witchy woman | george harrison

5. | Pagan, Baby

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"Pumpkin!"

When Sloane rustled awake from her nap, the sky outside had turned to black. The world was silent, save for the rustling of leaves outside her window.

God, she had the worst headache.

"Sloane, pumpkin!" Her grandmother's call trailed upstairs. "Telephone for you!"

She groaned and slinked out of bed, leaving her pink covers a tangled mess. When she reached the kitchen, her nan looked a mixture of delight and pure fear. She kept her hand clasped tightly on the receiver.

"Now I don't know how or why you have a gentleman caller," Maude said calmly, slowly. "But be smart, my love."

"Will do," Sloane reached for the phone.

"Remember who you are," she said, moving it away.

"I know, nan," Sloane sighed.

"No funny business," Maude sucked in a breath. "And you know what I mean."

"I do! I really do," Sloane cried.

"Good," Maude handed her the phone and left to work on her sewing by the fireplace, still close enough to overhear the conversation about to unfold.

"Hello?" A male voice spoke.

"Who is it?" Sloane answered calmly, twirling the phone's red cord around her finger.

"It's George."

"Last name?" She replied with a smirk.

"Harrison," he said. "From earlier."

"Oh, I remember."

"Good." On the other side, George was smiling like an idiot. His mother, Louise, listened in curiously as she washed the dishes. "Listen, I hope I didn't come off wrong. Paul can be a total ass."

George, his mum whispered, shaking her head. What? He whispered back.

"You didn't. I'm glad you asked, my friends are looking forward to it," Sloane replied.

"So you'll be there, then?"

"We'll see," she teased.

"Good. Great, uh, It starts around 9, I think."

"Perfect. Well, I've got to go feed my cat," she said—an excuse to end this flirtatious yet painfully awkward call.

She had a bad habit of cutting things off when they made her uncomfortable.

"I like cats. What does he look like?" George asked quickly, trying to keep her on the line.

"He's all black, with green eyes," she replied, squinting at Mr. Darcy, who perched to lick himself on the counter. "And a little bit fat."

"Maybe you shouldn't feed him, then," George replied cheekily.

She smiled. "Don't give me any ideas."