There was a lump at my throat the size of ten marbles as my feet pat against the hard wood floor in a rhythm.

Pat-pat-pat PAT pat-pat-pat PAT.

My heart pounding against my chest like I was about to be released into a lion's den. In reality, I was waiting nervously at Mr. Brian Epstein's office in London, England. Yes, I did say Brian Epstein! The Brian Epstein who manages The Beatles, aka, the most popular music group as of right now.
It is early-1964 and I am here, 21 years old, waiting to INTERVIEW each of the Fab Four.
Would you like to know why? I really can't wrap my head around it myself, but I will try for you.
My name is Harper Jane Mooney and I'll start this off by saying that I am, in fact, an American. I moved to London from New York one year ago and immediately got a job at The Daily Mail. My boss Angie took me under her wing and grew to like me for my "originality" and "persuasiveness."

That's why, when everyone demanded to know about The Beatles' departure to America, she offered ME the job. I'm not going to lie, I initially rejected and told her to give the role to someone else in a state of fret. Can you imagine the pressure? Thousands-millions- of people would read my writing and take note of every little word I use... I didn't like the idea of all that attention being drawn to myself.
Yet, here I am, awaiting the manager of The Beatles to lead me into a room full of the most famous boys in Britain.

There was a hoard of screaming girls and strings of photographers outside the building. The Beatles were everyone's favorite band, their tunes constantly playing on the stereo. "From Me to You," "Love Me Do," and "I Want to Hold Your Hand" among the many. My favorite tune, admittedly, was "Hold Me Tight" by Paul McCartney himself. But, of course, I wasn't alone in that boat. Basically any song Paul wrote his name on was everybody's favorite song.

That's when I begin to feel insecure. Maybe I should've worn something a little more sophisticated. I looked down at my navy dress with a frown. Is this too casual? I mean, I'm wearing a nice white jacket, but maybe I should've worn a nicer all together ensemble. Plus my blonde hair was just down in a braid. And my shoes, old Mary Jane's. Oh my gooooooosh, Angie, why?
"Ms. Mooney?" Someone's male voice rung from the elevator doors in the midst of my existential crisis.
Just like that I snapped out of my trance and out of my chair.

"Hello!" I yelped out loud, biting my lip right afterward, feeling a wee bit embarrassed at my blatant surprise.
This made Mr. Epstein crack a smile as he strolled over to me in his nice ironed suit. He extended a hand and grinned at me. "Hello."
I took it graciously, grinning back at him like it was school picture day. "It's so very nice to meet you."
He nodded, slipping his hand back into his pocket. "You as well. So I understand you wish to discuss a few things with my men?"
"Yes," I told him, pulling out my notepad and handing it over to him. "You can, um, look it over, I guess. I don't know... I'm terribly nervous."
Mr. Epstein chuckled again, his eyes scanning over my scrawl. "You shouldn't be, love, the boys are good folk."
"Oh, I'm sure," I rambled even further, biting my bottom lip and chewing it momentarily. "It's just, well, they're The Beatles." A nervous laugh escaped me as I shrugged at the man. How else could I phrase that?
He handed me back my pad, a smirk on his face. "S'okay, Ms. Mooney, try to look at them more like a bunch of lucky lads rather than 'The Beatles,'" Mr. Epstein air-quoted. "Your questions look divine. I'm sure you'll get good answers."
"I hope so."
"Well, enough beating 'round the bush. Let me go introduce you, doll." He said, turning and beginning to waltz towards a big polished door.
That's when I started to hyperventilate again, the reality of interviewing each of the Fab Four still manifesting in my mind. "Oh Lord."
This is really happening! I turned around and began to pray to God for my success. A promotion from a mere editor to supervising editor at the Mail was all leaning on this.

