Each day I played the tapes of the songs from A Hard Day’s Night over and over and over again.  They were absolutely phenomenal, truly the best songs they’d written so far.  George couldn’t take it any more.

“Leeee-na, pleeeease!” he moaned.  “How many damn times do we have to endure this?”

“Whaaat?  This is how I listen to your records at home.  First, until I memorize all the words, then for the sheer joy of it.  You sound like my father, DAD!”

“But you weren’t there when we were working on it, take after bleedin’ take.  We’ve had it!    

 “Just once more,” I said, starting the tape again.  They all groaned.  But this made me learn that playing their music at home was a no-no.  It sort of made them cringe and embarrassed them, especially if other people were around.

They had two precious weeks off before embarking on the world tour, and we spent the time blissfully getting into a domestic routine.  They were definitely nocturnal creatures, and no matter how late we were out the night before, which sometimes meant we saw the sun coming up, I always tried to be up, showered and dressed by 11:00 a.m.  Not wanting to sleep through and possibly miss anything, I would pick up the newspapers left outside the door by the building staff, set them down on the kitchen table, and put on the kettle and the coffee.  (Paul and I were the coffee drinkers.)

Three days a week, three sweet, gray-haired ladies called Mary, Bridget and Babs (who also cleaned for Brian) would let themselves in to do the chores.  George called them the Biddy Brigade. 

“Oh, biddies here again?” he’d yawn, and roll over  Babs would poke him tell him to get his skinny arse in the kitchen, where she would fix him a proper English breakfast and that he looked a scrawny sight, and didn’t she have to be changing the bed?

If John woke up in a good mood, he would tease them and chase them around like Harpo Marx.  The biddies adored him.

The boys detested the idea of having servants around, so it soon became my job to provide the ladies with shopping lists of their favorite items, thus cutting down on the number of meals they sent out for or ate out.  They had enough meals grabbed on the fly while on tour and during filming.

It was great fun taking turns fixing the meals.  Paul and Ringo turned out to be the most adept in the kitchen, turning out great bangers and mash and fish and chips. John and George were useless.

“It’s okay, Paulie.  You take all the glory.  You’ll make someone a wonderful wife,” John jeered him.

“Up yours,” Paul said, as he mashed the potatoes, and gave him the old two fingers.

One night, when it was my turn at chef duty, Ritchie came up behind me and slowly put his arms around my waist and sexily whispered in my ear, “So what’s fer supper, mum?”

“Nothing, if you keep calling me mum,” I said.  “You already have a lovely one and I’m not interested in the job.”

“You’re right,” he said, moving my hair and kissing my neck, my ear, his hands moving slowly and hesitantly up to my breasts, caressing my nipples.  Exquisite torture.  Every nerve ending was tingling as he took all these unexplored liberties and I became instantly soaked.

I knew I should be stopping him or at least making a show of protesting, but this was THE summer of my life and, well, if he wanted me, he could have thrown me down on the kitchen table right now and had me.  Who would I save it for when all I could possibly ever want was right there, right now?

He turned me around and leaned me against the kitchen table, kissing me deeply, his tongue driving me insane.  I felt his hardness pressing against me and he started moving slowly. I caught his rhythm and moaned and whispered, “Ritch…” in his ear.  He moaned too, but then, as if a bucket of cold water hit him, he stopped abruptly, moved back, and ever the gentleman, he held me at arm’s length and said, “No, no, no.  This is moving much too fast,” and went off, muttering a few expletives to himself.

Another morning, I woke up to what sounded like scurrying.  I quickly popped my head up, saw that the room was still darkened by closed drapes, and that it was now quiet.  I thought I must have dreamed it.  I rolled over to check the clock on the nightstand, and found four chins propped up on the edge of the bed.

I clutched at my heart with a hoarse intake of breath.  “Are you crazy?  Are you trying to scare the living crap out of me?” I yelled as I began hitting them about the head and shoulders.

They fell on the floor in hysterics.   I got up, grabbed a pillow and started banging them each in turn between words.

“Don’t (bang) you ever (bang) do that (bang) to me (bang) again (bang).  Oh my God, (bang) my butt (bang) was sticking up out of the covers!”

“And quite a lovely little butt it is too!” Ritchie said.  I hit him so hard with the pillow, I knocked him over, but not before he grabbed the pillow back, pulled me down on top of him and kissed me.

Paul said, “It’s no biggie.  It’s not as if you don’t have any knickers on.”

I went to whack him a good one for that, when George and John grabbed an arm each and tossed me back on the bed, then jumped onto it themselves, torturing and tickling me.  Before long, all five of us were roughhousing.

I feigned annoyance and complained, “You’re going to break my bed.”

“I’ll get ‘ya a new one,” John said.

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you, Lennon?”

“Pretty much,” he said, as he grabbed my hands and held them over my head.  “Now kiss me good mornin’.”

“No.”

“You’ll kiss me and like it!” he ordered.

“I won’t!”

I gave him one of his own stoic looks and he did the same, only I was able to hold it longer and he broke up laughing, silently mouthing “Bitch” at me.

“Ah, a compliment.  For that, you get a kiss,” I said, and I smiled.

***

Naturally, because they knew how easily I scared, they were constantly popping out of doors and closets, sneaking in and out of rooms through the balcony and grabbing at my ankles out from under beds. The closets were best because I would usually get pulled in and treated to a ten minute make-out session, mostly by George or John, at the end of which I would fight them off and escape.  They would usually good-naturedly yell after me, calling me a tease, sometimes with select adjectives, to which I would reply, “I didn’t pull you in the closet.”

“I didn’t hear you complainin’ either,” George said once.

“Because you’re such a good kisser.  Oh, sorry, snogger!”

“There’s more to snoggin’ than just kissin’,” he informed me.

“Oh, you mean like first base, second base, stuff like that?  In America we use baseball terms.”

“Well, what base were we on?” he asked.

“First, with a little motion in the infield.”

“Then we have a ways to go.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “but it won’t be in a closet.”

“Tease!”

“And you won’t be hitting any home runs.”

“You will find, my love, that I’m a very patient man,” George said confidently.

John, however, was another story.  John was someone you didn’t control, simply because you didn’t want to.  A look from John would make me go weak, and I was feeling terribly guilty because of my feelings for him.

John was just so much larger than life; he filled a room and lit it up like a thousand suns.  They all hero-worshipped him and even when they were telling him off, you knew how deeply they loved him.  He had a reputation for being hard and cruel sometimes, which he could be, but when he was alone and quite himself, I found him to be the most vulnerable and fragile of the four.  This, along with the Lennonisms that could make you double over and piss yourself with laughter (which I did on several occasions, and he called me on it every time, the sod) made me realize that I was madly in love with him. 

I tried to just enjoy these snatched moments and not think too much about the difference in our ages ( which was really not all that much when you came down to it) or what it all meant, because I knew that come September it would all be over anyway, and I’d be back home in New York.  I was also vaguely aware that to them, I was a new little fun toy to play with.  They lavished so much attention on me, and for the most part were perfect gentlemen, never putting a hand out of the way.  I treasured every experience and tried to lock every memory away in my heart for safekeeping for the rest of my life.

***

One morning, Brian phoned and told me to have them ready to be picked up at 2:00 p.m. for the private screening.  I ran around the flat like a madwoman, banging on their doors.  No one was responding, so I opened doors, pulled off blankets, bounced on the beds.  “Get up, get up, movie screening today!” I shouted.

