And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 58: This Isn't The Fault In Our Stars

"Less than a day."

A pause, and then a soft murmur on the other end of the line.

"I'll see you soon, love." Paul blew a gently kiss into the telephone and hung up gently. The telephone was replaced on the hook and Paul stepped back with a smile, a dopey look in his eyes.

"Dot's coming then, eh?" I asked him. He nodded, his smile growing wider. "She should be here tomorrow morning." He turned around towards me. "Are you going to... ring anyone?"

I shook my head and smiled. "I don't have anyone to ring."

"Oh, right, yer a future bird," he said.

"Paul, do you actually believe I'm from the future?" I cocked my head at him and gave him a smirk, curious as to what he thought. He looked confused for a minute, his mouth slightly open, giving him that slightly fazed look that I remember encompassed many of my daydreams many months ago, and then the smile returned. "Either way... I mean, it's unbelievable, but you check all the boxes. Wonder if there are any more of ye waltzing about."

The question struck me. I had never thought about it before—imagine June walking around now! "I don't know," I finally said. "I hope not. One of me is more than enough to handle. Oh, bless Teresa back at the Davidwache station. Oh, bless her German soul. Even if my best form of identification is a piece of notebook paper with a false date of birth."

***

That night we played long and we played loud. Ain't She Sweet and Cry For A Shadow were omitted from our usual set on the stage of the Top Ten; we were sick of them. While we were recording with Sheridan a few days ago, we could choose two songs of our own to record without him. Everyone's moods had considerably risen. A shot of fame, fortune, our names on a record! There was a short argument over what songs should be played but I fought for Ain't She Sweet. Even though the words made me stop twice, I loved the way John's voice sounded on the track.

"Ain't she sweet... see her walking down that street..." His voice filled the auditorium, his low growl, rising as he sang, "cast an eye... in her direction..."

I didn't dare look his way, afraid his stare would freeze my hands, forever plucking an E while the song went on and all I could focus on was him. The song ended and we took a couple more takes. Kaempfert was looking impressed with us, I could tell, as he whispered something to the man beside him.

But now we were back, on the way down from a trip, having gotten high off the scent of fame and fortune. By the way Paul was looking dreamily into the distance on the car ride back he was either thinking of Dot or having his name in big letters on a vinyl sleeve.

You could smell the end of the ride was near. Hamburg's journey was almost over, and I felt bittersweet. Timeline check? Late June, about to head back to Liverpool and take over the world. Recently I felt like I was teetering on the edge of a cliff, somehow managing not to fall off.

Presently on the stage of the Top Ten, we were crooning a slow number: To Know Her Is To Love Her, and Paul and John were sharing the microphones in the front. I lay back, letting the couples sway to the music in a rare quiet moment, throwing in an occasional gentle bass lick. George caught my eye. Nice, he mouthed.

Back at you, I mouthed back. The other two didn't give him enough credit. His solos—especially the one on My Bonnie—were impressive, but neither John nor Paul told him that. If they did, I didn't hear them.

I stepped towards Pete, matching my notes with the kick drum. "Heard McCartney's staying up for his princess."

"She's coming... oh right, in the morning."