I'm not going to say I'm not a bit excited about this, of course I'm excited to sit down with them all. I haven't even told my family back home that I was here doing this. My sisters both idolize The Beatles. My younger, Lisa, being sixteen praised Paul for all that he was worth, while my older sister Karen loved George. I was neutral, never participating in their little games. Besides, it was only just a month before I moved out here that The Beatles seeped into American radio and seeped into their hearts. Bottom line, they'd both freak out if I shared with them this opportunity.
I ran my hands down my dress a good twenty times before Mr. Epstein called out to me. "Ms. Mooney?"
I spun around, my face red as I broke out in a nervous smile. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
He grinned again. "Don't be so nervous. It's going to be okay."
Then he opened the door.
"Hey!" Mr. Epstein yelled out into the room. "Get ready, chaps, are you ready? The Daily Mail is here."
That's when I tiptoed behind him daintily, peeking my head around the corner while my heart pounded wildly. Holy.
I hadn't been in the room fifteen seconds until someone had addressed me.

"Well, the Daily Mail is one pretty bird!" Shouted the iconic snarky voice of the man you could identify miles away, John Lennon. JOHN LENNON.
"Oh," I broke out into a bashful grin, stepping into the room a little bit more. "Hello there, Mr. Lennon."

What else could I say when the swing-leader just called me pretty? What would you say? "Thanks"? I wasn't that self-confident.
He grinned back at me, showing off his white grill. "The likes of you can call me John."
"Quit it John, would you? She's not one of your broads." Ringo Starr interjected just then, rolling his eyes at John. He flashed a crooked smile in my direction.
That's when I took in the he and the other three masterminds, strewn around the casual room.
John scoffed loudly, itching his nose. His long pointed nose that the world has come to appreciate. Long legs were splayed out on a cushion before him, his head propped up by his crossed arms. John appeared so informal and simple for a man of his rank. Like a normal person and that had surprised me a little.
George Harrison appeared a little less carefree than John, his hands interlocked in his lap. He appeared a little dorky at first glance, but once you looked at Mr. Harrison, he was an undeniably sexy man. My older sister always had a crush on him, like I blabbed. If I'd told her I'd be interviewing him, she'd have flown down to London in a heartbeat.
He caught my glance and smiled a sweet closed smile. I think I liked him.
"Hello," Mr. Harrison nodded his head at me. "What shall we call you?"
"Oh! Uh," I gulped, peering down at my feet in embarrassment. "Um, you can call me, uh..." I had forgotten my own life in that moment, my nerves squashing my mind.
There was a delighted laugh from the other side of the room. "Don't be so nervous, love, we won't bite."
I already knew who it was by the light ring of his tone. I peeked back up at Paul McCartney who was looking at me with big eyes.
"Harper." I blurted, blinking at him. "Harper Mooney."
The heartthrob Brit smiled wider at my words. "Well, Harper Mooney, 'S pleasure to meet you." Paul stood up and actually strode over to me, extending a hand for me to shake.
I went tomato red, the most crimson color, as I shook his hand in return.
He chuckled.
"Paul, you ain't wasting any time." John whistled and I almost toppled over. I have never felt so mortified in my life.
"C'mon, guys, shut your gobs. Ms. Mooney here has some questions for you lads, don't do her any harm." Mr. Epstein warned them all, a smug look on his chiseled face.
"Yeah." I shook my head, turning and facing all of them.
"You're an American, aren't you?" Ringo asked me, eyebrows raised.
"Uh," I stared at him for a moment before nodding. "I am."
"We're just 'bout to set off to America, actually, yes." Paul told me, a glint in his eyes.
It was probably his first time traveling overseas.
"I've heard." I grinned at him, just happy enough as it was to be in the same room as he.
He grinned back at me.
"Ms. Mooney—"
"Harper." I told Mr. Epstein who addressed me, walking over to another door and opening it.
"Harper," He corrected himself, revealing a room with two black couches. "You can go right in here and set up."
"See you in minute then, love." John winked at me as I obliged to Mr. Epstein's request.
I blushed again and scurried into the room.
"Blimey, John!" Paul chastised him as I shut the doors behind me.
"Blimey," I giggled at that word. It's one of the many British term I've been exposed to and one of my favorites indeed. Even better hearing it out of Paul McCartney's trap.
Quickly, I collapsed on the sofa and exhaled deeply. That was so nerve-racking! I thought something awful were to happen, like I'd start sneezing incessantly or, worse, pass out. It wasn't that bad, however. Quite alright.
Okay. So. I need to focus, this was a big deal!
I zipped open my satchel bag and pulled out my tape recorder. This was essential in my interviewing procedure. Plus my notepad.
Angie suggested I take notes about key points the men ask in case something were to happen to the tape recording.
In addition, I had equipped a camera which I would have to ask each of them if I could snap their mug.
With a glance down at my questions, I felt prepared. I would do The Daily Mail and my boss Angie proud.
Now I just wait to see which of the four lads were to come through the door first.
I took the opportunity to take in the atmosphere around me. This was Brian Epstein's official office here in London.
His devotion to The Beatles was quite blatant, posters and plaques with the band's name on it covered the walls. It was very impressive, actually. I found myself gaping at a few of the titles: "Greatest Debut Record," "Original Song," "#1 UK Charts," "#1 US Charts."
It was, in these moments that I was gaping at the many awards, that George Harrison joined me in the little room.
"Pretty ace, huh?" He asked me from the door, causing me to spin over in surprise.
"Uh," I spoke as his skinny frame strolled over to the couch. I stole a quick look back at the laden walls. "Do you ever think, I dunno," I glanced over to him, a question suddenly dawning on me. "'Wow, we are really making it big?'"
George sat in the seat, a neutral look on his famous face. "Yes, indeed," He said and, just as he was about to continue onward, I held out a finger and grabbed my tape recorder.
"I should get this on record!" I explained, clicking the big red button and holding it out. "Continue, if you would?"
George grinned, leaning back in the sofa. His thick eyebrows arose.
I had a sudden epiphany that I was here talking to a Beatle! I dunno how many times I could have this epiphany for it to finally settle in my mind.
"Yes, of course it's odd to look at where I have ended up in this world. Shy of just about three and a half years since we've all started this, and now looking around, I can't believe we've evolved into this." He laughed rather incredulously, as if having his own epiphany that he's a Beatle himself.
He held out a hand to me. "Look at meself right now! Talking to Harper Mooney of The Daily Mail, the paper I read with my father when I was only young."
I laughed at the fact that he was in surprise talking to me! "I know how you feel."
George rolled his eyes dramatically at me, understanding I was alluding to right now. "C'mon now, we aren't too bad. You oughta warm up to John, though, I'll tell you."
"We'll all a little hard to warm up to," I mumbled, scribbling something down on my pad before asking him something else. "Tell me what your favorite part about being a Beatle is?"
"Hm," George pondered momentarily. "Well, it's nice to be in a group with three other people who you get on with well. We're all going through this transition together and that's nice."

