Let It Be (A Beatles Story)

Chapter Forty-Seven

 "Well, well, well..." John chuckled, taking us in.  "I should have known."

George kicked off the blankets defiantly, an action that proved he was angry and still clothed on his bottom half.  As he pulled on his shirt, he said, "I swear to God John if you tell-"

"Calm yourself, Georgie.  I've got better things to do than tattle."  John looked at me and smirked.  He must have thought this was so perfect.  He had caught in me in such an incriminating moment, even though I wasn't being unfaithful to Paul.  Though, that was how he would see it.  "Why, Elle, what happened to that good little girl I always knew?  Now look what you've gone and done, bringing poor George down to your level?"

I was about to shout, but George growled, "Get out."  The Beatle left, but not hurriedly; he was taking his time.  George slammed the door shut behind him, which startled me.  

"Don't mind him," He tried to explain, buttoning up his shirt.  "He's an ass."

I didn't say anything.  It was the start of a long day.  

"Beatles!  Look here!"

"Is it true that you're leaving for America soon!"

"Beatles!"

"BEATLES!"

The press followed them wherever they went by then, along with screaming fans.  It had been awhile since I had been allowed to travel with them to their events, but I was going with Brian instead of the lads.  The mood in the car was considerably calmer than I remember it being the other times I had ridden with him, which might have been due to the fact that got a full day of rest.  He gave me the smallest of smiles when I caught his eye.  

I was separated from the lads for an hour or so while they were prepped for an interview, and Brian spoke with his other assistants as I took notes.  Though when the Beatles came out on their podium, George and Ringo were unusually quiet and Paul and John glared at each other.  I could only imagine what had happened, and as if George had read my mind, he turned in my direction and shook his head, as if he was saying Nothing good.

Paul's POV

Earlier in our waiting room, while George and Ringo were using the loo, John kept peering up at me and chuckling.  Every time I looked back at him, he'd gaze down at the newspaper he was reading.  About the third time he did that, I said, "What's so funny?"

Resting his elbows on his knees, he said, "You're thinking about her, aren't you?  Come on, mate.  She's over you.  She's not worth it anymore."

"John, I was...I mean, I am in love with her.  I just can't stop.  Why are you so concerned about my feelings towards Elle?  It's not as if you fancy her.  Unless," I jabbed, "you do."

He snorted.  "Of course not.  But the truth is, Paul, I would be better at loving her than you would." John crossed his legs, waiting for my retaliation.  

"Are you joking?" I scoffed.  "You shouldn't even be talking about Elle, John.  Have you seen how much you've hurt her this past week?  First you didn't tell me she was suicidal and she almost killed herself, and then you called her insane."  For a moment, John winced, as if he was regretting it, but within the next second the look was gone.  

"Have you seen yourself, Paul?  You've got wandering eyes that impress even me.  If I had a pound for every time you turned to me and muttered, 'That bird's got a nice ass', I wouldn't need to sing for a living."  He jabbed.