“Ugh,” was the unanimous response.  By the time they dragged their asses into the kitchen for their tea, I was sitting there bolt upright like an excited puppy wagging its’ tail.

They all peered at me through half-mast eyes and made disgusted faces.

“Why’s it so happy?” John asked the others.

“I think it wants to come,” George said.

“It had better think again.  I haven’t seen it yet,” John said.

Ringo said, “It’s not as if we have any say at this point, mate.  It’s goin’ out.”

“Good God!” Paul groaned.

“I know what you mean, Paul.  You really were shite,” John said.

“Thanks.  That helps.”

“So you want to come, do you?” George asked me.

“Yes, please, sir,” I said, batting my eyelashes and trying to look as cute as I possibly could.

“All right, then,” he said.   I jumped up and hugged him so tight he said “Ow, me ribs!”

“Thank you, Georgie,” I said, and ran off before any of them could change his mind to find something suitable to wear.

“Doesn’t take much to make it happy,” George said, rubbing his side.

“I heard that!” I said from the hall.  “Give Neil and Mal a shout. I forgot.”

John said, “It only makes us think we’re runnin’ the show.”

When our party arrived at the screening, Mr. Shenson, the producer, asked who I was.  John said I was a very close friend and movie critic, Dorothy Kilemded, whose opinion was valued.  I sat there transfixed from the second I saw UNITED ARTISTS and heard the first chord.  I couldn’t believe it.  George fell and Ringo fell over him – you could tell it was totally spontaneous.  John looked like he was pissing himself – from then on, it was laughter, giggles, cheering, applause (I think I was embarrassing them by now) and tears.  Everything short of screaming, but I felt certain in the charged atmosphere of a packed theatre there would be screams from the audience as well.

Mr. Shenson said, “Well, young lady, if your reaction is any indication, I think we have a hit on our hands.”

The guys were feeling very self-conscious, but underneath it all I think they all knew it was good.  I assured them it was the single most fantastic rock and roll movie ever made.

Ringo said, “You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause it’s true.”

***

I was also making regular trips with Neil and Mal to Harrods, picking out everything needed for the “flat,” if you could call such a place a flat.

We made arrangements for carpenters to come in while we were on tour to do the bookshelves, stereo cabinets, shelves and racks for the guitars and instruments in the music rooms.  They wanted all the work completed by the time we returned.  What Beatles wanted, Beatles got.  It was fun watching people grovel and kiss up.

“Oh, of course, Mr. Aspinall,” they all said, and you could see their commissions clicking in their heads.

“Oh yes, Mr. Evans, immediately!”

“If me old mum could see me now,” Mal whispered.

We’d already set up couches and T.V.’s  in the music rooms.  John liked to zone out when he was being creative.

It was the middle of the second week and we were having breakfast around 1:00 p.m.

“We’re making a last trip to Harrods today.  Anybody need anything?” I asked.

John said, “Get me a telly for my room,” and went back to his cornflakes.  Random requests like that were not unusual for John.

“Anybody else?” I continued.

Ritch said, “I can think of better things to do in me bedroom than watch the telly.”

He gave me a sideways glance and went back to his newspaper with a smile.  “But, I could use some new socks and underwear.  Can’t travel with ratty drawers.  Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” I said.  “What kind, how many, what colors?”

“In some places, this means you’re going steady, ya know!” Paul said.

“Yeah, where?  Afghanistan?” I asked.

“You never know,” he laughed.  “Come to think of it, get some for me too.”

George said, “Me too.”

“Yeah.” John said.

I went over to the intercom on the kitchen wall.

“Malcolm, are you ready?  You want some breakfast?”

“Be right down,” he said.

“I assume Mal knows what to get as far as the underwear goes, because I sure don’t,” I said.

And like thunder, the chairs all pushed back at once and they all went for their belt buckles, flies and pajama strings.  The coffee went shooting out of my mouth, nose, everywhere.  They were all laughing at me and pointing.

“Ya know, we never had to walk ‘round with trousers on in the mornin’  ‘till she came,” Paul told the others.  “I say we take a vote.  No trousers before 3:00 p.m. required.”

I refused to be ruffled. “It’s your house.  I won’t be offended by your shortcomings.”

“Ooo…” John said.

“Ey!  I’ll have you know, when they call us a big group, they’re not just talking about our place in the charts,” Paul said with a wicked grin.

“Yeah, even our little Ritchie.  Short of stature, but not of manhood,” John said solemnly, while nodding his head.

“To Richard,” George said, and raised his cup and saluted.  Likewise, John and Paul raised their cups and saluted.  Paul added, “We’re humbled in your presence.”

“Oh, piss off,” Ritch said, but looked pretty proud of himself just the same. 

I looked at Ritch and smiled and bit my bottom lip.

John said, “You ever notice, Ring, about the lip?  You know you got her when she bites the lip.  We’ll have to play some poker soon, luv.”

“That’s it!” I said.  “I’ll be in my room.  Tell Mal to give yell when he’s ready.  Now you boys play nice.  Write me a song, or something.”

I bent to give them each a kiss.  When I got to Ritch, he held my hand and pulled me onto his lap. 

“You taking me dancing tonight?” he asked.

“Great, yeah,” I said.

“You been doin’ all this work and shoppin’ for us, and you ‘avent bought a thing for yerself.  Get yerself something pretty for tonight, whatever you need.”

“Ritch, you don’t have to…” I protested.

“Just do it!” he said sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

Later, when Mal and I finished house shopping, I sent him off to do the underwear thing and told him to meet me in ladies’ dresses when he was through.

I picked up a pair of cute shoes with heels that were not too high and wandered off to find a dress.  I must have been in and out of that dressing room six times.  Nothing looked right.  I was about to give up when I saw it – the perfect little black dress; simple, elegant, short, but not too short, slightly off the shoulder, long sleeves. Oh, but I would need a strapless bra, and I ran off to find one.

I was holding the dress up to me in front of a mirror when Mal caught up with me.

“You ready?  I’m knackered,” he said.  He was laden with boxes and bags.

“Just about – what do you think, Mal?”

“Ve-ry nice.  That ought to get you some whistles at the AdLib.”

“Is that where it is tonight?”

“Yeah.  We’re  all goin’.”

“Great.  I didn’t try it on, but it is my size.  You think it will be okay?”

“Beautiful.  Now can we get outta here?  I’m starvin’.  What’re we havin’ tonight?”

“It’s John’s turn.  That means ham sandwiches.”

“What do ya say we drop these in the car and eat out, compliments of my employers?” he said, as we gathered up all our bundles and charged the dress to “the account.” 

Mal and I arrived back home to find them all sitting around already dressed to go out.

“It’s only seven o’clock.  You guys never leave the house before nine.  What’s up?” I asked.

“We were bored,” George said.

“Yeah, and we got some calls from the gang that there was going to be a good crowd tonight, Mick, Eric, all that lot,” Ringo said.

“And where the hell were you all bleedin’ day?” John demanded.

“You know where we were.  Then we went out for a bite.  Here, have some underwear.” I tossed a package in his direction.

“Where’s my telly?

“Being delivered.  Did you expect me to carry it on my back?” I asked.

“We waited for you to eat, ya know,” John said.

“Well, you go ahead.  Your ham sarnies are getting cold.” I said. 

John looked at the others, a smile playing about his lips.

“Smart ass.  We have a smart ass.”