I nodded to the man. "You've been with at least John and Paul since you were a teen, right?"

"Yeah," He shook his head. "So that's good."

"Don't 'cha ever, I dunno, get tired of hanging with the same people over and over?" I mused, scribbling something down on my pad. "I mean, I lived with my hare-brained sisters and my overbearing mother for twenty years and I was about to off myself."

There was a silence in the air until I suddenly looked up, realizing what I had just asked him. Oh no! I've gone too far; gotten too personal. Did I offend him? Great, not even three minutes have passed and I already blew it in my work.

Despite my panic-crazed horror at the possibility that I might've pissed him off, George was actually smiling. He was amused with my words.

This prompted me to raise an eyebrow, confused. "What are you smiling about? I thought I'd just crossed the line." I continued to blab to him like he was a sure pal of mine. I dunno where this charge of energy sprouted from, exactly. But it seemed to be doing me some good seeing as George looked satisfied.

"You're just more enthralling than I pictured you to be. Yes, I surely get exhausted of being around them." George grinned widely at me.

"We must spend close to every moment together," Ringo murmured, slouching back in his chair and propping his legs up on the coffee table between the two of us. "If we go one place, we can't leave safely therefore we all must hide together in another place." He shrugged, crinkling his big nose. "Do you get me? Sure, they're my lads, but with that, they're also my partners. It's almost like we're all wed."

I laughed at that statement, ensuring my tape recorder got that as well and scribbling that line down.

Ringo laughed back at me. "Are you going to print this? Well, be sure to include that I mean that in the best respects." He threw me a wink.

I looked at him for a moment, taking in his dorky aura. He was an average looking fellow, not in the competition against Paul, but he was attractive for being this way.

I'd always had a soft spot for drummers as well, I think they're a vital instrument to any group, figuratively and literally speaking. My mother would crease her withering forehead and say the pianist was the most vital and continue to dive on into why she's the right one.

