He's So Fine [Beatles / George Harrison FanFiction]

Chapter Twenty-Four: 17th April 1964

7am. George hadn't seen this side of a 7am in a long time, except for the odd occasion when he was just stumbling home from some nightclub. But getting up and showered and dressed and out of the flat by 7am? That was unheard of.

There was one nice thing about this time in the morning. There wasn't a soul around. The only other vehicle he saw on the road was a delivery truck, laden with brightly coloured flowers on it's open back and headed towards Covent Garden. It was usually a fifteen minute drive to Della's, but George managed it in less than ten. He probably could have walked it without too much trouble.

Della lived on a narrow, dog-leg shaped street which had private, high-walled gardens on one side and Victorian red brick townhouses on the other, most of them converted into flats. He parked the Jag opposite Della's building and beside the ten foot wall, taking extreme caution not to scrape the car's side along the wall, or worse, hit the wheels on the small ledge of a curb that had been uselessly left behind when they put the wall up.

This black, highly polished E-Type Jaguar was George's latest pride and joy. A sort of twenty-first birthday present to himself. It'd been delivered to him, brand new and custom built, on the last day of February. Shiny black paintwork with chrome wheels, chrome trim and a stylish black leather interior, complete with a Philips Auto-Mignon record player. It was a shame Whaddon House didn't have off road parking. He could leave it around the back where it was safe enough, but a private garage would be better. He'd have to look into that.

George lit a cigarette, the first of the morning, and careful not to drop ash on the car's luxurious interior, he opened the door - right into the brick wall. George swore and got out to rub it with his hand, like that would make it better. A pinhead sized nick had appeared in the paint on the contour of the door edge. He put the cigarette in his mouth and crouched down to examine it. For fuck's sake. Seven weeks old.

He straightened up and slammed the door with a flash of temper that he instantly regretted. Bloody car was going to fall to bits if he kept treating it like that.

As he moved round the back of the car, the door to Della's building opened. George froze. Too late to dive back into the car for cover, not enough space to duck behind it and hide.