I kissed his cheek and said. “I love you, too.  Now if you’ll excuse me…”

John turned to Mal, “I’m glad you’re enjoyin’ yerself, Evans!”

***

After a quick shower, I decided that I should wear my hair up.  I parted my bangs in the middle and swept them back.  It looked okay, so I started on my make-up.

“Oh, good Christ,” I said to myself, as I looked in the mirror after slipping on the dress.  It looked great, only…“Shit!” I said out loud.

In order for the dress to fit right, I had to wear it down off my shoulders, exposing a little more cleavage then I cared to.  I tried picking it up a bit, but that only made it sag in the middle, exposing even more.  I pulled it right again.  It was not indecent, but still…

I heard a knock on the door.

“Lee, are you ready?” Ritch asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Well, are ya decent?”

“Depends.”

“I’m comin’ in,” he said.

Ritchie walked in, and his mouth fell open, his eyes two blue saucers.  Right behind him were the other three pushing each other forward with John bringing up the rear.  They just stood there, trancelike, for about ten seconds. 

George broke the silence and said, “Who are you and what have you done with the little girl that came in ‘ere?”

“No little girls ‘ere,” Ritch said.

Paul said, “Wow,” took my hand, and twirled me around.  The dress flared out just the right amount for dancing.  When he stopped me he stood behind me and put his arms around my waist and looked over my shoulder into our reflection.

“You look beautiful.  I think you should be my date tonight.  We make a handsome couple.”  He kissed my bare shoulder and I felt like Cinderella. 

“Never mind, you,” John told him.  “Do you know how many guys I’ll have to beat to a bloody pulp tonight if she walks in lookin’ like that?”

“Is it that terrible?” I asked him, disappointed that he didn’t seem to like it.

The muscles in his face tightened, his mouth a thin line.

“No, it’s not terrible.  You’re a vision.  If I didn’t know you and saw you in a club, looking like you do, we’d be a whole lot better acquainted inside a ten minutes than we already are, and that’s no lie!”

The other three looked at each other knowingly and smiled at John’s bluntness.

 “I’m sorry.  I didn’t know because I didn’t try it on.  I’ll change.”

“No, you won’t.” Ritchie, my errant knight.  He took my hand and brought it up to his lips, then tucked it under his arm.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I loved it when he took charge.  He was very much the eldest Beatle tonight.

In the lift on the way down Ritchie held my hand.  On the other side, I felt another hand move down my arm.  John intertwined his fingers with mine.  I looked up at his face.  I could tell he was sorry.  I squeezed his hand.

In the car, John asked in his mocking voice if I was all excited as I was going to meet Mick and the Stones and the Animals and all my other “fave raves.”

“Are you kidding?  I’ve already had the meeting of all meetings.  You can now bring on the President, the Queen and the Pope and it would not phase me in the least.”

I think that answer pleased them all quite a lot.

***

I liked this club.  We had to take an elevator to get to it.  There was a huge dance floor and a long bar stretching from one end to the other.  There were no tables, chairs or booths, but rather groupings of antique furniture, sofas, chairs, ottomans, tables with dim lamps, and a few little out of the way niches for privacy.  On one side it had huge windows with a view of the Thames and Tower Bridge.  It felt like a fairy tale. 

The clientele was exclusive and paid handsome membership fees for the privilege of not having to contend with the public.  When our party came in, it was like the parting of the Red Sea, even here among the V.I.P.’S and the famous.  They were definitely the kings holding court, and it took us a while to get through, what with greeting people.  I saw Mick Jagger stand up and wave us over to a really choice spot, and we headed in that direction.

They shook hands and patted shoulders all around.  I took a seat on a sofa and left them to their greetings, trying to remain inconspicuous.  Keith Richards sat down next to me.

“Hell-o!”

“Hello, Keith,” I said. 

“Oh, you know me,” he said.

“Of course I know you.  Everyone knows you.”

“Well, thank you darlin’.  And who might you be?”

“Well, I might be Lee, but you never know.”

“How do you do, Lee,” he said, shaking my hand.  “’Ey, Mick.  I’ve got a live one ‘ere.” 

He continued trying to chat me up.  I knew it wouldn’t do to have their friends know that the reason I was sitting here among them was because I wrote a fan letter, so I decided to play it cool and mysterious.  That letter seemed like a lifetime ago. 

A waitress quickly appeared to take drink orders, and they all sat down and lit cigarettes and the conversation turned to who was recording, what was new and, of course, The Beatles’ new film and tour.  Ringo sat on the other side of me and took my hand, making it clear to Keith who I was with.  Ringo ordered a gin and tonic and asked me what I would like.

Keith said, “They’ve opened some really nice champagne tonight, luv, you should try it.”

I looked at Ritch and shrugged.  He nodded and added, “And one champagne.”

The deejay announced that it was ‘50’s Night and he was taking special requests.  The drinks arrived and we all toasted the evening.  Keith was right.  I’d had champagne before at weddings and New Year’s Eve, but it must have been the bargain basement kind.  It never tasted like this.  It was fabulous and the way the bubbles popped in my nose was a riot. I was laughing like an idiot, and when I finished the fist glass, Keith promptly ordered me another, unbeknownst to Ritchie.

John came over, crouched down, and leaned an elbow on my crossed legs.

“What’s so funny, missy?” he asked.

“Taste this,” I said, putting my glass to his lips.  He took a sip and smiled.

“It’s great,” he said.

“Did you get the bubbles?”

“I got the bubbles,” he laughed, giving me his little boy grin, getting a kick out of my getting a kick out of it.

He beckoned me with his finger and I leaned forward.  He kissed my lips.  He motioned me forward again and whispered in my ear, “You’re very beautiful tonight.  I should have told you that at home.”

“Thank you, John,” and I smoothed his hair.  I think by now Keith was getting a little confused.

A medley of Elvis songs started coming over and Ringo got the urge to dance.

“Comon’, luv,” he said.  “Do you Lindy?”

“Ha! Just try me.”

Ritchie was a fabulous dancer, he could really move.  When “Jailhouse Rock” started, we were really going.  The crowd parted for Mr. Starr and his “mystery lady” and they started clapping.  Ordinarily, I would have been so very embarrassed, but there was something magic about this night.  I was having a ball.

Ritch wanted to know how I learned to Lindy so well and I told him I had an older cousin who taught me when I was nine.

“I’ve finally found me dance partner,” he said, and spun me around, everything short of tossing me in the air.  When the song was over everyone applauded and we bowed and

curtsied.

The next song was Richie Valens’ “Donna,” and my Ritchie put my arms around his waist and pulled me close and hugged my shoulders as we danced.  I started to giggle.

“What’s so funny?”

“This is the song that all the kids grind to at house parties back home.”

“Well, I hate to admit it, but I do have a raging hard-on.”

“You do not!” I said indignantly.

He gave me a sardonic look and took my hands from his waist and put them up around his neck and pulled my waist up against him.

I gasped.  “Oh my, Mr. Starkey!  Whatever shall we do?”  I giggled.

“Yer killin’ me.  You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t mean to,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

“Just killin’ me,” he repeated and kissed my shoulder, and then very sensuously, my lips. 

We were putting on quite a show for the gawkers.  When the dance was over, we walked over to the bar and got another drink.  John, Paul and George joined us there.

“Where’s Neil and Mal?” I asked.  “I haven’t seen them since we came in.”

“Enjoyin’ one of the few perks of this lousy job,” John said.

“What’s that?”

