"Well, isn't this pleasant!" I hear John exclaim theatrically as the bus jolts along a series of rural roads, "Isn't it lovely, boys and girls?"

Most of the tour bus now seem too tired to respond, yet I hear Ringo chuckling at the front of the bus (he came aboard with an actress playing his aunt a couple of hours ago), and Paul tears his eyes away from the pretty blonde beside him with a tense smile (I can tell that spending two weeks on a bus with John might be a bit challenging). George sits motionless, and for a moment I wonder whether he has craftily fallen asleep behind those huge sunglasses, but a wry smile gradually grows beneath his moustache. John and George have now relocated themselves nearer the front of the tour bus, and much to my delight I can now hold them in my view at all times; much to Paul's distress, this gives the two Beatles an opportunity to tease their bassist for the remainder of the two weeks of filming and I can almost feel McCartney squirming in his seat.

"Erm can I have everyone's attention for a second," the director stands shakily at the front of the moving bus, "we're just a couple of miles away from the hotel we'll be boarding in for tonight…"

"We're not gonna be stuck in the middle of nowhere are we, mister?" John heckles the director, "I don't fancy spending the night in a field; it'll play havoc with my hay fever."

"No, John," the director replies through gritted teeth, "the hotel's in a lovely little village. And there's a local pub with a charming beer garden. I've already warned the villagers in advance about you, Lennon. So don't worry about being mobbed as soon as you set foot off the coach either, you'll have plenty of time to relax before we're back on board tomorrow."

"Great," I hear Paul say to Ringo, "that'll give us a chance to stretch our legs."

"Not that Ringo has much to stretch." George adds with a dry smirk, and the four laugh between themselves like old friends.

With that, the cameras are switched on to film some filler sequences of the boys sitting restlessly as the tour bus draws nearer to our destination. Ringo stages an exaggerated row with his 'auntie', whilst Paul gazes nonchalantly out of his window, a cigarette balanced between his pursed lips. I smile to myself as I notice John pretending to drift off to sleep against George's shoulder, whilst the youngest Beatle tries to shrug off his drowsy band mate away. Although I'm aware this is probably all an act for the cameras, I feel my chest swell at the sheer adorability of the four lads; for the rest of the journey to the hotel the foolish smile remains plastered across my face.

When we reach the small village and park up outside the local pub, we are allowed to leave the bus for a well-deserved drink before heading to the hotel…

I sit at a small table in the beer garden with an extra, my age (twenty-three), called Ruby, and watch the four band mates frolicking across the neat lawn with an old football. Ruby sips distractedly at her drink, her hazel eyes locked on John Lennon, and as I speak to her I notice her eyes never quite leave him. Amongst the four lads, a handful of local children shriek, and race up along the garden with grass stains smeared across their ruddy knees; amongst the controlled chaos, I see little Nicola's stripy dress. The cameras are trained on the boys again, and we overhear the cameraman explaining to Ringo that these shots will look great accompanying Blue Jay Way and perhaps even I Am The Walrus.

"So, Cathy" Ruby crosses her slender legs and finally acknowledges me, "How did they cast you? I work for a modelling agency, so the director got in touch after seeing me in Vogue…and the rest is history."

"Oh," I now feel inadequate, and wonder if Ruby purposely brought this up to establish that if anyone was going to have John, it would be her, "erm, I work in a café…and the casting director spotted me when he came in for a cuppa a few months ago."

"Mhm," I can tell Ruby is losing interest again, and she primps her short (more than likely Twiggy inspired) haircut, "I guess this is a welcome change from making cups of tea then?"

"Definitely!" I smile, and Ruby takes another delicate drag from her cigarette.

Examining Ruby's features in the brilliant sunlight, it's now obvious that she works for a modelling agency; her features are incredibly feminine, and this is only emphasised by her hip pixie haircut. She blows snaking wisps of smoke into the air, and continues to watch John as he fools about; for a second the Beatle glances up from his cavorting and, noticing that Ruby's eyes are locked on his every movement, seems to burst forward with newfound energy. John is now tearing along the grass and boisterously tackling any of his band mates who dare to try prize the football from his hands (God only knows what game they were supposed to be playing). Ruby laughs elatedly to herself, well aware that she had made an impression on the Beatle, and waves coquettishly. To my distress, not only does John enthusiastically return the flirtatious wave…but so does George. My face feels numb as I try my hardest to maintain a friendly smile and hide my niggling jealousy, as Ruby turns back to grin at me; she knows she's lucky with both John and George are interested, and this only infuriates me further.

"Erm, Ruby," I desperately try to distract her from John and most importantly George, "I know this might sound a bit daft…but you said you worked for Vogue, right?"

"Yes," Ruby's answer is distant as she cranes her neck to watch John, "why?"

"I was wondering, have you ever met Pattie?" I ask cautiously and for a moment there is an awkward silence, "As in George's wife."

"Oh yes," Ruby replies sharply, and I detect a hint of cattiness in her voice, "her. Well I can't say we're the closest of friends. Ever since she bagged herself a Beatle, she seems to be above the rest of us now."

