Lovely Rita
Chapter 11
Waking up in the pale, weak sunlight streaming in through the net curtain, I thought I was back in my Uni halls. I thought it had all been a dream. Looking around me threw all of those thoughts out of the window, however.
To start with, I was covered not by a duvet, as one might expect, but by a jacket very similar to that which a certain Beatle that I was fond of had been seen wearing in a few photographs back in the day. Secondly, the room was filled with music memorabilia, records and vinyl of artists from Little Richard to Elvis Presley, that you just wouldn't find in any of the rooms of my friends at Uni. They much preferred Lady Gaga and such, and this most definitely wasn't my bedroom. That made me laugh to myself - how different I seemed to be in comparison to my super-mainstream buddies. The small window was cluttered with papers and pens, and I stretched dramatically (as a drama student would) and shoved myself out of bed to have a gander.
I blinked into what light there was, still wiping evidence of sleep from my eyes, and picked up one of the sheets of paper.
"Shit!" I sort of whispered, and instantly threw it back down again and covered my eyes. I peeked through and picked up the piece of paper once again, and looked at it properly. It was the hand written lyrics to an early version of 'Honey Pie'. It hadn't been refined to what it would be finally, but it was so incredible to be holding it in my hands. I was sure I wasn't in a dream. This all felt real, in a surreal kind of way. I put it down, knowing I probably wasn't meant to be reading secret song sheets.
I was still clad in my gear from yesterday, and so made do with that. I bundled my incredibly long hair into a bundle on my head and put my ear to the door. I heard quiet voices, and I was quite nervous about going out. It had been my first real sleep since arriving in this place (I want to say dream, but I really wasn't sure) and I actually had my emotions in check this time. I was thinking straight and realised how crazy this was.
Looking in the mirror before I left, I straightened out my clothes, wiped all the make-up residue off of my face and made sure I looked presentable for what could be two of The Beatles - if I hadn't dreamt it all up. I picked up the jacket I had been left with and turned for the door.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. I was immediately hit by the strong, distinct smell of a Full English brekkie cooking, and that memorable aroma of instant coffee. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent, as if trying to store it away for a later memory.
I walked down the hall and looked around cautiously. What if I had come home with some lunatic and imagined it?! I shook my head and breathed raggedly as I rounded the corner.
There was the young Paul McCartney, tall and beautiful, stood in the kitchen making himself and, I assumed, Ringo and I breakfast and coffee. I stood there for a while, not knowing what to say, before Paul turned around and smiled that babyface smile at me. I melted inside, but had practice as an actress of staying composed.
"What are you doing stood over there? Come here and help me cook stuff up!" He smiled, beckoning me over. I smiled back and walked over.
Paul threw an arm over my shoulder.
"How was your sleep? Feel a bit less muddled now? You were a bit of a wreck all yesterday. Hormones all over the place." Paul chuckled. I smiled and pushed him away jokingly.
"It was good, thanks. Your guest room is very comfortable, I know that for something! Here's your jacket, by the way. It was warm, thank you." I smiled as I passed him back his jacket. He looked at me with his sunken eyes and both sets met for a few quiet seconds, before he thanked me and threw it over his shoulder. "This smells so good! You're a great cook if my senses are correct, Paul."
"Yeah, well it's non-meat, so I'm hoping you'll be okay with it." He asked, as if I wouldn't be.
"Are you kidding? A Beatles fan that isn't a vegetarian? What do you know McCartney. Pfft." I said sarcastically, grinning up at him with eyes that were as innocent as a baby's, but naughty as a misbehaving child in what they held. I knew a comment like that would piss him off, and this light hearted flirting delighted me.
"Yeah yeah, alright so I wasn't right. This is the first and only time though." He said, poking his tongue out at me as he set about preparing more breakfast stuff. "Ringo, grubs up! Hurry, got to get to studio soon!" Paul yelled.
Sitting down on the sofa to eat felt really surreal. I was sat between Paul and Ringo. I know I keep on, but they're two of The Beatles. It's insane. It doesn't happen! Everytime I glanced across to Paul, my heart skipped a beat. I'd fallen in love with the man ever since my love affair with The Beatles started. He was always my preference, though I loved them all.
His dark, swooping hair was so touchable. It was one of those things you'd want to stroke during a night of cuddling watching movies. His eyes told a thousand stories, and the great brown orbs that teenage girls swooned over now looked at me. Just Rita from Liverpool College of Art. Just me...
"You looking forward to meeting John and George today then, Rita?" Ringo asked from the other side. He had surely noticed me continuously looking to the other side to look at Paul and wanted to change the subject, mentally.
"Oh, Christ yes! I mean, it's insane meeting you two, but even moreso them, considering-" I started, then stopped myself, remembering that none of that had happened yet and they had it all to look forward to, said the sarcastic part of my brain. The fact that I stopped and put down my cutlery obviously struck a chord in McCartney, who had too stopped eating and turned to see what I was going to say. Ringo leaned towards me.
"considering what, love?" He probed.
"Nothing." I replied, picking up my fork and shoving some food around my plate.
"I'm curious now, dunno about you Ringo?" Paul said, looking up at Ringo concernedly, as I did little but push food around my plate with a less than enthusiastic face on.
"Honestly, I think it's best I tell them in my own way than me just blurt it all to you two goons now." I said, trying to lighten the mood a bit. I poked my tongue out to show I was a bit more jovial, but still I left the remaining food on my plate, thanking Paul.
"Right! You, get some make-up on and brush your hair properly, and you put some trousers on. Please." Paul directed, first to me, then to Ringo. Obviously. I smiled, before shoving myself off of the sofa and sorting myself out in the room I had spent the night in.