“Birds.”  He took my hand and led me to the dance floor.  “C’mon, Ginger,” he said.

The dance floor was empty and there was no music.

“John, why are we standing here?”

“I made a special request.”  He nodded over toward the deejay and I heard George’s predominant voice singing “Sha la la la la la la.”

My hand flew up to my mouth and I gasped.

“How did you know?  I never said.  How did you know?”

“Know what?” he asked as his own voice boomed over the disco singing “Baby It’s You,” which was unusual in itself because all club owners were instructed not to play any Beatles’ music when they were there.

“That’s the song.  The song where I fell in love with your voice.  It’s worn out on my album. I wouldn’t be able to get through that album without moving the needle back to that song at least four times.”

“God, I hate a fan,” he said, but he looked pleased nonetheless.  “I just wanted a special dance, and that’s what I wanted to say.”

I felt a tear drip down my cheek.  He wiped it away and kissed my lips as he held me close.

“Stop that!  People will think I’m bein’ my usual boorish self, instead of the amazingly sensitive guy I really am.”

“John, everyone’s watching us.  What if someone takes pictures or talks to the newspapers?”

“First off, security’s good here – no pictures allowed or they wouldn’t be seein’ us again.  And second, could you relax and let me enjoy this?” he said as he gave me the “look,” the ‘staring down the nose, I have x-ray vision’ look.

“Stop doing that.”

“What?”

“Looking at me that way.”

“You don’t mean that, do you?”

“No, but I am a lady, after all.”

“We’ll just see about that!”  He grinned. “And how the hell much have you had to drink, anyway?”

“Not much.”

He pulled me close again, kissing my ear, driving me mad with desire, and whispering

“Fuckin’ chatterbox.”  To me, it was poetry.

***

At the bar, Paul, George and Ringo sat watching John dancing.

“Moves right along, doesn’t ‘e?”  Ritch said.  “God, she’s got me panting like a rutting fourteen year old.  I’m almost glad John’s running interference.  I wouldn’t trust meself if I had all her attention.  Been a long time that I didn’t just take what I wanted, as long as the bird was willin’.  I gave me word I’d look after ‘er.  I guess that doesn’t include doin’ the deed, does it?  It’s already movin’ faster than I thought it would.”

“You’re falling for her, aren’t you?” Paul asked.  “Not that I blame ya.”

“She’s so young,” Ritch groaned.

“That’s what makes it exciting, mate,” Paul said.

“Paul, you really are a pervert,” George said.  “And that’s not true.  It’s because she’s like us, but she’s feminine and sweet and pretty and funny as ‘ell.  Ya done good, Ring.  I really love ‘er.”

Paul said, “Uh-oh.  Beatles break up over she-devil.”

“Not a chance,” George said.  “She wouldn’t allow any problems.  I know she loves us all and would sooner leave than cause any trouble in the group.  I can see the love in ‘er eyes when she’s watchin’ us.  I can feel it.”

“Well that makes it unanimous,” Paul said.  “John’s besotted by her.  Look at ‘im, poor devil.  Breaks yer fuckin’ heart.  Look, I’ll have to leave this discussion for later.  Some talent just pulled in.”  He nodded his head toward the two blondes further down the bar.  “Wish me luck,” he said.

“You don’t need luck,” Ringo said.  “You need penicillin.” 

“Hasn’t he bedded everyone in London, yet?” George asked?

Ritch laughed and downed the rest of his drink.

“Not yet”, he said as he turned his attention back to the dance floor.

***

John kept hold of my hand as he walked me back to the bar where we were joined by Eric Burdon and Alan Price and John introduced me.  I thought Eric was a fantastic singer, but I was about a head taller than he and he looked like an elf.  This struck me very funny, and I excused myself and walked away not to let him see me laughing.  Must have been the champagne.

“What’s funny darlin’?” Mick wanted to know.

“Oh, nothing, Michael.”

“Michael, is it?  No one calls me that except me mum.  Let’s dance.”  He took my hand and pulled me along.

I turned to look to my guys, but no one was watching.  The song was Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixeen.”  Then I saw George elbow John and nod towards the dance floor.

Mick was funny as all get out.  He moved with all his stage gestures and attitude, and in between, took my hands and turned me and slid beside me, doing his James Brown, and then went off and did his own little steps.  He was a show all by himself, and I was thoroughly enjoying him.  Those facial expressions were giving me hysterics.

***

 Back at the bar, John said, “Mick’s a friend, but if that wanker puts one hand where it doesn’t belong, I’ll break his arm.  Him and ‘is fag dancin’.”

“Don’t worry, John.  I’ve got him covered,” George said, as he made his way onto the dance floor to ask the deejay to make the next one a slow one.

                                                             ***

Mick hugged me after the dance and I said that was great.  I felt a tap on my shoulder, and found George standing there.  He said, “Lee-na?” and put out his arms.

“Thank you for the dance, Mick, but my prince charming is here.”

***

While George danced, the gang all moved back to the sofas.  Mick sat down with John and Ringo and asked, “And where did you find that sweet young American ‘thang’?”

Neil arrived at that moment and set down his drink.  “I brought her.  She works for Brian,” he said. 

“Now pull the one in the middle,” Mick said.

John said, “All you have to know right now, Jagger, is that she’s off limits to you.”  And that promptly ended that discussion.

***

After the dance, I asked George where the loo was, and he walked me to a corridor and pointed. 

“Shall I wait for ya?” he asked.

“No, go on back.  I’ll find you.”

As I walked down the hall, I passed several rooms.  There was some activity definitely going on, comings and goings and strange odors indeed.  So this is where the “private parties” were, I mused.

On my way back, I stopped at the window to enjoy the view and a passing waiter offered me champagne from a tray.  I thought, this stuff is great, and it does not even make you drunk!  I stood there sipping and watching the boats pass, thoroughly enjoying myself.  Someone came to stand beside me.

Ray Davies from the Kinks said, “You’re a very good dancer.  Save one for me.”

He wandered off to one of the mysterious rooms. 

I caught a glimpse of Paul in one of the little “nooks” with two rather questionable blondes.  My dress looked positively modest compared to these two, and one had her legs crossed and I could see clear to the moon.  The other one looked like she was serving up her chest as the main course, and she had her hand on Paul’s thigh.

I walked over to Paul and his two bimbettes, and stood there.  When he looked up I merely put out my hand.  He smiled and got up. 

“Excuse me, girls,” he said. 

“Some date you turned out to be,” I said. “You ask me out and don’t even dance with me once.”

“Sorry, I was a little preoccupied.”

I looked over at the two blondes, who were both shooting daggers at me.  Then I looked up into Paul’s beautiful face, never a hair out of place.  The champagne had definitely loosened my tongue.

“They’re sluts, you know,” I said, eyeing them and holding Paul protectively, thinking I was enlightening him.

“Somebody has to be,” he said, winking at me.

I felt every female eye in the place boring holes in my back.  Dancing in the arms of Paul McCartney was a very big deal in this town.  When the dance ended, I wasn’t quite ready to give him up to the peroxide twins.

“Paul, can I have a champagne?”

“Dunno.  How much have you had?”

“Not much,” I lied.

“Okay, then.”  He took my hand and walked me over to the bar.

“Scotch and coke, and champagne for the lady,” he said.

He took my hand again and walked me back to where our group was sitting.  It had dwindled – John, Ringo, Mick and the rest of the Stones were gone.

