Friar Park (George Harrison x gardener!reader)

Chapter 4

When I was much younger, I always liked being at home. The last hour of the school day was agonizingly slow, and it was only once I reached my front door that I felt I could finally breathe again. At home, I was safe. I could turn my room into a fantasy chamber and let my imagination run wild. All of my best scenes I acted out there. Standing in front of my mirror, I gave Oscars acceptance speeches, and practised lip-syncing for my debut music video. I sailed around the world aboard my pirate ship bed, and many Barbies braved the heights of my bookshelf cliffside.

That's also where I spent hours with my head next to my stereo, trying to surround myself with the voices and music of The Beatles. I couldn't tell which voice belonged to who for the longest time, but there were some songs I liked more than the others – maybe the lyrics were sweeter and made me blush, or the voice was somehow more charming or like a boy I might know in real life.

These days, home is where I hang my coat, eat, wash, and sleep. I can't deny the profound effect Friar Park has had on me in just my first week. I'm almost praying this weekend away, for Monday to arrive and return me to my new life. Then I'm rudely awoken by my apartment rattling from a huge truck passing by outside my window. "This is real life, little girl," it growls, "This is your reality."

A disturbing discovery: this apartment isn't much bigger than my childhood bedroom, and about the size of the Friar Park pantry. No space for pirate adventures, but maybe...

Under my bed is excellent real estate for important storage, and I'm pretty sure my old stereo is here. Somewhere nearby is a box of old cds and cassettes my dad recently handed over to me. I shuffle through years of one-hit wonders and my younger self's musical phases, and finally find what I'm looking for: Please Please Me.

I plug in the stereo, slide the tape in, and turn the volume dial all the way up. Paul McCartney's voice fills my tiny room, recounting a tale of spotting a 17-year-old gal, and I'm transported. How many times has someone done exactly this? For how many years? And in how many bedrooms all over the world?

I take my dancing over to the kitchen area to fix myself something to drink and remind myself I'm an adult. While I'm gathering my stock, I marvel at how after all this time the lyrics are still there in my memory and spilling out of my mouth without even thinking.

"The world has treated me badly," I concur with the boys at the next song, 'Misery'. But I'm fixing it, I remind myself, and raise the glass of my well-earned beverage.

I slow dance with myself and refrain from performing a lap dance on my dining chair through the duration of 'Anna (Go to Him).' When was the last time I felt any kind of sultry? I wonder. But then the familiar harmonica intro of 'Chains' brings me back to age 8. This is the one I'd put my ear up to, and close my eyes, pretending he was singing to me.

I drop to the floor, leaning on my elbows and kicking my feet up behind me, like an automatic body response. The same magic reaches my face and I can't help but smile. Can't sing along to this one, though, don't want to drown out –

"I wanna tell you, pretty baby, I think you're fine"

Waitaminute.

That's not Paul. That's not John Lennon. I'm not even sure if Ringo's on the drums, so... oh lord. I reach for the cassette case and check the liner notes. Oh how embarrassing!

My new friend George - my "client" as he fancies himself – has been the dreamy boy singing to my little heart for all these years.

I can't help but laugh in exasperation. I bury my face in my hands, and with my belly against the floor, each laugh shakes my whole body. You absolute fool! Thank god George isn't here to witness this ridiculous moment. I can feel my cheeks blush, no longer out of coy shyness, but this time out of sheer embarrassment.

I don't even think I can listen to the rest of the song now. Isn't there a part where he –

"Your lips are sweet"

No no!! I can't!

I flatten the side of my face to the floor, fighting with myself whether to turn off the music or smarten up and quickly get over it. I opt to just let it play.

Okay, maybe I can wait for Monday after all. I don't think I can face him again so soon. Not after this.