Somebody's Baby

Chapter 3: An Original Composition

We stepped inside the Apple Corps building, and I was a little taken aback by the mess. There were instruments leaning against every wall and unwashed cups of tea. There were whisky bottles, papers, and documents strewn about. It felt more like a bachelor pad than a recording studio.

George led me into the control room and gestured to one of the stools. I sat down as carefully as I could, not wanting to accidentally touch any buttons or trip over a wire.

He retrieved a bottle of whiskey and opened it for us. I looked around the room, my eyes landing on an open diary sitting on the chair to my left. After skimming the writing, I realized it was a schedule. "Is this yours?" I asked.

"I'm afraid so." He said, keeping his gaze on me as he poured the golden liquor into two glasses.

"Do you ever get any sleep?"

"Sleep is something but a luxury these days."

"You work too hard, George." I closed the book and placed it back down, "You should take a vacation."

"I don't know the meaning of the word," He said, laughing. He handed me a glass and took a seat beside me. While I sipped my drink, I peered at the window beside us that overlooked the live room.

"Do you ever perform with the Beatles?"

He shook his head, laughing shyly, "No. I'm afraid I haven't the temperament. The thought of being on stage these days is absolutely nerve-wracking."

"It's hard to imagine a poised Englishman like you being nervous about anything."

"I'm nervous now."

"Why?"

"I think you know why, Ms. Leavitt," he said, taking a sip of whiskey before plonking his glass down.

"I'm sure you'd be a real tiger on stage."

"You're very kind," George blushed. It was the first time I'd seen his pale skin turn red. "What about you, do you enjoy being on stage for your ballet performances?"

"Oh yeah, I love it. Performing in front of a crowd is such a rush."

"I bet you're a real tigress up there."

I laughed and rolled my eyes, finishing off my drink. George eyed my empty glass, "Would you like another?"

"Please."

He stood up and refilled our glasses, then returned to his spot.

"Thank you."

We continued to get to know each other, talking for a few more hours. We bonded over our shared adoration of Tchaikovsky, single malt scotch, and comedy shows. We shared stories from our childhoods and spoke about the similarities and differences between London and Dallas. At the moment, we were very tipsy and arguing about food.

"So let me get this straight, you put the gravy on the biscuits?" George asked, his face a mix of shock and disgust.

"Yes! Biscuits and gravy!"

"And you consume this regularly?"

"Every Sunday after church. My aunt Lorraine makes the best biscuits and gravy."

"Strange. Absolutely strange."

"What's strange about fluffy biscuits straight out of the oven covered in sausage gravy? It's delicious, that's what it is. I'll make it for you sometime."

"Fluffy? Sausage? What on earth are you on about?" He shook his head, got up, and ran into the live room. I watched him through the small window, laughing as his tall, lanky figure rummaged around the amps. He pulled out a red package and raced back to me. It was a tube of cookies.