I thought Ringo's happy-go-lucky charisma and, of course, his drummer status made him a true bachelor. Take that, mother.

"How did you adjust to The Beatles being that you hadn't been a part of the group beforehand?" I continued to ask him, giggling off his last response.

Ringo crinkled his nose again which I concurred meant that he was contemplating the question. "Yes, Pete Best had preceded me, though I didn't see that as much of a barrier. The men recruited me and I very soon felt a part of the band. Sure, it was primarily Lennon-McCartney, but I was fine just sitting behind the drums."

"How does it feel about to go to America? Well, it feels real fucking great." John chortled to me, squinting his eyes.

He was positioned with his body strewn out horizontally on the sofa, making himself the most comfortable of the two I've chatted with thus far.

At this point, it was safe to say I had warmed up to these people.

"Ssh, I can't put slurs in my article, you sailor!" I told him rather exaggeratedly, rolling my eyes as I scribbled down Lennon- "feels great" onto my yellow notepad.

John scoffed loudly for the second time in my presence, making his way as to stand up. "No slurs? Then I'm out of here!"

"Come back!" I smirked at his behind until John quickly swung back around and plopped onto the sofa once again.
"Alright, alright, don't cry about it now." John winked, propping his head up with his arm against the cushion.

"You have a mouth on you," I laughed, making sure to include that detail. "You're the funny one, hm?"

"If that's what the lady says, I simply cannot defer." He said rather smugly and I realized that I needed to continue with the interview.

"Is it shocking to you to see how far your group has transpired?" I crossed my legs, tucking the pen behind my ear.

John nodded profusely. "'Course it is! Hearing your own tunes playing on the stereo is mind blowing to m'self. Looking out the window at all of these people and realizing they're here for me speaks for itself." He heaved another laugh and it made me snicker a little as well. "Put yourself in my shoes, wouldn't you be bloody mesmerized?"

"You are big shoes to fill, Mr. Lennon."

John grew a seductive look on his face at my words, knowing I meant figuratively, but making it playful. "I'd let you try on my shoes any day, Ms. Mooney."

My cheeks were still red from my conversation with John when the door opened up again. Looking at my notes, I hadn't hardly noticed that someone had walked in until they were already sitting across from me.
"Did you get some good stories? I hope you still have room for me." Paul McCartney spoke before me.
I jumped about ten feet in the air at his sudden voice. "Lord!" I gasped.
Paul laughed, bending towards me. "You really did get some good stuff then."
My cheeks burned up as I pointed at the tape recorded. "Probably a little too much stuff."
He laughed again, looking at me with amusement in his eyes.
Damn, Paul is the most attractive Beatle.
My little sister and her pals always giggled about how handsome they thought Paul was. I never really paid much attention to them, though I did think he was very dashing.
He grinned at me and I found myself staring at him for a moment. What is happening?

I felt confident with the others but, sitting here across from Paul, I quickly fell weak. Like I was succumbing to his charming aura.

There was a silence as we two just looked at each other. Paul had this grin on his face that made me grin back at him before I bashfully looked to my lap.
Talk about feeling self-concious.
"So, um," I spoke up, holding the pad out in front of me to hide my flustered face. "Anyway..."
I clicked the red button on the recorder and laid it on my lap, sitting up a little taller and showing my face again.

"Mr. McCartney," I addressed him, giving him a closed smile.
Paul giggled at my newfound sense of authority. He leaned back into the couch cushion. "Yes?"
"What is your favorite part of being a Beatle?" I had asked him the question hoping he'd have something different than "fun to be with my lads."
And he had.

