The morning sunlight spills through the window and illuminates the pages of George's book. Every so often I find my eyes straying from the page beneath my finger tips and locking themselves on the guitarist's dashing profile; he's so distracting, I must have read the same line one hundred times over! I'm aware that George has also kept his eye on me since we boarded the coach and often glances yearningly at me as though he urgently needs to speak with me. I was afraid that George had only spoken to me yesterday out of courtesy or because he had been asked to check up on me by Ruby, but as the bus drones on I could tell he was waiting for an opportunity to shift seats and talk with me. Ruby has managed to seat herself behind George and John, but to my relief she is paying little attention to George and chats incessantly with John; she sits giggling with girlish glee as John loudly impersonates Paul. Ruby is gradually growing easier to like as well, but I know this is due to my growing friendship with George reassuring me that she won't try intervening and winning his heart.
"Hey George!" I hear John protest melodramatically and he jabs his band mate in the ribs, "Stop staring at you lady friend when I'm talking to you!"
"Shut up!" George tries to keep his cool as he elbows John, but beneath the shadows of his hat I spy rose tints spreading across his cheeks. I too feel my cheeks flush and we exchange awkward smiles. I turn the page of my book with trembling fingers trying my hardest to read on, but George remains rooted in the forefront of my mind.
We soon seize our chance to be reunited when the tour bus pulls up in the middle of a military air base; Paul (in a army costume for some reason beyond me), Ringo and half of the tour bus extras trundle off the bus and set off to do some filming. John decides that he and Ruby need to "get some fresh air" and the pair leave the coach entwined in each other's arms. Almost in a flash, I glance up from the open book laid across my knees to see George making himself comfortable beside me. We sit together for the full hour and discuss the contents of the book that brought us together. At first I am wary when sharing my opinions on religion and life, because I know George is renowned for questioning other people's logic and ideology; I'm terrified that'll I stumble up and say something offensive, or that he'll fire endless questions at me that I struggle to answer. I stutter my way through the conversation and George seems to be confused by my nerves, but I eventually ease into discussion and feel enlightened. We are deep in conversation when Paul's eager voice interrupts us and we are forced to tear ourselves away from the engrossing book.
"Everyone off the bus!" Paul shouts in mock horror, "Ringo's taking over!"
"Don't panic, everybody!" the director adds reassuringly, "we just need to ask that all passengers exit the bus. We'll be using it in the big race…with Ringo driving, so health and safety reasons mean we need everyone out of the way."
"Big race?" I ask bemused.
"I thought it would be fun to include a scene of some of the crew racing against the tour bus," Paul replies smiling (the first time we've spoken!), "should be a laugh!"
"You're trusting Ringo with this?" George sniggers loudly enough for Ringo to hear as the drummer clambers into the driver's seat, "It won't survive in one piece with his driving."
"Yeah, whatever Georgie!" Ringo retorts good-humouredly and the band mates shake each other's hands firmly, "May the best driver win!"
"You're racing too?" I ask the guitarist as we leave Ringo with the coach.
"Yeah, I've had one of the filming crew follow me in my Mini," George replies and I feel his hand press against the small of my back, as he guides me across the vast air field, "I wouldn't want to miss out on this."
Ahead of us, the passengers are being divided into two by the filming crew and stand around chattering. John walks Ruby over to a gathering of middle aged women (who I'm guessing won't be taking part) and cheekily pecks her on the cheek before proudly strutting over to George's brightly painted Mini. I feel my heart sink as I realise I'll be split up from George again and consider clutching onto his arm in a feeble attempt to keep us together a tiny bit longer; his hand fits the small of my back perfectly, like it was fate that we should be together.
"Anyone who's going to be a part of the big race scene, follow me!" one camera man shouts and the next thing I know, George has gripped hold of my hand and drags me with him.
"Only the drivers who have been given permission can take part!" Paul adds, stressed out, and I 'm certain he must have spotted George trying to sneak me with him.
"What are you doing?" I cry out with a combination of fear and the exhilaration caused by the sensation of George's warm hand closed around my own, "I'm not supposed to be part of the race, Paul said…"
"Sod what Paul said!" George grins mischievously and pulls me closer, "You're coming with me! I owe it to you for making you feel crappy yesterday."
