlin’ all the time?  They’ll send ya packin’ fer sure.”

“Don’t let them,” I sniffed.

He held me tight and chuckled deeply. “No, darlin’, I won’t let them.”

***

Once everything was put away, I felt really thirsty and decided to go to the kitchen for something to drink.  All was quiet in the hall and I was sure Ritch and John were asleep.  On my way to the kitchen, the hallway was blocked by cartons, so I padded quietly around to the living room.  I thought saw the glow of a dim lamp, though it appeared that no one was there.  I tiptoed across the room in my nightshirt, which was an old button-down of my father’s, and my white socks and ponytail.  I was almost all the way across, when suddenly…

“’Ey.”

I was the sort of person that startled easily.  I jumped and gasped for breath, too surprised to be embarrassed by the way I looked.

“Sorry, ‘din mean to scare you, luv,” John said, as he sat up and gave my legs a quick appraisal.  “We okay, then?”

“Oh, yeah.  I was just thirsty and getting something to drink.  You’re just going to have to start making your presence known.  Can I get you something?” I asked.

“Thanks, no.  And what I meant was, are we okay?  You and I?”

I was puzzled by this question and could only shrug.  “Why wouldn’t we be?”

“That stunt I pulled earlier today.  That was just me being me.  I hope that we’re…

that you’re not…”

“Oh, no.  It was great.  Really!”  I was sure I colored, remembering.

John smiled.  “Okay then.”

I continued on into the kitchen and poured myself some orange juice, thinking how different they were one-on-one, when they were not being “on” for each other.

As I came back through the living room, John slammed his book shut and said, “Done.”

“Was it good?” I asked.

“Not so bad.  Loses something in the translation to the Lennon.”

I smiled.  I stood there, wanting to say something, but I wasn’t quite sure what.

“Well, g’night…” I said hesitantly.  ”Er, by the way, John…that greeting you gave me?  Do you greet all your new friends like that?”

He sat there pondering this for a while and very seriously looked up at me and said,  “Well…no.  Not the blokes.”

“Oh, I see.  Just all the girls.”

This time he made me wait longer.  His answer was soft and uncharacteristically shy.

“No.  Only the ones I know I’m going to fall madly in love with.”

The warmth welled up in my chest and I thought I would burst.  All I could do was bite my bottom lip.

John recovered and cleared his throat.  He got up and said brusquely, “C’mon, I’ll walk ‘ya home.”  He threw an arm around my shoulders.

“All the way down this hall?  I wouldn’t want to put you out of your way,” I said.

“Oh, these halls can get treacherous late at night, missy.  If I were you, I’d lock me door.  Macca’s a real alley cat.  If  ‘e gets in, scream bloody murder and right-knee ‘im in the balls.  In fact, feel free to do that to ‘im anytime you like.”

I let out a whoop of laughter and John covered my mouth with his hand.

“Shhh.  You’ll wake the children,” he said, as he pushed me against the wall next to my bedroom door.  I braced myself for a repeat of this afternoon’s performance.  Instead, he pulled my face close to his and planted a big, sloppy, wet and rather loud kiss on my forehead.

We stood there together, eyeball to eyeball, with my face between his hands, and he said emphatically,  “We’re gonna have fun.”

And he disappeared off into his room.

Go Read Part Two!

Lena King a New York State Supreme Court Clerk, and she loves her job.  In a prior incarnation she worked as a secretary and married quite young (twenty) to a Beatle person (twenty-one), a match made in Beatle heaven, or so she thought.  Would you believe his birthday was July 7th?  Typically, he had is mid-life crisis at thirty.  He got his new trollop and she got their beautiful daughter, who ironically, is now twenty years old.  She knows almost as much about the fabs as her mother does, whether she likes it or not.  (She does.)  "How did they get outside the train mommy?" she giggled at four.  She's been spoon fed the stuff ever since.

Tell Lena King what you thought of her story!