I'm suddenly wrought with concern by this venomous comment and fall into distraught silence, wishing I'd never asked. What if Ruby tries to get with George out of spite? It would be the perfect revenge. I frantically try to reassure myself that the pretty model has eyes for John and John only. I look back across the lawn and notice John is stood whispering in George's ear; every so often he breaks off to look hungrily in Ruby's direction and licks his lips. My stomach flips as George nods in agreement and he too seems to be gazing foolishly at the stunning Ruby. As the two Beatles begin to approach the table, I feel my hot tears of envy prick at my eyes, and I have no choice but to collect my jacket in my trembling arms and storm off back to the coach. As I march along the gravel car park and board the bus, I frantically wipe the bitter tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands. I just pray not to bump into anyone, and I am greeted with a warm flush of utter relief as I find the tour bus is empty. Sniffling, I throw myself into my seat, only to find I am met with a blunt pain; in my fit of jealousy I fail to spot a thick hardback book discarded on my seat. I hold the book in my quivering hands and just about manage to make out the title through blurred eyes.

"Spirituality and the Origins of Life" I read the book title aloud, and realising the rest of the group will be spending at least another hour or so enjoying their break, I knuckle down to read it.

An hour passes, and I am already well on my way to reading chapter six; the book is surprisingly engaging and is effective at subsiding the tears and worrying for a while. In fact I'm beginning to forget about the incident in the beer garden altogether, and pin my sadness down to hormonal self-consciousness. As I turn to chapter six, I am reluctantly brought back to reality by the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat.

"So, what do you think of the book?"

Recognising the voice, I glance up to see George Harrison stood over me, his hand resting on the seat behind my head. It is then that icy realisation hits me, and the book feels cold and unfamiliar in my hands. This is George's book, and I'm sat here, with my clammy fingers all over it. I don't know how to react. My voice catches in my throat as I try to speak, but burning embarrassment stops me from explaining myself. George just looks down at me from behind his sunglasses with his lips stretched into a tight line, and it's impossible to tell how irritated he is to find a fan contaminating his property. I wordlessly place the book on the empty seat beside me, and look out of the window, praying the Beatle will just take the book and spare me any more mortification; but he doesn't and it's unbearable. I begin to wonder whether he's purposely making me feel ashamed as a punishment for shamelessly snooping, but I had no idea the book belonged to him!

"Have you been crying?" his voice seems inquisitive, and I notice him leaning to examine my expression.

I try to deny it, but my eyes are still red and sore from the bitter tears, so I simply sniff to confirm his suspicions. I must look so pathetic, crying like a baby when I have the once in a lifetime opportunity to have a conservation with my idol. I hear him sit in the seat beside me, and the only sounds that pass between us are his steady breathing and my lurching sobs. He is leafing through the book casually, and I find this strangely soothing; I cautiously turn to face him and the guitarist breaks into a comforting smile. I'm shocked that he hasn't left me to wallow in self-pity already; I know if I was in his position, I wouldn't waste my time.

"What's wrong?" his voice is steady and rational.

"It's nothing," I reply awkwardly, embarrassed by my reflection in his large glasses (I look a mess, what a way for him to see me), "it's nothing serious… just petty worries. I feel a bit of a fool, really."

"Oh," to my relief, he doesn't try push me any further for an answer, "I thought you looked a bit upset earlier, but I didn't want to harass you."

"Huh?" I sniff and George places the book back into my lap.

"When you and that model were sat in the beer garden," he replies, brushing a stray strand of brown hair from my damp eyes (I flinch slightly, not expecting such forward contact from a celebrity), "you seemed hurt by something; I could see it in how you looked pained when you tried to smile. And then I waved but you blanked me…so I thought you obviously didn't want to be pestered."

"But," I frown with growing bemusement, "you were waving at Ruby, weren't you? I saw you and John whispering, and you kept looking over at her."

"No," George laughs to himself and shakes his head, "John's put his stamp on her already, and once he's made his mind up there's no compromising! Anyway, she's not really my type."

"Oh," I feel childish for bursting into tears over nothing, "I'm sorry for making you feel bad, Mr Harrison…"

"George." The guitarist firmly corrects me, "And don't worry about it. I just wondered if it was something myself or John might have said because you walked back to the bus when we got near. I was gonna come over and make sure you were ok."

"I've been on board the Magical Mystery Tour for one day," I shake my head in disbelief, "and I've already broken down in tears, and stolen your book."

"No, you're alright," George smiles hearteningly; "don't feel bad. Anyway I've just finished the book on the way down here, and I'm guessing John must have left it over here by accident before we went for a drink."

He removes his sunglasses, and I find him much easier to talk to now we have established eye contact. His dark eyes are even more captivating in person, and there is something about the way they steadily hold me in their gaze that sends my heart fluttering. The tears have finally dried up and the cool summer breeze coming from the open windows cools my burning cheeks. George's eyes dart up to the open doors of the bus as the driver and the first strands of passengers begin to file on board. Very soon John, Paul and Ringo will be back soon, and we'll be on our way to the nearest hotel.

"I'd better get back to my seat," George sighs apologetically as he spies John fast approaching the bus with Ruby, "but you're welcome to borrow the book."

"Thanks." I smile appreciatively and mechanically hug the book close to me.

That night in my hotel room, I sit cross-legged upon the bed with the book George has leant me. No matter how interesting the book becomes though, my mind is distracted as it replays the conversation I shared with my favourite Beatle on a loop. Looking back on how I reacted in the beer garden, I feel ashamed but glad things happened the way they did because I now have peace of mind; George isn't interested in Ruby and is on speaking terms with me. Perhaps this tour isn't going to be as bad as I expected.