Behind That Locked Door

All About The Girl Who Came To Stay

"We're touring with who?" John asks. A cigarette dangles between two fingers, and George watches as the ash builds towards the middle.

"The Femme Fatals, an up and coming American group." Brain is fixing one of his cufflinks as he explains, clearly not in the mood for an argument.

"Never heard of 'em." The ash from John's cigarette finally falls, dusting the plush sofa in gray.

"Sure ya have, they sing that one tune you're always humming in the car." Paul points out, sitting up from his spot on the ottoman. "Your Girl, I think it's called."

A look of recognition crosses John's face briefly, and a grin makes its way onto his lips.

"That's the group with the red head and the bird that plays guitar, right?"

Brain hums.

"Jaclyn Turner plays the guitar a few songs a set, but the girls are mostly singers. Lori Bennett sings lead for most of their set, though the other girls get a few solos here and there."

George bites his lip, trying to remember if he'd seen the group before.

"They do much television?" He asks.

Brian grimaces.

"We have a tape recording of their one and only television spot, The Ronald Raymond show."

John snorts, and George's eyebrows shoot up.

"Let's have a look then, I could go for a laugh."

John remarks, stubbing out his cigarette.

Paul laughs along, leaning back a little and taking the offered cigarette from Ringo.

"Now lads, their performance was actually very good." Brian defends, shooting John a look. "It was that host that went and turned the whole thing into a circus."

"Always did like the circus." Paul quips, earning an eyeroll from Brian.

George lights up his own cigarette, brows furrowed as he takes a puff.

"Have they got an album out?" He asks, exhaling. "Maybe we could send Mal down to the shops for a record."

Brian smiles.

"That's a wonderful idea, George." Their manager crosses the room, popping the tape into the projector the television studio had provided for them.

Ringo hits the lights, stretching up with a groan.

At once a projection of a tall, greasy looking man appears on screen. Ronald Raymond's smile is wide and false looking as he presents The Femme Fatals from his shoddily lit stage. He doesn't immediately leave the frame, taking a second to fix his gelled hair before the number starts.

"Kind of grotty, that one is." Ringo remarks, and George is about to agree with him when the girls appear.

Three girls stand to the left, huddled around a microphone as the girl on the right takes center stage, a slight frown on her lips as she watches Ronald go.

The music starts, and the girls break into song.

George thumbs his lower lip, forgotten cigarette in hand as the camera pans from the lead girl to the three others, lingering on the black and white faces of the girls as they sing harmony.

The tall one in the middle looks nervous, eyes shifting as she hits a high note. It's subtle, but George can see the shorter one to her left brush her arm against the taller girls.

They're good. Really good, actually.

"And if you want me," The red head belts out. "I'll wait around at your back door, just like the kind of girl that you adore."

Just as he's getting into the song, one of the orchestra members hits a rubbish note, sending the song into a tailspin.

The red head turns sharply, eyes blazing as Ronald Raymond reappears, inky hair oiled to the gills as he places a hand on the girls arm.

The three others look a little confused, eyes darting to one another as Raymond begins to speak over the music.

"And that, ladies and gentleman, was The Femme Fatals!"

The red head looks affronted, shaking the hosts hand off of her arm as she looks back at the other girls for support.

Brian gets up, switching off the projector.

He puts his hands together, looking at the boys and studying their reactions.

"Well?"

"She's got a nice voice," John starts, surprisingly decent. "The harmonies were quite good as well."

"The lyrics were good, they've got a writer then?" Paul asks.

Brian smiles.

"One of the girls, Y/N Zidan, writes most of the groups songs. She quite prolific, I've had the privilege of reading a bit of her songs, courtesy of the groups manager."

Paul sits up a little at that.

"Zidan? That's American?" Ringo asks, taking a sip from one of the cokes the studio had set out for them.

"Y/N and her sister, Jennifer, are half Arabic. Their mother is American, if I remember correctly."

"They're the two birds stage left, right? The tall and short one?" George asks, trying to picture them both.

It's so hard to tell people apart in black and white.

Brian nods.

"You'll be meeting them all tonight at the mixer their manager and I have set up." Brian paces to the other side of the room. "You'll be doing some press together, getting to know the girls and building a workplace rapport."

John raises an eyebrow.

"Looked like nice girls to me, lads. I think we'll have an absolute smashing evening." He quips, putting on an air of poshness that sends the other boys into giggles.

Brian rolls his eyes, looking endeared.

"You'll behave yourselves, of course."

"Of course we will, Eppy." Paul assures, all smiles. "We haven't let ya down yet, have we?"

Brian shakes his head, smiling.

"I suppose you haven't." He checks his watch. "We'll get back to the hotel now, I think. The mixer is in the lounge at five thirty, and you'll need some time to clean up."

George looks down at himself.

"What's wrong with what we have on?"

Brian raises an eyebrow.

"You don't want me to answer that question, really.''

The boys burst into hysterics. It isn't often Brian gets cheeky, and when he does it always lifts the room.

With that, the group makes to leave, gathering coats and cigarette packs and kicked off shoes.

George is the last one out, and as he makes to flip off the light switch, he pauses to stare at the projector screen.

For some reason, the image of Y/N brushing a comforting arm against her sister plays in his head.

It wasn't even that noticeable, really. He doesn't even know these girls, but that one, small gesture has something swirling around in his brain.

"George?"

He shakes his head, flipping off the light.

"Coming." He calls back, taking a final look at the now darkened room and closing the door with a soft click.