"But, I've already told you that wasn't your fault…" I splutter fretfully, but George is holding the door to the backseat of the Mini open, and without really thinking, I scramble inside.
"Hey! How come you got to bring a girl along?" John pouts sulkily in the passenger seat of the small car, "Paul will blow a fuse if he finds out, Georgie boy!"
"Like I care?" George replies hurriedly as he ignites the engine and drives the car up to the starting line.
"Ooh you romantic bastard!" John chuckles and glances back at me, "You're a lucky lady, you know. George here is a true lover boy, but only with a select few! He can be a real Romeo if he likes what he sees."
George purposely ignores this remark as he puts the car in gear, and I feel a biting, nagging concern that perhaps it is only a friendship we share; nothing romantic, after all he's a married man! Ringo pulls up in the tour bus beside us and shouts mock abuse out of his window at George.
"Get that matchbox out of the road!" he heckles from behind the wheel of the impressive tour bus, "Give it up Harrison, you've got no chance!"
"Sorry," John yells back and I wonder how far he'll be able to lean out of the car window before tumbling out into the road, "We can't hear you! Must be that great hooter muffling your voice!"
"That's it, Lennon!" Ringo shouts competitively, "Prepare to be humiliated in front of a camera crew!"
I lean forward in my seat to whisper something encouraging in George's ear, but I'm cut off as the race begins and the Beatle zooms over the start line at a ridiculous speed; the breath is knocked from my lungs and I cling to the leather seat by my finger nails. I try to ease my fears and look out of the window, but the scenery blurring by only makes my stomach flip. My hands shoot up to cover my eyes, and I hear John shouting something at me…but the wind roaring through the open windows drowns him out. The car swerves hazardously around another treacherous bend and my heart almost leaps out of my chest; I envision the car tumbling off the track and bursting into a ball of flames. George and John have now removed their hats and wave them wildly out of their windows to rile up Ringo. From behind my hands, I'm aware of the tour bus thundering past and the drummer shouting something incomprehensible at us. John and George burst in almost hysterical laughter as George recklessly slams the accelerator to the floor; in the rear view mirror I see him grinning as the wind tearing through the open window whips his hair across his face. We hit another bend at incredibly high speeds and I am nearly jolted out of my seat. Frightened beyond belief, I instinctively throw my arms forward to grab the nearest thing possible…which just so happens to be George. My arms wrap around the seat's head rest, as well as George's neck, and it's a wonder I haven't strangled him or caused an accident. As our exhilarated driver speeds on, I feel his elevated pulse against the inside of my arm, as I hang tighter onto his neck. Luckily, we are soon over the finish line, but I feel frozen with fear and unable to release my arms from the Beatle.
"Hello!" John cries teasingly as he notices me still clutching onto George, "I heard that racing gets the blood pumping…but there's no need for that! Save it for the bedroom, young lady."
"Leave her alone, John" George laughs, but there is a hint of protectiveness in his voice, "Did you enjoy that, Cathy?"
"I…I…can't talk right now…" is all I manage to choke out, breathless and dazed.
As George opens the car door for me, I practically crawl out of the Mini with hair like a nest on my head and eyes wide with the adrenaline still coursing through my veins. George takes my trembling hand like a gentleman and soothingly stokes out the deep creases in my dress. He squeezes my hand to grasp my full attention and for a heavenly moment our eyes meet; the cheering, jeering and celebration taking place around us seems to vanish into the background, as we stand in awe of each other. For a second it seems that George is gradually leaning in to me, and I tilt my chin towards him, expecting my lips to be met with a sweet kiss. But the moment passes just as quickly as it arrived, and John heartily slaps the guitarist's back.
"I hate to interrupt," John winks at me, "but Paul wants us in this shot, Georgie."
"Right." George nods his head, but I hear his voice waver with some hidden emotion. Disappointment, maybe? I watch the two Beatles walk across the field to join a gathering of drivers from the race who pose for their victorious photo; George is leaning in to listen intently to John whispering in his ear. Are they talking about me?