And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 56: A Conversation Over Britain's National Beverage

The other Beatles didn't get over their annoyance so quickly.

"I'm really, really sorry, George," I said through my corn flakes, putting the empty metal spoon back inside the bowl of milk. He gave me an annoyed glance. George was always upfront about things, which I appreciated. Anyone else might have said "It's not a problem," and go on being passively annoyed at me, but when George was angry with you, it showed.

On the other hand, he didn't tell Anna what I had said, and for some odd reason Emilia hadn't either, so Anna had no idea about my supposed opinion on the boys' fidelity. Ugh. It was all Paul. Paul who had started it off, who had triggered my fears, and I had lashed out. So maybe half of it was on me and half of it was on them.

"You're just scared Lennon is going to leave you so you take it all out on—"

Maybe it was true. But he didn't have to say that in front of everyone. Fuck you, McCartney, I thought in my head, and then: If I had originally come here with Paul, would John have been the one gallivanting off with women all hours of the day?

That was a mind twister, uncomfortable because it was so close to history, so close to the truth, and I pushed it out of my head and forced myself to concentrate on the present, back to clanking spoons and breakfast noises. Paul handed George a letter—a letter from home, I noted, the address written in Louise Harrison's shorthand. "One for you too," he said, giving something to me. I noted the dropped "luv" from the end of his sentence as he gave me a side glance from under his long eyelashes. "And one for yours truly. One for—where's Johnny Casanova?"

"Dunno," I said and looked down at my envelope. Martin's address in his impeccable, cursive handwriting, bringing my mind back to the unfinished letter which sat on my desk. So much to tell him, so little time; I spent most of my time at the Top Ten and not at Anna's place. My wardrobe was slowly moving itself from the bakery to the Top Ten; pieces of black clothing littering John's floor around his bed, creating an ocean of darkness, us sitting on the bottom bunk in a lifeboat bed. "When?" he had asked, and I thought about it and finally said, "Maybe after I'm married."

He laughed and looked at me. "Tell me, Cora, why you're not interested. Your purity fascinates me."

I stared at him darkly. "Something from the past I'd rather not get into."

He was off, asking questions like a bloodhound sniffing about. "Who? Is it Ryan? I'll have his head."

"It's not Ryan, John. It's not important," I said, playing with a strand of hair.

Jolted back to the present, I shifted over on the bench to make room for John, whose hair was wet from the rain outside. "Lads, outside. Sheridan, Kaempfert. He wants us to record—"

George was on his feet; Pete was still sipping his coffee. "My Bonnie?"

"Yes, today—" Paul. "Why do the lot of ye never pay attention to anything?" He drained his tea and stood up, pulling on a long black coat. "Come on. Let's go." George had hurried back to the room and returned with his coat and Pete's, which he tossed at the drummer. "G'head. We're late."

I stood up too. "Is he outside?"

Paul and John shared a glance and I thought, oh no. "Cora, I think you'd better stay here," Paul said. It took a while for his words to sink in, standing there holding my mug in my hand. Stay here? I remembered the last recording session I had sat in on: They had done "Summertime" and a few other songs. Ringo had come along. Paul had tried to flirt with me then. I had the time of my life, sitting in the recording studio listening to them sing. A different environment than live music. Somehow more ethereal.