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Photos and Astrid's House

George enjoyed the photo session. It was completely different to any other times his picture had been taken. There'd been snaps at home during family do's and parties, but no-one expected him to do anything special for those, they'd just taken the pictures. He remembered at one family party lining up his beloved guitars on the sofa for a proper picture, but his idiot uncle took the photo just when he was taking a swig of beer from a bottle. His mum thought that was funny. Good picture of the guitars though. There'd been a couple with the group, but they had to smile at the camera for those, so they were a bit cheesy.

But Astrid's pictures were something completely different. She never said "smile" so they didn't. None of them, not even Paul. And the less they grinned at the camera the more pleased she seemed to be, so by the end of it they were all glaring like mass murderers and she said "Great." Well, "Sehr gut" really, but that was what she meant. But, it was like they could be themselves. He could be himself. No expectations, no need to put on an act.

George could tell that John was really liking it all, probably because he could look mean. Though in a way he just looked fed up.

Then she said, "Sie kommen in mein Haus?" and no-one knew what she was talking about. But it sounded as if it was something to do with a house. Stu was obviously desperate to go with her wherever she was suggesting; he'd have taken a trip to the docks and jumped in if she'd said. So, after a brief confab, everyone thought they might as well go along and see what happened.

There wasn't much room in the little VW Beetle. But she had the roof down so that made it feel less cramped. Stu took the front passenger seat as if by divine right, so John, Paul and George squeezed into the back; of course they put George in the middle because he was the thinnest. They set off from the old dilapidated fairground with all its rusting iron and dirt, and she drove them out of the area they knew, away from the clubs, the bars, the greasy cafes, towards houses with gardens and nice shops. George stared at his first sight of ordinary German people who weren't strippers or sailors or sadists disguised as waiters. He saw a woman walking with two children and pointed. "Kids!" he said, and John looked at him as if he was soft in the head because there was nothing special about children, they were like any other children. But George was aware that they hadn't seen anything even remotely resembling ordinary since they'd arrived on these shores, and he stared in fascination as he realised that foreign people looked, in fact, just like English people.

Then, as Astrid drove on, even John and Paul showed signs of interest, as the roads became broader and even cleaner and the houses grew larger and grander and even Stu took his eyes away from Astrid long enough to gawp at what was, for the group from working class Liverpool, millionaire's row. "Shit," remarked Paul, as the car drew up outside a palatial double fronted villa-looking place and Astrid parked and turned off the engine. She turned to Stu and smiled, and the three in the back waited for their private moment of longing bliss to end so that they could all get out.

About thirteen hours later

George snuggled down under the bedclothes, as well as one could snuggle with only one blanket. His head was swimming, courtesy of the shots of schnapps he'd knocked back to counteract the prellies, he felt physically tired after seven hours on stage, and there was a happy smile on his face because he felt good and he was having a good time listening to the relentless banter between his two friends, John and Stu. The bottom line seemed to be that John considered it his rightful place to attack everything about Astrid, everything about Stu and everything about any possible relationship between them. The subtext, clear to Stu, and to George from under his blanket, was that John was jealous as hell. It would be difficult to imagine how his comments and suggestions could possibly get any more obscene. At one particularly extreme and anatomically impossible suggestion George chuckled out loud.

Stu's response was sanguine; he was no doubt shielded from the rawness of John's aggression by his own cloud of happiness. The connection between Stu and Astrid was palpable, and John's attack could do no more than batter ineffectually at the euphoric bubble surrounding the blissful bassist.

George lay, drowsy, drunk and comfortable and, as the war of words continued on the other side of the small room, he reflected on his own impressions of their strange day. The photo session had been fab. The excursion into posh Hamburg had been a real eye-opener; he'd just assumed that the whole of the city consisted of danger and decay and unmitigated sleaze. And then, there was Astrid's house.

George thought that she was just weird. Why would anyone want a completely black bedroom? It looked daft. If you got up in the middle of the night you'd bash your feet or your head or your elbow trying to find your way out. It was stupid. It was also stupid how different that room was to the rest of the house. The rest was all posh and carpeted and grand, and then you walk into that black hole. He'd stared at it, and then glanced at her and she was looking at him with that look he recognised from some of his old aunties – he had many – who he only saw at Christmas or weddings or things like that. In other words, she thought he was some kind of baby. She didn't have to say so, she couldn't have done anyway because she didn't speak English, but he recognised that look. He'd seen it all his life. There were John and Paul the swaggering big guys, and him.

George had no wish to swagger. George didn't feel any need to swagger; he wasn't trying to make any kind of impression on anyone, which John and Paul certainly were. Why would he be knocking himself out trying to impress some strange German bird who thought it was cool to paint your room black and cut your hair really short like a bloke's. No thanks.

However, her mum was lovely. She'd cooked them up a fantastic lunch and fussed around them, and she didn't look at him as if he was about five. She looked kind and as if she could be a laugh.

She seemed a bit like his mum.

With thoughts of mumsy ladies and Lennon obscenities and old iron fairgrounds swirling gently around his inebriated head, George finally drifted off to sleep.