The End (Beatles Fanfiction)

Chapter 43

PRUDENCE

The walls of the hotel room were in some parts a deep cherry-colored wood, in other parts a striped orange wallpaper. A large bed was flanked by red-velvet chairs and sat beneath a green-gold wall painting of two peacocks. A writing desk stood on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by framed antique drawings and letters. In the middle of the ceiling hung a chandelier. Yellow-orange curtains led to a large outdoor terrace. 

Despite all the ornaments, the room felt instantly cozy. Maybe because it was quite small, possibly smaller than my flat. On my way over here I had expected something entirely different, something grander, colder, maybe. This room was probably - no, definitely - more than I could ever afford, but it felt warm and somehow unassuming.

"It's quite lovely," I said. That felt pointless to say, but George smiled back at me anyway as he walked through the door.

I followed him inside, still clutching the note I had scrawled out when he called me earlier. L'Hotel, Rue des Beaux-Artes. He dropped his room key on the dresser and stared up at the peacock painting.

"Oscar Wilde died here, y'know."

"Is that why you picked it?" I asked.

"The hotel? No." He chuckled. "When I got off the plane I asked the driver to take me to a hotel in my best French. Turns out there's one called 'The Hotel', and it's not too shabby." 

"And the room?" I asked. "The 'Oscar Wilde Suite'? You must've known when you were booking it in the lobby." 

George glanced at me, raising an eyebrow boyishly. "Well, aren't you at least a little curious what it looks like?" He looked around, admiring the framed letters as if in a museum. "I'd say it's a nice enough place to spend your last few days. I don't think I'd mind it."

"I wouldn't be too sure. He was probably sick the whole time," I countered, watching him. "Not to mention poor, possibly depressed."

George's curious smile faltered. "Huh. I didn't know that." He took another look around the room before sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms propping him up on either side. 

He added, "I don't s'pose being in such a nice room would hurt, though."

I shrugged. "I suppose not." 

To me it sounded funny, that a Beatle, who could live anywhere he possibly pleased, was admiring - envying, even - a small hotel room that a sick, exiled author died in. I knew, though, that it was the circumstances within his house, around his house, and not the house itself, that George was trying to avoid.  

"Well, it's as good a room as any," he concluded. "'Specially on short notice." With that, he grinned at me. 

"I'm really glad you came by, Pru." His eyes, heavy with dark circles, gleamed.

My stomach made another ecstatic leap, and I joined him on the bed. "Of course I came by! George, I just... I can't believe you came to see me." We were both smiling like little kids. 

"I kind of can't believe it meself," George said with a laugh. "But here I am." 

The smile lingered on his lips but faded from his eyes. After a moment, he looked down at his hands. 

"Here I am." He took a short breath, wringing his hands together. 

Last time we had seen each other, he was cradling me, and I was in hysterics over John and over the past. Just before that, I had been the one to comfort him, at his side in the café . Those were the first times in years that we had been there for each other, and I had expected it would end up the same way after I left London. At the end of the day, we led very different lives, and it probably would be years when - if - we'd each other again.