“It wandered off and found me,” Paul said, holding up my hand.  “I’m glad too.  Halfway through the chase, I lost interest.”

“Surprising,” George said.

“The night is young,” was Paul’s comeback.

George turned to me.  “You’re having a grand old time, aren’t ya?

“I love you, George,” I said tipsily, and bent over to kiss him.

He pulled me down on his lap and removed the champagne from my hand, passing it to Neil, who passed to Mal, who placed it on a passing waiter’s tray.

“Where’re John and Ritch? I asked

“Not far,” George said.

They came back about twenty minutes later, and resumed their seats beside us.

“All right, then? George asked.

John said, “Knee trembler.”  I didn’t want to know.

Ritch said, “Only had a prelly.  I’m not feeling too well.  Throat’s been bothering me fer days.”

Pushing his hair back, I put my cheek to his forehead.

“You’re most definitely warm,” I said.

“And you, my dear, are most definitely pissed.

“Am not!”

“Are too.  And I’m supposed to be lookin’ after ya’.”

“Like my very own Scarecrow?” I giggled.

“Who?”

“You know.  The Wizard of Oz.  Scarecrow, I love you most of all,” I said, kissing him.

Ring said, “Dorothy is most definitely pissed.  Pissed, but cute.”

“Definitely,” John agreed.

“Johnny, you could be my Tin Man.”

“Then I guess that makes me the Cowardly Lion,” George said.

I looked around.  Paul had already slipped out.

“Right.  Paul can’t play,” I said.

“Sure he can,” John said.  “He can be the Wicked Witch of the West, off on his broomstick.”

***

The next morning, I woke up not remembering much about leaving the club except saying a few goodbyes, Mick kissing my hand and saying I was charming.  I seemed to remember yelling out the limo window that there was no place like home, but why, I didn’t know.  I didn’t remember actually getting home or into the nightgown I was wearing, but I had a distinct recollection of stepping out of my shoes in the hallway and crawling into bed with my dress on.  Yet there it was, neatly draped over the chair, along with my strapless bra.  I wasn’t asking, and I fervently hoped I did it all myself.

When I came out, I spotted my shoes in the hall, so I was not totally off my head.  George and John were out and headed to the kitchen for their cuppa.  They had a photo shoot this morning and I went to bang of Ritchie’s door and heard him groan.  George was about to bang on Paul’s door when it opened quietly and a petite blonde tiptoed out.

“Oh, hi,” she said, and gave John and George a flirty look.  As she passed me, she said, “Which one are you with?”

“Oh, me?  I’m with Paul,” I said.

“What?”

“Oh, yeah.  I told ‘im over and over.  I’m no Lime Street tart, and if it’s that slutty stuff he’ll be wantin’, well he just can go and pay for it on the outside.”

John and George just fell about all over each other, letting it out once they got in the kitchen.

Paul came in a few minutes later, all chipper.

“Mornin’.  Mornin’, luv,” he said as he bent to kiss me.

I held up my hand.  “Don’t kiss me,” I said.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know where that mouth has been!”

John almost choked.

“Uh-hmm, she saw your “guest” on the way out,” George said.

“Oh,” Paul said.  Then he added dismissively, “Just so you know, not there.  Not with that sort, anyway.”

It surprised me a little how cavalier they could be about their encounters with girls.  But, as long as the girls know what they’re getting into, or not into, who was I to judge?

I knew that Paul’s regular girl was Jane Asher, and he that stayed some nights at her parents’ house.  I also knew that George was smitten with that blonde model from the train scene, and some nights he disappeared.  So far, they hadn’t brought either of them here, which was fine with me.  While I was here, I didn’t want to share them with anyone.  I wondered whether they were hiding them from me, or me from them.  Probably, more the latter.

The next day, we would leave for the big tour.  They were half dreading it – Hong Kong, Australia and New Zealand being such long flights and such a grueling schedule.

I, however, could not wait.  I had never been to a Beatles concert, and I was going to be able to see them from the wings.  I was very excited.  I looked at the clock.  Ringo should be up already, or they would be late.  I remembered he wasn’t feeling well last night, something about a sore throat.  I decided to go in and check on him.

The room was dark and he was still in bed.

“Richard, are you awake?”

“Mmmm.”

“How do you feel?”  I sat on the edge of his bed and brushed the hair from his forehead with my hand.  His head was soaking wet with perspiration.

“Ritchie, you’re burning up!”

I pulled down the covers.  His tee shirt and the sheets were damp and he started to shiver.  I ran to the door and yelled, “Guys, get in here.  Hurry!”

They all ran in.

“We need to get a doctor.  He’s very sick.”

John felt him and uncovered him.  He was lying there in his underwear shivering.

“Shit,” John said.

“Who do I call?” I asked.

“Bring him some orange juice and some aspirin,” he said to me.  “You two, help me get ‘im in the shower.”

When I got back, I heard the ruckus going on in the bathroom and I was sick with worry. I pulled the damp sheets from the bed and replaced them. 

“That water’s fuckin’ ice cold,” I heard Ritchie croak.

“It’s not,” Paul said.  “It’s lukewarm.”

“Fuck off.”

“Really, Ring, it’s not cold.  It’s the fever,” John said.

“Aaahhh!  Bastards.”

They must have gotten him in then, because it quieted down a bit.  When they finally came out, he was wrapped in a terry robe and George was trying to wrap a towel around his head.  They were all wet, hair dripping in their faces.

Ritch sat in the chair, shivering.  I brought him the aspirins and the juice.

“Oh no, luv, that juice will tear me throat to ribbons.”

“Open up, let me see.”  I pulled on his jaw.  He opened up and stuck out his tongue.  It was horrible.  His throat looked like it was on fire, and his tonsils were two huge red balloons.

“Look at this,” I said to the others.  They peered in, then made horror faces. 

Paul said, “Ouch!”

“You should have seen a doctor days ago.  Don’t you tell anyone when you’re ill?” I yelled.

“I try not to.  I’ve had enough of ill to last ten lifetimes.” Ringo moaned.  “I kept thinking I felt better, then it would come back.  God, it hurts to talk!”

I brought him some water and made him swallow three aspirins.

“I changed the sheets, get him back in bed,” I ordered.

“Yes, mother,” John said.

George said, “I’ll call Brian and get him to cancel the photo session.”

“No, don’t,” Ritch pleaded.  “I’ll make it.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No really!  The ice shower torture helped.”  He started moving about, slowly collecting socks and underwear from the dresser drawers.  Well, at least he still had his sense of humor.

“I could just wear anything now, right?  The suits are at the session.”

We all looked at each other as if he has lost it now for sure.

“I’ll be fine, now get out so I can get dressed.”

“I’ll go,” I volunteered.  “You stay with him.  Make sure he doesn’t fall over on his fool head.  Can you eat something?”

He shook his head.  “Not a chance.”

I went to the kitchen and buzzed the intercom.

Neil said, “Almost ready.”

“Get down here quick,” I snapped.  “We’ve got trouble.”

Neil shot down quickly and when he saw my face, he said, “What?  What, the day before a tour?  What!”

“Ritchie’s real sick.  I found him practically delirious with fever, and his throat is a disaster.  I don’t think he can travel.”

Neil sat down at the kitchen table and put both hands to his head.

“So what are they doin’?”

“He insists on doing the photo shoot.  I think he thinks if he acts normal everything will be just fine.  But he’s really sick.”