To start with, I was covered not by a duvet, as one might expect, but by a jacket very similar to that which a certain Beatle that I was fond of had been seen wearing in a few photographs back in the day. Secondly, the room was filled with music memorabilia, records and vinyl of artists from Little Richard to Elvis Presley, that you just wouldn't find in any of the rooms of my friends at Uni. They much preferred Lady Gaga and such, and this most definitely wasn't my bedroom. That made me laugh to myself - how different I seemed to be in comparison to my super-mainstream buddies. The small window was cluttered with papers and pens, and I stretched dramatically (as a drama student would) and shoved myself out of bed to have a gander.
I blinked into what light there was, still wiping evidence of sleep from my eyes, and picked up one of the sheets of paper.
"Shit!" I sort of whispered, and instantly threw it back down again and covered my eyes. I peeked through and picked up the piece of paper once again, and looked at it properly. It was the hand written lyrics to an early version of 'Honey Pie'. It hadn't been refined to what it would be finally, but it was so incredible to be holding it in my hands. I was sure I wasn't in a dream. This all felt real, in a surreal kind of way. I put it down, knowing I probably wasn't meant to be reading secret song sheets.
I was still clad in my gear from yesterday, and so made do with that. I bundled my incredibly long hair into a bundle on my head and put my ear to the door. I heard quiet voices, and I was quite nervous about going out. It had been my first real sleep since arriving in this place (I want to say dream, but I really wasn't sure) and I actually had my emotions in check this time. I was thinking straight and realised how crazy this was.
Looking in the mirror before I left, I straightened out my clothes, wiped all the make-up residue off of my face and made sure I looked presentable for what could be two of The Beatles - if I hadn't dreamt it all up. I picked up the jacket I had been left with and turned for the door.
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. I was immediately hit by the strong, distinct smell of a Full English brekkie cooking, and that memorable aroma of instant coffee. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent, as if trying to store it away for a later memory.
I walked down the hall and looked around cautiously. What if I had come home with some lunatic and imagined it?! I shook my head and breathed raggedly as I rounded the corner.
There was the young Paul McCartney, tall and beautiful, stood in the kitchen making himself and, I assumed, Ringo and I breakfast and coffee. I stood there for a while, not knowing what to say, before Paul turned around and smiled that babyface smile at me. I melted inside, but had practice as an actress of staying composed.
"What are you doing stood over there? Come here and help me cook stuff up!" He smiled, beckoning me over. I smiled back and walked over.
Paul threw an arm over my shoulder.
"How was your sleep? Feel a bit less muddled now? You were a bit of a wreck all yesterday. Hormones all over the place." Paul chuckled. I smiled and pushed him away jokingly.
"It was good, thanks. Your guest room is very comfortable, I know that for something! Here's your jacket, by the way. It was warm, thank you." I smiled as I passed him back his jacket. He looked at me with his sunken eyes and both sets met for a few quiet seconds, before he thanked me and threw it over his shoulder. "This smells so good! You're a great cook if my senses are correct, Paul."
"Yeah, well it's non-meat, so I'm hoping you'll be okay with it." He asked, as if I wouldn't be.
"Are you kidding? A Beatles fan that isn't a vegetarian? What do you know McCartney. Pfft." I said sarcastically, grinning up at him with eyes that were as innocent as a baby's, but naughty as a misbehaving child in what they held. I knew a comment like that would piss him off, and this light hearted flirting delighted me.
"Yeah yeah, alright so I wasn't right. This is the first and only time though." He said, poking his tongue out at me as he set about preparing more breakfast stuff. "Ringo, grubs up! Hurry, got to get to studio soon!" Paul yelled.
Sitting down on the sofa to eat felt really surreal. I was sat between Paul and Ringo. I know I keep on, but they're two of The Beatles. It's insane. It doesn't happen! Everytime I glanced across to Paul, my heart skipped a beat. I'd fallen in love with the man ever since my love affair with The Beatles started. He was always my preference, though I loved them all.
His dark, swooping hair was so touchable. It was one of those things you'd want to stroke during a night of cuddling watching movies. His eyes told a thousand stories, and the great brown orbs that teenage girls swooned over now looked at me. Just Rita from Liverpool College of Art. Just me...
"You looking forward to meeting John and George today then, Rita?" Ringo asked from the other side. He had surely noticed me continuously looking to the other side to look at Paul and wanted to change the subject, mentally.
"Oh, Christ yes! I mean, it's insane meeting you two, but even moreso them, considering-" I started, then stopped myself, remembering that none of that had happened yet and they had it all to look forward to, said the sarcastic part of my brain. The fact that I stopped and put down my cutlery obviously struck a chord in McCartney, who had too stopped eating and turned to see what I was going to say. Ringo leaned towards me.
"considering what, love?" He probed.
"Nothing." I replied, picking up my fork and shoving some food around my plate.
"I'm curious now, dunno about you Ringo?" Paul said, looking up at Ringo concernedly, as I did little but push food around my plate with a less than enthusiastic face on.
"Honestly, I think it's best I tell them in my own way than me just blurt it all to you two goons now." I said, trying to lighten the mood a bit. I poked my tongue out to show I was a bit more jovial, but still I left the remaining food on my plate, thanking Paul.
"Right! You, get some make-up on and brush your hair properly, and you put some trousers on. Please." Paul directed, first to me, then to Ringo. Obviously. I smiled, before shoving myself off of the sofa and sorting myself out in the room I had spent the night in.