"Hm," Paul mumbled, scratching his chin. "I dunno, what's your favorite part of being a journalist?"
"Getting a chance to show my best stuff to the people who want to read it." I shrugged, crossing my legs like it was nothing of me.
Paul threw his hands in the air. "Couldn't have said it any better m'self! Being given the opportunity to show my stripes the way I wanna, it's something great, it is."
I scribbled down "show my stripes the way I want to" on the pad, nodding.
"How does it feel knowing you've changed the lives of many people in the world?" I continued to ask him, biting my lip.
Paul itched along his eyebrow this time, squinting his slanted eyes. He looked like he didn't know how to answer what I was asking of him.
"You're going to travel across seas to another country who is already enamored with your work," I told him as humbling as I could, the words I was speaking giving him every right to look at it in an anti-humble way.
Though he indeed took it in the most casual form any man in his position could. "It's quite odd, I don't think I have accustomed to it yet."
I couldn't help a little giggle from hitting the air.
"Whut?" Paul asked me, his British accent as strong as ever, as he continued to itch along his eyebrow. "What are you snickering 'bout, now?" He probed, smiling.
I shrugged at him, tucking some of my loose hairs behind my ear. "It's just a wee bit surprising to hear you speak like this, 'not yet accustomed to this lifestyle!'" My voice gained more volume as I raised my eyes at him. It was a little crazy, I'll say.
Paul shrugged at me, his smile reaching his hazel colored eyes. "I just didn't ever think this would happen to me. To us."
"You have me at that." I scrawled down Paul's exact words onto my pad, making sure not to leave a word out when he spoke.
"You had me at hello, love."
"Oh, please stop," I 'sshed' him in an act of courage. He was making me awful flushed and that was just stupid of me.
Paul didn't remove the smile that was displayed on his face and he stretched his arms across to the back of the sofa. He almost looked content with himself.
"Where are you from?" Paul asked as I fiddled with the tape recorder.
"Mm," I mumbled, glancing up at him shortly. "New York, actually."
Paul perked up in his seat, crossing his hands on his bent knees. "You're kidding. Don't ya know The Ed Sullivan Show?"
I nodded at him, smiling a little bit. "'Course."
"That's our first stop in America." Paul beamed, running a hand through his mop top. "I'm a bit nervous, actually."
I made sure my tape recorder was capturing all of this.
"Why?" I asked him, just honestly curious.
Paul shrugged, leaning back in his seat again. "I dunno. What's America like?"
His question made me giggle a little more.
Paul smiled once again. "You snicker quite often, don't you, doll?"
"It's quite alright, actually." I ignored his comment, scratching my leg. "New York, especially. There's a lot of people 'round, but they're all good company. You've got to try a hotdog, they're delicious. See Lady Liberty as well." I told him, a sudden wave of nostalgia coming over me. I broke out in a grin just thinking about it.
"You seem to love it a real lot." He instigated, crossing his legs. "Why did you leave? What made you come to Britain, anyway?"
I felt like the two of us were on a first date. The handsome Paul McCartney that millions of girls would KILL each other to meet, let alone interview. But I tried not to think of that, remembering what Mr. Epstein had told me.
"Well," I sighed. "I haven't got a father, my mother was always talking about how successful my other sisters were, and I just wanted a change of scenery."
"Why London?" He continued, looking rather interested in my words.
"Why, everything is happening in London." I told him, matter of factly, with a smug look on my face.
Paul stared at me with a glint in his eyes.
"Paul? How's it going, you've been in there an awful long while?" Mr. Epstein's voice suddenly rung out from the room over.
Oh no! I haven't finished asking him some questions!
He noticed the fret in my eyes and leaned towards me. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to get off the topic," Paul said, glancing towards the door. "But I want to answer everything you have for me." He stated.
I stared at him, awaiting for him to continue.
"Do you, uh, have a telly I could ring you at tomorrow?" He offered me.
The words stunned me.
"You're serious?" I asked him, eyebrows raised. "Aren't you going off to America in a matter of days? Won't you be busy out of your mind?"
"No," Paul said, grabbing my pad from my hand. "Besides, I'll make all the time for you." He ripped out a piece of paper and handed it back to me. "I heard this was for a promotion at your job."
"Yeah."
Paul handed me the paper real quick, quickly shifting and sitting beside me. He leaned over my body and swiped the pen from behind my ear. "Write down your information and I promise you'll get that promotion."
I continued to gawk at him. I hadn't felt so surprised and fortunate since my landlord lowered my rent the first month after I had booked it here in the UK.
First, it was crazy for me to even get to stand in the same room as the Fab Four, but now here Paul was (the most beloved by my generation of females), willingly saying he'd call me in his busy schedule in the midst of all this chaos for America.

