"Hey, has Marie finished my jacket? She said something about it being too short on the arms," the famous Liverpuddlian accent slurred as the Beatle wandered into the room. I stood frozen like a deer in headlights.

Move, lips, move! Make words!

"Um...Uh…I…I'm new here and…Um…Aren't you dead?"

Nice words. How about something that isn't stupid?

"Well, erm, not the last time I checked," George shrugged in all seriousness. His eyes went from me to the mannequin. "Is that my jacket?" he asked, pointing.

Jacket. George Harrison. Put jacket on George Harrison. Do it, body. Do it now.

I whipped the jacket off the mannequin and held it out so George could put it on. He slipped his arms through the sleeves and I couldn't help thinking how cute he was with his modestly-cut brown hair and dark eyes.

I snapped out of it. This was a dream. It had to be a dream. I wasn't back in the 60s. I couldn't be. It was impossible.

"Nice fit," George complimented. I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or just to himself. When he turned to me and shot me that quirky half-smile, I knew he was complimenting me.

"Oh!" I exclaimed, backing up a little. "I didn't do that. Marie did. I'm just supposed to make a couple adjustments."

My longest sentence to Beatle George Harrison: eight words. Hold your applause…

"Oh," he shrugged. He tugged at his sleeves. "These cuffs are just a little bit too long," his oh-so-sexy voice slurred. "Do you think you could take them up just about half an inch?"

I reached out and felt the sleeves with a butterfly touch. I felt his eyes on me, but when I looked up, his gaze shot in the other direction and he whistled a couple notes.

Great. Even George Harrison thinks I'm a weirdo.

I slowly slipped the pincushion bracelet over my wrist and held George's arm up to the light so I could see the stitching better. I held a couple pins in my mouth and I curled the sleeves up exactly half an inch as he had requested. When I had the cuffs pinned in the right places, I looked him in the face and got nervous again.

"Um…Want me to fix it?" I whispered.

UGH! Back to five words.

"Oh, yeah," George said absently. He slipped out of the jacket and handed it to me, adjusting the collar of his black turtleneck sweater. I pulled a needle out of the pincushion and selected a better color of thread. And then I went to work.

It wasn't a very hard job. I was done in about three minutes. Then, I handed the jacket back and George tried it on again.

"Much better," he smiled. "Thanks."

There was an awkward pause. Suddenly, the door flung open and Marie stomped into the room. When she saw George, her tread lightened and she giggled almost flirtatiously. For some reason, a little twinge of jealousy sparked in my mind.

That woman is ten years older than him. What a whore!

"Hello, Mr. Harrison," she greeted him. "Is everything all right?" She spied the recently-altered cuffs. "Oh, my! I thought I had those fixed! Don't worry, Mr. Harrison. I'll have those done in a jiffy." She pulled out a ripper and brandished it light a knight's sword.

"No, it's fine," George protested. "I prefer my sleeves just a tad short." He looked at me again and I blushed, looking away. "Besides, my sweater shows and you really can't tell the difference."

"Oh, really?" Marie's voice was drenched with partly confusion and partly anger. Her eyes flared at me as if she was jealous that George just looked at me. "That's fine then." She turned on me and said through gritted teeth, "Remember who you are, kid." I gulped.

"Yes, ma'am," I shivered. My fear seemed to brighten Marie up and she smiled back at George.

"Well, is that all, Mr. Harrison?" she beamed.

"Actually," George pondered out loud, "I think I'd like to get this girl as our personal assistant for our time on the show." My heart fluttered. I could tell by Marie's facial expression that her heart was sinking lower than the Titanic.

"Right," she said through gritted teeth. Then, her voice changed to a sickeningly sweet tone. "Okay, kid. Looks like your first official job. And you just starting today."

"Yeah," I muttered, not making eye-contact.

"Well, you'd better go with Mr. Harrison," Marie hissed. "And I'll see you later to discuss your payment." The last word was purred so sweetly honey dripped from it in midair.

Oh God.

"Right." I turned to George and gave him a meek smile. "Thank you, sir."

"The pleasure's all mine," he smiled. "C'mon and I'll take you back to the dressing room." When we were out of the makeup-wardrobe department, George turned his head to me. "I…would never have guessed that you were new here. You seem so…professional."

"Thanks," I whispered.

Oh I'm a professional all right. A professional loser!

There was silence. For a second, I thought my brains had leaked my private scolding into the universe and George Harrison had picked up on it somehow. And now he was being driven away by my spastic stupidity. Finally, the silence was broken when we walked up to a door with a star on it.

"Here we are," he muttered, opening the door for me. "Lads, I found us an assistant."