George and I were sitting on a sofa; I was resting my head on his shoulder and he had his arm around both of mine. The only source of light was the T.V. We'd spent the past couple of hours on the rooftop, talking about our families, and about how George was looking for a place in London, even though he was missing his folks back in Liverpool, and about other, less important things. It was already past 1am and when we came back to the suite, it was dark so we figured everyone else was asleep.
George lifted my chin up with his other hand and kissed me as I smiled against his lips. Just as he pulled away, someone walked in through the doors behind us and we both turned our heads to see who it was.
"Ah." John's voice reached us from the darkness. He made his way across the living room, stealing a glance at us holding hands, and entered one of the bedrooms without saying anything else.
I slept long the next morning. As soon as I woke up, I remembered how George walked me to my room door the night before and kissed me, as if we were teenagers and he was dropping me off at my parents' house after a date. That thought still made me giggle.
I got dressed and went to the Presidential Suite. The living room was empty, so I walked across it to the other side where the bedrooms where. I knocked on both of them and sat down on the end of a sofa helping myself to a bowl of grapes that was left on the coffee table. A few seconds later Paul appeared.
"Oh, g'morning!" He smiled. "Did ya have breakfast yet?"
I shook my head and he said that he was just about to go get some and complained that "those bloody swines" didn't wake him up, so the both of us went to the hotel's restaurant where the rest of The Beatles had already occupied a table.
"Good morning," all of us said in a unison.
George had saved me a seat next to him. Having breakfast with the boys was nothing like that time we had lunch. We all kept talking about all kinds of things and John was full of his sarcastic jokes that seemed to be very appropriate that morning. At some point Paul suggested that we should go to a club that night before leaving California and all of us agreed.
After breakfast, Paul and Ringo excused themselves, saying they had plans. Apparently, they were supposed to see some girls that they'd met after a concert two nights ago. I spent the rest of the day hanging out around the hotel and in the suite with George, Mal, John and Brian. I got the chance to talk to Brian more, and I found out that he was actually a very warm and funny guy, even though he sure knew how to be strict and serious. I thought that he was exactly what The Beatles needed.
At some point George and Brian summoned up two cowboy hats and wore them while George was teaching Brian to play the guitar. Mal was watching T.V. and it was some movie where the main character worked as a radio operator. That was when I remembered that I never called Ian. I put down the newspaper that I was reading a few minutes ago and stood up.
"Where're ya off to?" John asked lazily. He'd been watching Brian and George for a while, but now he seemed to be the only one to notice me walking towards the door.
"I need to make a phone call and change."
He stood up and caught up with me in the doorway. I was slightly surprised since I was convinced he didn't like me and would be happier without me around. At least that's how he was acting most of the time; as if I was an unwanted addition to the group of people that were accompanying The Beatles on their tour We walked out into the corridor and turned right to go to the lifts.
"Do you still dislike me?" I blurted out.
John stopped dead in his track and looked at me wide eyed. He stared at me for a moment, then a smirk spread across his face.
"Why'd you think that?"
I gave him an eloquent look.
"It's this weird feeling I got... I don't know how to explain it. It's weird. You're weird!" I finished impatiently.
"It's weird not to be weird," he shrugged, sliding his hands into his pockets and growing silent for a long moment as his facial expression became more serious. "I do like you. You passed the test," he said slowly, squinting at me. "But I can't help being weird. It must be a chemical reaction," he extracted a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and held it up, offering me one.
"Good," I said and took a cigarette. "I like you too. For some reason," I simply pulled my shoulders into a shrug.
"Not as much as our little Georgie there," John said looking down and emitted a short laugh as he fished a matchbox from his other pocket. "So what's up with that? Are you going steady now," he asked mockingly while lighting my cigarette.
I furrowed my brow and shrugged uncomfortably.
"So. You like Elvis?" He suddenly started to walk again.
We talked about many musicians that we liked all the way to my room. I told him about how I've always wanted to play the piano, and he gave me a short insight on his childhood dreams of becoming a famous singer.
John and I didn't click that well from the very beginning, but something's change and I was beginning to actually like him now. I enjoyed talking to him when he wasn't trying too hard to be witty or intelligent, even though he certainly was both of those things.