Lovely Rita

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep...

The sound of my alarm cut through my banging head like a chainsaw. A loud one. I scrunched my face up.

The first thing I did when I woke up was check for Paul. By force of habit of course. To my dismay, he obviously wasn't there. I clutched onto the sheets for a moment and breathed in the scent of my jumper. It smelt of Paul's aftershave. Old fashioned and wonderful. It felt like home to me.

I sat up to be greeted with a pounding headache. I put my hand to my head and felt the hugest lump protruding from the back of my head.

"Ughh..." I groaned as I pressed the bruise. I shifted myself to look in the mirror.

"Fucking hell..." I mumbled inaudibly. My reflection stared back at me with blotted black circles around the eyes and crusted, dried blood around my mouth. I looked dead, in simpler terms. I touched my face, checking if it was real. It most definitely was.

I looked at the time. My stupid alarm had woken me up so much earlier than I had intended. It was probably a good thing; I was a real state and didn't want to rush gettign ready for this audition. I shuddered. I just couldn't be bothered. Anything but being with Paul seemed horrible to me today. I was hurt, in pain and missing him. And I felt awful for shunning Pete yesterday. Poor lad.

Washing my face clean in the mirror was like washing memories away. I watched the blobs of mascara and blood trickle away down the sink, and felt like my time in the sixties was falling away with it. I didn't cry. I think I was all cried out.

I slung my little bag accross my shoulder and checked myself once again in the mirror. I wore a sweater and a pair of black, skintight wet-look leggings. If my acting didn't appeal then sex appeal would. I slipped on a pair of kitten heels in a black shade to match my leggings and suit the monochromatic theme I was going for today (it was like going to a funeral) with my white sweater. My hair was swept up into an untidy bouffant-bundle type thing, and I'd pinned it with hair chopsticks. My make-up was once again refined and I looked like the girls I'd seen back in the day. I thought I'd go for authentic.

*****

The BBC studio was asylum-like.

White walls, doors and ceilings tiled with even more white made me think I was insane, or on my way to a padded cell. I didn't like the building one bit.

There were people walking around attatched to mobile phones, iPads, iPods... I felt like an outsider. I'd left mine at home, I didn't have time for it now I'd experienced life without them. It was so much more thrilling. These office workers were like zombies. I held my script in my hand and just observed them wandering aimlessly, typing aimlessly, the tapping of keys like a bass drum in my pounding head.

I sat with a few other girls who weren't as authentically dressed as I, but I loved getting into character. However much I wasn't feeling it. I was lost, rolling up my script, staring into the pattern on the floor and being hypnotised by the tapping, and so I only realised I was being called up when the girl in a large coat next to me nudged me. I looked up, startled, and smiled at her kindly before leaving my pathetically small seat. It was like primary school. Or prison.

A small woman, stout and rather wide, wearing a white shirt that was buttoned to the neck led me through a big white door. I thanked her as she held the door for me and walked out. I was now in front of 3 men, one of which being the guy from the other day. I smiled at him.

"Ah, Rita! Vice president of the official Liverpool Beatles fan club, brilliant musician and stunner, as you can see!" He said, mainly to the other people rather than greeting me. "In your own time, my love." He smiled, gesturing to the stage area.

I stood and smiled my beauty queen smile, before coughing as if to prepare myself.

"I was just seventeen at the time. I'd been given a ticket to a concert in London to see my favourite band, The Beatles, in 1964." I paused, for dramatic effect. "Of course, a few of my girlfriends were going. We were the kind of girls you wouldn't see screaming, but the ones at the stage door afterwards, going to congratulate and compliment the lads on an excellent show and their talent. We'd always been more into the music, though I did have a soft spot for..." I paused, fearing I'd cry. I hadn't read it properly as I knew we were allowed the script while there. I looked at the letters on the white page. They didn't seem to be forming any word, just a jumbled mess. A jumbled mess that meant everything to me. I managed to carry on.

"...Paul." I stuttered out. "I finally got to meet him that night, and it was incredible. He kissed my cheek, and I told him he'd inspired me to learn bass guitar and piano. I didn't want to act like the majority while I was there, but when I got home and I was alone... I cried." I said, bursting into tears in front of the three men. One of the other judges got up to comfort me, but I nudged him away from my shoulder, still not wanting to be touched. I threw my script down on the floor with a heavy thud, and stalked out of the room, grabbing my bag that lay by the white doors on the way out.

I wiped the tears away violently as I stalked back towards that corner by the bollard.

"Fuck memories." I whispered to myself.

"I want my Paul back." I didn't care what would happen if I went back a second time.

It was worth it just so that I could see him again.