“Brian will have my head if I keep this from him,” Neil said.

“Never mind Brian,” Ringo said, as they all filed into the kitchen.  “I’m doin’ the shoot and don’t be callin’ anyone.”  And that was that.

                                                                ***

The shoot was to be the cover of the Saturday Evening Post, and they were dressed in proper English gentlemen attire, complete with morning coats, bowler hats, canes, striped ties, gloves, the works.  How Ringo was managing to hold up was beyond me.  They looked absolutely fabulous, as always.

I was watching from an out of the way corner, keeping my eyes intently on Ringo.  The hot lights were blaring down.  I thought I saw him sway a bit at one point, and George grabbed his arm.  Next thing I knew, his eyes rolled back and he sank to his knees.

“Neil!” I screamed.

An ambulance was called immediately, even though he came around quickly.  Neil said it was best this way.  He most definitely needed to be in hospital.  Brian and Mal were summoned, and the general consensus among the boys was that the tour would be postponed.

Neil was the only one allowed to ride with him in the ambulance, and we waited at the studio.  Mal arrived first, followed shortly by Brian’s limo.

“First things first,” Brian said.  “I’ve been on the phone with George Martin, who has already been in contact with a capable drummer whom he feels can adapt Ringo’s style fairly well.  The young man is willing, and as soon as we’re apprised of Ringo’s condition, I will issue a statement to the press.  The young man is also quite slim and can probably fit into his suits, which is also a consideration.”

George cut in with, “What?  Absolutely not!  If Ringo’s not going, neither am I.  It’s not a Beatles concert without him.”

“No, of course not,” Brian said, “but with a tour of this magnitude, you can’t cancel at such short notice – no notice really.”

“Are we all so dispensable, Brian, or is it just Ringo, or perhaps even me?  I’m sure you wouldn’t be talking this way if it were John or Paul who were sick,” George bellowed.

Brian colored.  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“That’s bullshit, Brian!  People just come to see us nowadays,” George continued.  “They can’t hear a fuckin’ thing anyway.  If it’s not the four, it shouldn’t be any.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  Brian was actually expecting them to go without Ringo.  I kept my hand over my mouth, holding my tongue and my place.

John cut in. “Brian, you really can’t expect this of us.”

“Look, John.  This is not the old Empire back in Liverpool.  This is hundreds of thousands of tickets sold, hundreds of thousands of disappointed fans.”

John countered with, “Ring gets more mail from America and Australia than any of us.  How about his disappointed fans?”

“I’m sorry.  We would lose all good faith with the promoters if we did this.  I think I know what’s best for you.  I don’t think I’ve done too badly so far, do you?”

John and George walked off together without another word, leaving Brian to try to reason with Paul – usually not an ally – but this time seeming to be the most amenable.  After a time, they walked over to John and George.

I just sat off by myself, worried sick about Ritch, less about his being ill, because I had faith that now that the doctors had him, he would be okay, but because how hurt he would be when he heard this.

Mal came over and rubbed by shoulder and said, “Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “Tell me about it.”

After allowing them to talk for a decent interval, Mal and I got up and joined them.  When I got near, John took my hand.

“You okay?” he asked.

I shook my head no and shrugged.  He just nodded and sighed and said, “Look, we talked about it, and we agreed that we’d treat it like the time George was sick in New York.  We’ll appear in public as just the three of us, and just use this Jimmy guy on stage.  No press conferences for him, no nothin’.  That’s the best way.”

Paul said, “Mal, you set up the drums as far back as you can.”

Mal said, “How about backstage?”  We all managed a smile at that.

“Big difference is, I made it for the shows,” George said. 

Brian said, “As usual, I suppose I’ll be delivering the bad news to Ringo.”

“No thank you, Brian.  You’ve done quite enough for one day.  We’ll tell ‘im ourselves.” George said sarcastically.

John broke in, “And if that was a crack about Pete, Brian, there was no love lost between us and Pete.  It wasn’t Ringo who was in the right place at the right time, but Pete.  He just stayed longer than we intended.  We chose Ringo to take this little merry-go-round ride with us, because he’s one of us.  You understand?”

Brian looked genuinely sorry.

“Brian?” I said.  He looked down at me and raised an eyebrow.

“Would you mind asking Wendy to cancel all my plane tickets and whatever hotel arrangements you had for me?”

John’s mouth was a thin line.  “What, you’re copping out on us too?” he asked.

“John, I can’t go.”

Brian said, “Look, why don’t you wait and see what the doctor says.  Perhaps after a couple of days’ rest…”

“I’m not going.”  My tone left no room for argument.  “If he joins the tour later on, I’ll come with him.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Brian said.

“Good girl,” George said, kissing my forehead.

“Well, come on then,” Paul said.  “Let’s get over to the hospital.”

Brian said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.  I have to meet with this Mr. Nichol and arrange payment terms and a rehearsal with you for later.”

“Fuck it all,’ John said, as we filed out of the studio and into the car.

Outside of Ringo’s hospital room I stopped and sat down in a nearby chair. 

“You guys should talk to him before I come in.  It’s private.”

“I don’t think he’d mind,” George said.

“No, go ahead.”

The nurses were rushing around in a tizzy – coming up from other floors, giggling and pointing at his door.  He was sure to be getting round the clock care.  If I were a nurse I’d be volunteering to keep all night bed vigils. 

It seemed that only a couple of minutes went by when Neil stuck his head out and said to me, “Get in here.”

I walked in to find him sitting up in bed in one of those silly open-backed hospital gowns.  He was on an I.V. drip, and he held open his arms for a hug.

“Sorry if I scared you, luv,” he said.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, hugging him gingerly, being very careful with the tubes, and sniffing back tears.  “What’s all this?” I asked, pointing to the bags dripping into his arm.

He pointed to the first one and said, “Massive doses of antibiotics,” then the second and said, “Gin.”

They all laughed.  I didn’t think anything was funny right now.

“Come on,” he said, squeezing my hand.  “It’s amazin’ what massive doses of wonder drugs injected directly into your veins can do.  I feel better already.”

He didn’t look any better.  He looked tired and weak and pale.  The door opened and a doctor came in.

“Mr. Starr, the initial tests indicate…”  He stopped abruptly when he saw the bedside guests.  “Oh, well, hello.  It’s certainly a pleasure to meet…”

John cut him off.  “Save it, doc.  We just want to know how our kid is.”

“Oh, yes.”  The doctor redirected his attention to Ringo.  “Well, of course it’s tonsillitis and pharyngitis, which is just a fancy word for severely infected throat.  The only thing for it will be the antibiotics and complete bed rest for at least a week.  It will have to be here in hospital, as you will need the I.V. drip and I don’t think you will be able to eat much of anything.  It goes without saying that travel is completely out of the question, and eventually, when the infection is clear and you are stronger, those tonsils will most definitely have to be removed.  In a couple of months, perhaps.  We’re still waiting on a couple more tests, but I don’t think it’s anything more to be concerned about.”

The doctor excused himself and said he’d return later.

“Well, nothin’ else for it,” Ring said.  “I christen you John, Paul, George and Jim.”

They all winced.  “Listen fellers, I’m really sorry about all this.”

The others all protested with, “Stop it,” and, “You’re sick.”

“Yeah, but if I hadn’t tried to make light of it, willing it to go away, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this.”

John said, “Yeah, Ring, you really aren’t half stupid!”

“Is that how you speak to an invalid?” Ring asked, holding up his tubed arm.

