𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘽𝙀𝘼𝙏𝙇𝙀𝙎 𝙄𝙈𝘼𝙂𝙄𝙉𝙀𝙎

𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 • 𝐦𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐲

era: 1963
name: belle

"did you know belle is french for beauty?" the irritation only rose in me as the man spoke into my ear for the millionth time that night. i turned to him, fixing my dress so i wasn't showing any of the good bits. "i speak a bit of french, y'know." he smiled, attempting to be seductive.

"oh really?" i rose my eyebrows. "how much?"

the man who gave me an idea who he was almost immediately as i sat aside him in the cramped hall. i got glaring looks from many of the young ladies in the room who were practically begging the man to look their way with their eyes. if looks could kill...

"i wrote a song in french, actually. right, ringo?" he turned to the man aside him who was caught in a conversation with another man who was with them.

"huh? oh, sure..." with a dismissing response, it looked like the charming man wanted me to be impressed.

he leaned into me, mumbling something i only heard by a fraction of a second; "you're not french, are you?"

it was the question that made me laugh the hardest. me, belle bardot, bridgette bardot's third cousin, was rubbing elbows with paul mccharmly, the extremely annoying, vain and desperate rockstar. although he had a girlfriend, jane asher, he seemed to ignore it. he flirted away nearly every moment of the ceremony; an award show that dragged along with every second i sat next to the blubbering beatle.

"do i look french?"

"well, lift your arms and we'll see," that comment didn't insult me as it might've been intended, just gave me a little laugh. i lifted my arms to freshly-shaven armpits, not a single follicle of hair on them. "so, you're not. that's all very well, but if you're not french, why do you have a french name?" he cocked an eyebrow at me.

i turned my attention to the stage, but it was empty. there must've been a break in commercial. the show was supposed to be coming to a close soon. it couldn't have gone slower. "creative parents? i don't know." i uttered. "i didn't choose it."

"me either. in fact, my father thought i was so ugly when i was born, he wanted to throw me in the bin!" he joked. or so i thought. "alas, i'd say i've gotten a bit better, 'aven't i?"

"sure."

sarcasm was my only getaway from the small chatter he tried to initiate. aside from the bathroom. without saying a word, i brushed my blond hair behind my ear and sat up, hightailing it to the bathroom. leaving at the peak of the conversation, always a good way out. i thought i heard a stray word fall out of his mouth, maybe an attempt to keep me at the table, but there were a lot of people speaking.

as i reached the bathroom, i got a lot of dirty stares. mostly from the likes of girls who wanted paul's attention. i would've been more than elated to give my seat away, but the ushers wouldn't permit it. the seats were scheduled, and if a seat with the beatles was given up, there would be anarchy. possibly a riot. no telling. that's why they stuck me with them. they knew i had no interest in the four mop topped lads from liverpool.

washing my hands, i noticed a few girls behind me, whispering incoherent things to each other, but facing me. i had no choice but to say something. "wonderful weather we're having, aren't we?" they ignored me, turning to face the stalls. they wouldn't even breathe the same air as me, the beatlemaniacs. how inconsiderate. "alright, then. ignore me. that's okay. just thought i'd say, my panties have paul mccartney's name all over them. that's right. eat it up. it's on, bitches." with that, i flicked my wet hands at them and stepping out, back first, making deep, intense eye-contact with them. the looks of horror on their faces was just enough to satisfy me.

i returned to my seat, still, not a human seen on stage. or animal, for that matter. paul graciously held my seat out for me, even going as far as to stand before i sat. "how was the trip?"

"to the bathroom? oh, just... splendid."

✰

for the rest of the show, paul couldn't help but flirt with me. he made multiple passes at me, but i refused to every one of them. he just wasn't my type. men with girlfriends weren't too appealing to me, but apparently i was insane for that. every woman i talked to that night treated me like an alien if i said i didn't like the beatles.

as an american, i didn't relate to the british style. or choice in men. that seemed to frustrate paul a bit. "you're so... different," he shook his head, furrowing his brows at me. "every girl in britain is falling over their heels for me. you're not."

"maybe because i'm not british, and i don't exactly like heels." i rolled my eyes, taking a long draw of the unlimited wine.

that drew a laugh from the rest of the three beatles, who were listening at the last thing paul said. "really? i honestly couldn't tell by your american accent." paul mused. if he wanted to play dirty, we could play dirty.

"y'know, you're just like all the other second-rate boy bands that come and go, paul. the beatles will come and go, trust me. they all do." he shot daggers into my eyes, probably second guessing his choice to flirt with me that night, which was exactly what i wanted. i actually rather liked the music they had out. i only said that so he would lose interest.

unfortunately, that only made him more interested. i can't say the same for the other three. it looked like it was physically paining john not to say something witty, as he usually did. "see, love, that's where you're wrong." paul shook his head, motioning for all the boys to stand. "let's go, boys. i think we're late for something."

ringo stuffed a roll into his pocket, his mouth already full. i raised my brows. this was war. i sassily waved them away as they disappeared from my view. they walked somewhere backstage, but i didn't care.

okay, maybe i cared a little bit. that's only because i wanted to win the war.

"ladies and gentlemen, if i could have your attention for one moment, please," i turned to the stage, along with a few thousand other people there. a small, frumpy old man stood there, red-faced and flabbergasted. he read a few poorly read jokes from a couple of cards before addressing what most people were there for. "you know them, you love them, here they are, the beatles!"

the four young boys stood up there, not a bit of nervousness hinting in their faces one bit. meanwhile, every girl within a ten mile radius began screaming wildly. i clapped, but with haste. i didn't want their short moment of fame on stage to go to nothing. they weren't that bad of musicians.

in what seemed like minutes, the crowd died down a slight bit, but maybe it was just the old people who got tired of clapping. the boys finally opened their song, anna (go to him). it was off their new album, or lp, as the brits called it.

the opened lines began, and john began singing to no one in particular. it was a lovely song, i thought. very romantic, but sad at the same time. every girl's heart was probably swooning as john sang. with the backing vocals from paul and george, i couldn't help but at least tap my foot and mumble the lyrics under my breath while listening. they had that infectious sort of way of performing; you see them, you like what you hear and you have to be apart of it. it was wonderful. however much i despised paul, i loved the song and their vocals.

the song was coming to a close, but i knew there would be more. you couldn't have the beatles anywhere with them only just performing one song! it was as mad as only having one scoop of ice cream.

the second song begun, but i didn't know the words. greg or whoever he was sang it, so i couldn't recognize it. nonetheless, it sounded great. the girls didn't look like they enjoyed it as much as paul or john, but greg did just fine up there on his own. he hit most of all the notes, and brought the award ceremony to a perfect close. the final note sounded and it was time to wrap up. they bowed and the girls screamed again. even i found myself out of my seat with the other hundreds of people on the ground floor.

the beatles weren't half as bad as what i thought they were.