"You really don't have to do so much, you're very busy right now anyway," I rambled to him, looking at him desperate. Knowing I was taking time away from his hectic life just to ask him which song was his favorite was nonsense.

I tried to express these beliefs of mine to him, but Paul was not having any of it.

"Harper," Paul said my name, making my heart skip a little. He gave me another one of those wooing grins. "I'm only twenty-one. I have my own life, don't you know? This is something I wanna do with my life, 's okay."
It's something he wanted to do with his life?
"Now, give me yer information," Paul thrusted the pad towards me.
Having nothing else to say, I took the pen and scribbled my name down along with work and home phone numbers not knowing when he'd call and what hours would do me better.
Paul looked it over for a moment before folding the yellow paper and tucking it into his dark colored pants.
He grinned at me, his face inches away from mine. "Thanks."
I blushed a little as Paul looked at me again for that day. He was making me feel like a school girl and it embarrassed me.
Paul read my mind and chuckled. "I'll hear more of you tomorrow then, love."

I couldn't take it anymore. "Do you often refer to people as 'love'?" I asked him, eyebrows raised.

Paul seemed taken aback by this question as he raised both his distinctly arched eyebrows. He'd presumably never been questioned about the slang he uses towards women, anyway.

A laugh came out of me at his reaction as I shook my head, collecting all of my stuff together.

"No," He spoke up a few couple moments later. "Only people I'm interested in."

I widened my eyes as I was faced away from Paul. WHAT? I had to use every nerve in my body to resist a fangirl squeal as the fact that he just admitted to be interested in me manifested in my mind. Doesn't matter if he's a Beatle or not a Beatle, but that someone with male genitalia confessed to be 'interested in' made my heart speed up. I hadn't been flirted with since my secondary school days with old Teddy Denby.

At some point, I was forced to turn around to him as Paul had a placid smile on his face, watching me.

Luckily, Mr. Epstein interjected and saved me from this uncomfortable "what do I do" atmosphere. "Paul?"

"He's probably snogging with her!" John shouted followed by an ugly snicker.

I stood up in my place, calling back to him. "Yeah, sorry."

Mr. Epstein opened the door at my words, revealing a curious-looking John standing beside him.

"Aw, damn," John pouted, making a stink eye at us. "Bogus." He wandered off, out of view.

Wow, that man sure does have a lot to say.

I felt Paul stand up behind me. "Thanks, Brian, really."

Mr. Epstein ignored his client and gave me a warm smile. "Are you good?"

As good as I'll ever be.

"Yeah, I'm pretty 'cited!" I smiled to him in return, running a hand down my white dress.

Paul's hand touched the small of my back. "She was until you done interrupt us." I could tell he was joking by the tone of voice, but Paul did seem a little passive aggressive about it.

My eyes widened as I pinched my wrist as to awake from a dream. A moment later I was still in Brian Epstein's office and Paul McCartney's hand was still on the small of my back.

"It's alright, really," I tried to reassure Mr. Epstein that I did indeed have a sufficient amount of material, with or without Paul's input. Of course I'd like to have a lot of Paul's input, though.

I realized it was probably time for me to leave as I gave Mr. Epstein a bow, acknowledging Paul and making me way towards the door.

We all filed into the main room and I took in each of the Beatle's appearances once again. A big grin arose on my face as they all looked in my direction. "Thanks, you guys," I motioned down to my material. "I promise to make this the greatest thing I'll ever write."

George was the first to respond, a wistful smile on his face. "Don't doubt that. It's been a pleasure, Harper."

Damn, I wish my recorder was still on so I could get that on tape and play it to my older sister.

The others chimed in their own regards as I looked at Mr. Epstein and shook his hand. "Thank you once again, you're really ace, you are."

He looked a little bashful at my words, chuckling them off. "Thank you as well, Ms. Mooney."

Before I made my way to the door and out of their turf, I quickly turned around and snuck a look at Paul.

I made a telephone sign with my hand and held it up to my ear, reminding him to give me a ring so I could finish.

Paul nodded in agreement, throwing me a playful wink. "Gotcha." He mouthed to me.

And I walked out of that office with a successful grin on my face, only hoping I had made some lasting impression on the Fab Four.

So when John Lennon shouted out "Good bye, pretty bird!" It gave me the inkling that I had.

;)