“How else, ya’ fookin’ ejitt!” John said, mussing his hair.  “And aren’t you the sly boots, getting’ out of some of these gigs.  I’m sorry I didn’t think of it first.”

I was proud of John for lightening his mood.  Ritch then turned his attention to me.

“And you, missy prim.  You’re goin’ on this trip.  We invited you on a tour and there’s nothin’ you can do here, and besides…”

“Oh, really?” I cut in.  “If you think I’m leaving you here with the army of nurses that is organizing outside this door as we speak, then you really are an ejitt!!”

Neil laughed.  “She’s not lying, Ring.”

Just then, a nurse came in with a chart and a thermometer.  Blonde and young, of course. 

Ring asked, “Where you puttin’ that, luv?”

She smiled and placed it under his tongue.  While she held his wrist, supposedly taking his pulse, she was making eye contact with George.

“Oh,” Ritch said dejectedly, “maybe you should be takin’ his pulse.”

I gave him a look that said don’t make me hit you.

About twenty minutes later, Brian came in looking very put out.  “Did you people have any trouble getting in?” he asked.

“No, we came right through,” Mal said.

“Well, I suppose right after you arrived, word got out.  The hospital is surging with fans and police.  I almost couldn’t make it through.  I’m afraid I don’t have very good news.  It seems that in the hour between talking with Jimmy Nichol and seeing you at the studio, he grew a top-notch manager who is making the most outlandish demands.  First, it was excessive amounts of money, now it’s all the publicity this opportunity can afford him.  He wants to be photographed with you, be part of the press conferences – in essence, wants to be a Beatle until Ringo re-joins you.

“Ey, Ring, you better take down that bag and drink it straight,” Paul said.

“Brian, we told you how we want it.” John said.  George just shook his head disgustedly.

“I’m sorry, boys, it’s too late to go any other way.  I’m having him meet you at Abbey Road for a short rehearsal.”  Brian turned to Ritch.  “Forgive me, Ringo.  I’ve already spoken to your doctor, but how are you feeling?”

Ringo said, “I’ve been a hell of a lot better, Brian.”  His tone was one that I’d never heard from him before – not just showing his obvious physical pain, but his annoyance with their manager and the whole shitty situation.  It seemed to be a side of him that almost never came out, and it looked really painful for him.

“Ringo,” Brian said, “I’m very sorry for all this and I’ll be staying in London as well.  When you’re feeling up to it, perhaps in time for the first leg in Australia, I’ll make the trip with you.  Will that be okay?”

Ritch seemed a little bit appeased and John looked relieved.  “Thank you, Brian,” Ringo said.

Brian said, “Lee, I’ve alerted the hospital management and police guards to honor your tour pass credentials so you can get in and out here.  Here are a few extra in case you need them.  They have your name on a list as well, so carry your passport at all times.  I’ve got a press conference downstairs.  I’ll meet you at the studio with the contract.  Do you believe this, they want a contract?”

“Yeah,” John said, “it’s what comes with havin’ managers.”

I was beginning to feel sorry for Brian too.

They were saying their goodbyes to Ringo, saying take care mate, patting his back, rubbing his head, anything to avoid any real show of emotion.  But Ritchie was by nature an emotional guy and wouldn’t let them leave the room without giving them a proper send-off.

“Listen, do me a favor and tell this Jim to bring his own fuckin’ drums.  Have a safe tour,” he said, slapping George’s back and then hugging him.  “Thanks mate.”

“For all the good it did,” George said, hugging back.

“I appreciate it anyway.  No black eyes this time!”

John came over and hugged him too and said, “Even though I’ll be with another, I’ll be thinking of you,” and batted his eyelashes. 

“Oh, shove off!” Ritch said, pushing him away.

“Neil, Mal, take care of these guys.  Since Brian won’t be there, don’t let them get too wild.”

Paul said, “Who are you talkin’ to?  You know they’re worse than us.  For every one we get, they get three!”

Again, I decided I didn’t want to know.

“And you, miss.  I’m tired, and so I want you to go off now and have a meal with them.  Then, I want you to suss out this Jim feller for me and tell me what a real prick he is.  That should speed up my recovery.”

He hugged me close and whispered in my ear, “Thanks for stayin’.  You’re an angel.

And I love you.”

I pulled away and looked at him.  He looked in my eyes and nodded his head.  “Now get out of ‘ere and let me get some sleep.”

My eyes filled with tears.

“Out,” he said.  “And I don’t want to see you again until after they leave.” And he shooed us all toward the door.

In the elevator on the way down, John asked, “What was that all about?”

“Nothing, he’s delirious and a little emotional,” I said. 

But my lip quivered and my eyes filled again, and John held my head against his chest and said, “All right, don’t tell me.”

I searched John’s coat pockets for a handkerchief.  He always had one, and I blew my nose.

“You guys sure Ritchie’s not part Italian?” I asked.

The elevator filled with guffaws and John said, “Sure, and I know just what part it is!”

***

We had a quiet meal at the Savoy and then headed over to the studio.  Brian and George Martin were already there, as was Jimmy Nichol and his manager.  Another elf.  He looked like an elf.

He made an attempt to comb his rather short hair forward, Beatle-style, but you could tell he didn’t usually wear his hair that way.  I supposed he was nice enough, but seeing him next to my guys made my skin crawl.  Being a Beatle was not a job to be learned.

They ran through the numbers they expected to do.  Paul tried to explain to Jim that he should keep an eye on him – body language and cues as to when to come in, as he would not be hearing a damn thing anyway.  John teased him a bit, trying to put him at ease.

George Martin came over and asked, “How’s it going, Jim?”

“It’s getting better,” was his reply.

“Good, so can we get the fuck home now?  I have some last minute packing and it’s been a long day,” George said.

Brian said the limo would pick Jim up first tomorrow and come for them at noon.  They all muttered agreements and we left with Mal.  Neil remained with Brian for instructions on all his last minute responsibilities, which would be considerably more that usual on this trip.

Arriving home, we all felt drained and we just separated silently to our rooms.  I had already packed, and my bags stood near the door, all ready to go.  “Oh well,” I said, dragging myself to the bathroom for a shower.

When I came out in my nightshirt, I found John lying on my bed in a white tee shirt, jeans and bare feet.  He was wearing his glasses and his hair was wet.  He looked yummy.  I smiled at him.  “Hey, what’s up?”

“Come ‘ere, woman.  I need to cuddle.”

He held up his arm and I curled up under it and rested my head on his chest and hugged him.  “How’s that?”

“You’ll do,” he said, kissing the top of my head.  Then his tone became a little more serious.  “Are you sure you’ll be okay here alone?  You know, I quite forgot about the workmen coming in every day.”

“So did I. But I’m sure it will be fine.  I’ll be at the hospital all afternoon anyway.”

“Bring a deck of cards.”

I laughed.  “Good idea.”

“You know, Brian has plenty of extra rooms.  There will be boys in and out there too, but at least your virtue will be safe.”

“Then why would I want to be there?”

“Oh you really are gonna get it, miss.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“How many years since we met?” he leered at me.

“Two weeks,” I said as I took off his glasses and put them down on the nightstand.

“Amazin’,” he said, lifting my chin, his mouth taking mine, his tongue penetrating my soul.

***

Next thing I knew, it was daylight and my eyes flew open to George’s voice saying,

“Do I thump you now, John, or wait till we’re on the plane?”

John and I were still holding each other, our legs intertwined.  We both giggled.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said.

“Really, George.  It’s not what it looks like.  Or rather, it’s exactly what it looks like, but nothing more,” I explained.

“Oh, I know.  Otherwise I’d have thumped him already.  Come on, get up.  It’s gettin’ late.”

I threw something on, brushed my teeth quickly, and went off to the kitchen to make the tea, dreading the goodbye scene, but feeling really content knowing that John and I had spent the night holding each other.

As they grabbed some tea and something to eat, I let the limo driver in to pick up the bags, Neil and Mal right behind him.

“Are they ready?” Neil asked.

“Just about,” I told him.

“Tell them I’ve got everything, passports, the lot, just get themselves down.”

I received a hug from each of them.  I kissed them both and wished them a safe trip.

I stood in the foyer waiting.  George was first and gathered me up in a bear hug.

“We’ll call you, I promise.  Every night.”

“I won’t hold you to that,” I said, the tears spilling over again, the ones I swore I wouldn’t allow.

“Come on, the time will go quickly,” George said.

“I know,” I said as we kissed.  “Safe trip, luv.  And  you, Mr. McCartwheel…”

He arched an eyebrow in anticipation and I pulled him to me.

“Just in case I don’t see you before then, you have a happy (kiss), happy (kiss),

happy (kiss) birthday.”

He pulled me up against him and covered my mouth with his and treated me to the best kiss we ever shared.

John put his hands between us and said “All right, all right,” and we both pushed him away at the same time.

John told the others, “You two get the lift, I’ll be right out.”  We stood there staring at each other for a few seconds.  He cleared his throat.

“There’s plenty of cash in the desk.  Have the doorman call taxis for you, and don’t wander the streets alone.  Understand?  Brian will look after you,” he said.

I nodded.  Then we just hugged each other quietly and gave a quick kiss on the lips, last night having been perfect and more than enough for a while.  Then he took a pack of cigarettes from the desk and was out the door with a wave.

I was left with a lonely empty feeling in the pit of my stomach; then the phone rang.

When I said hello, I heard Paul’s and George’s voices singing, “Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you, tomorrow I’ll miss you…” then John yelling  “That’s the only thing you’ll be missing about forty bloody times this week.”

“Goofballs! I love you,” I yelled.  “Now get out of here!”

The phone rang again.  “Do I have to come down and put you in the car? I yelled into the phone.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, Brian, sorry.  They just left. Everything went off okay.”

“Good.  Look, Ringo’s parents are arriving today to visit him.”

“Oh, okay.  Do you want them to stay here?  The workmen are coming in tomorrow, you know.”

“I know.  I’ve arranged for a hotel and a car for them.  Maybe you can drop off two

passes for them at the Savoy before you go to the hospital?”

“Of course.  Anything else?”

“No, thank you, dear.  I’ll meet you there later,” and he rang off.

I decided I’d have to soften him up a little.  I wondered what he really thought about my being here.  This would be a great opportunity to get to know each other.

***

I peered into his room.  He was sound asleep.  I tiptoed in and sat down as quietly as possible.  His fringe was combed back from his forehead and his nose didn’t look nearly so big.  In fact, it was a perfectly lovely nose, and I wished they’d leave him alone about it.  He looked like my sweet Ritchie angel and I wanted to jump him and kiss him everywhere.  I felt a dull ache in my chest, I loved him so much.

After about ten minutes, one beautiful blue orb popped open.  He smiled and reached out his hand.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey, yourself,” I said, getting up and kissing him.  “Any better?” I asked, as I stroked his hair.

“A little.  But I think they put somethin’ in the tube.  Knocks the shit outta me.”

“You need to rest, drummer boy.  You have too much nervous energy.  They must have slipped you something.  Enjoy it.”

“So tell me about Jimmy the great.”

“As it happens, he’s a very nice guy.  They’ll probably make mince meat out of him.”

He laughed.

“He looks just ridiculous next to them and he’s totally off on the backbeat.  I watched the run-through and I could tell the guys gave up by the third number – too little time.  George was downright rude.”

“You’re not just sayin’ all this because I’m pathetic and miserable?” he asked.

“You’ll see him for yourself later on the evening news.  We should catch them landing.”

I  held up the newspaper with their picture on the front (with Ringo, of course) the headline – “OH NO – NO RINGO?”

“See?  The fans are outraged.”

“You know, I got up about three in the morning to go to the loo and looked out the window, and there were about a hundred buggers camped out across the street.”

“You should see it now,” I said.  “Oh, I almost forgot.  Your parents are coming.”

“When?”

“Now.  Today sometime.”

“Elsie’s such a worry wart.”

“She only gave birth to you.”

About an hour,, one doctor and three different nurses later, the door opened slowly and Mr. & Mrs. Graves walked in, looks of concern on their faces.

“Ey Mum, Harry, comon’ in.”  They looked relieved when they actually saw him and realized he was in one piece and in good spirits.  Behind them was a petite, dark haired girl, my age or not much older.  After Ritchie kissed his mum and shook hands with Harry, he said rather flatly, “Mo, what are you doin’ ‘ere?”

“You’re sick, Ritchie.  I had to come,” she said as she hugged him timidly. 

Harry asked, “How are you feeling, son?” 

Ritch said, “Little better today but very tired.  Think they slipped me a mickey.”

Elsie looked at me and smiled.  “Hello, dear.  And how do you come to know our Ritchie?”

I took a breath.  “Well…”

“She works for Brian,” Ritch interrupted.  I was a little stunned, but just smiled.

“Oh, and you’re looking after him, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.   It’s a pleasure.  My name’s Lee, by the way.”  I shook hands with each of them.  The Mo person reluctantly shook my hand.

Elsie said, “And you’re American, as well.  Ritchie loves America.  He was going to emigrate to Texas.  He always loved cowboys.”

“Yes, he told me.  I could just see him in a ten gallon hat,” I laughed.

Elsie and Harry laughed delightedly.  “Mo” continued to eye me suspiciously.  Well, the feelings were mutual, sister!

“Isn’t that funny, Maureen?” Elsie said.

Maureen.  I knew this name.  Then it hit me.  I had read it in a fan magazine.  Maureen Cox from the Cavern.  Kissed Paul on a dare, but ended up dating “her Ritchie.”

John had said he had a steady girlfriend through Art College, Cynthia, and kept up the relationship through the Hamburg days and beyond, but decided to make a clean break when they left Liverpool.  He said she was a great girl, but not “the one.”  Besides, he was too young to settle down and not a very good boyfriend to her.  In fact, he was a “right bastard,” he said.  The temptations on the road make you a bastard.

Seems little miss doe eyes couldn’t take the same hint.  I thought about it for a minute and decided that I couldn’t say that I blamed her.  I wondered how far she was willing to go in this pursuit (and how far they already went).  I’m sure it was a lot farther than he ever went with me.

“Uh, I’m going for a cup of coffee, so you can visit properly, Ringo,” I said.

“You don’t ‘ave to go, luv,” he urged.  Maureen bristled when she heard him call me “luv.”

“Yes, I do.  It’s wonderful to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Graves.  Maureen.”

“We’re Elsie and Harry, dear,” she said.

“Elsie and Harry, thank you,” I said, and kissed Elsie’s cheek.

A small smile played about Ritchie’s lips as he watched me.  I looked at him and said, “I’ll see you later.”

“Lee…”

Go Read Part Three!

Lena King is 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.

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