Tucking my short blonde hair into a neat bun, I smoothed my sweater and white skirt and carefully checked my makeup. As I sighed deeply and reached for my purse, I heard a loud honking from outside my apartment. Laughing to myself, I grabbed my coat and raced out the door.
Rich opened my door for me as I hopped in, giving me a quick peck on the cheek. We quickly sped off before anyone realized that Ringo Starr was out and about with his girlfriend. I'd realized that being a Beatle Girl isn't always the best career choice. Don't get me wrong, being with Rich is the best thing that's ever happened to me, but with a following like theirs, there's bound to be a few jealous fans out there.
"Where we off to, luv?" Rich asked, his eyes sparkling. I smiled at his eagerness.
"Oh, I don't know…I'm dressed for just about anything…" I shrugged, trailing off. He smiled at me.
"And you look stunning, as usual." He replied softly. I blushed and pretended to have a sudden obsessive interest in my purse. Rich laughed, pulling up outside a small, yet very famous and popular, local nightclub, the Angel in the Wood. Rich opened the door for me again like a perfect gentleman, and we walked arm in arm into the dark, smoky interior of the riotous club.
We were led to a small corner where we usually ate, being semi-regulars to the Angel. Regardless of the excluded corner, the club was still very full, and we found ourselves still slightly crowded. Ignoring this for the moment, we ordered our dinner and sat back to wait for it. We sat in a small booth, both of us on the same side of the table so we could hear each other in the clamor.
"So, luv," Rich said, draping a casual arm over my shoulders. "What do you think of Don't Pass Me By?"
"Oh, you have to ask?" I gushed lightly, laying my head comfortably on his shoulder. He laughed.
"Well, who knows. I've written like crap before…" He trailed off, and I quickly brought my head up.
"Oh, that's not true!" I quickly defended. "You just had trouble coming up with original tunes. Every aspiring songwriter has some troubles with that, I'm sure!"
Rich laughed, holding up his hands defensively. "Ok, ok, you got me!" He chuckled, positively beaming at my compliments. I laughed, returning my head to his shoulder. We sat in a comfortable silence for a time, enjoying each other's company.
Suddenly, a large, balding man who was clearly stone drunk fell unceremoniously to the seat next to me. With a yelp of surprise, I all but leapt into Rich's lap as he laughed hysterically at my reaction. Flustered, I gave him a half-hearted glare. "It's not funny! I could've been crushed!" This only made him laugh harder, but we eventually woke the poor man up and he went on his drunken way.
I sat nervously for the rest of our meal. People were constantly bumping into our booth, both drunk and completely sober. It was just far too crowded.
"Rich," I all but shouted in his ear to be heard. "Can't we go somewhere a little less…crowded?" He quickly agreed, so we paid our bill and made a swift departure.
Eventually, we decided to just head back to my apartment. I made tea for the two of us, changed into more comfortable clothes, and we sat on the couch to just talk.
"I've always wanted to ask you this, Rich…or, should I say, Ringo…" I said, cupping the teacup in my cold hands. "What's it like to be a Beatle? I mean, your face is everywhere! Don't you ever just want to be a nobody?"
He laughed. "I am!" I punched him in the arm. "Oh, no need to resort to violence. Well, I suppose I must admit, it's quite strange to be seeing your face on a billboard…I remember going to the premier of A Hard Day's Night, I think it was. Our faces were on this huge billboard. But it didn't bother me much. It's what I love to do; I'm a drummer, and making the money is just a great perk." I nodded, slowly sipping my tea. It made perfect sense. "Ah, but it's your turn now. What's it like to be a Beatle Girl?" Rich asked, smiling that oh-so-cute lopsided grin.
I thought carefully before responding. "Well, your fans prolly aren't to thrilled with it, but I have to say, I think I would have loved you anyway, if you hadn't been a Beatle. I never in a million years thought that one day, I'd be curled up here, having a cuppa with a Beatle, in a posh London apartment that happens to be mine…" Rich beamed, moving to pull me closer. I lay my head on his chest and we stared into the fire, much like the night he had come to apologize. "Being with you is prolly the best thing in my life right now," I said slowly, a little nervous to be baring my entire soul to him. Rich stroked my hair softly, not speaking. I took a deep breath and continued. "It does hurt a lot that you did what you did…and…" I stopped, fresh tears springing to my eyes.
"Shh, luv, it's ok…" Rich said softly, kissing my forehead. "I never meant to do what I did. Like you just said, you're the best thing in my life, and I don't know what I'd ever do if I lost you. Frankly, it scared the shit outta me to lose you for one day. I might just waltz off a bridge if I lost you forever…"
A tear rolled down my cheek, and I put a finger to his lips. "Oh, Rich, please don't say that," I asked pleadingly.
He covered my hand with his, kissed it, then continued. "But it's true. The whole Romeo-Juliet bit. Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em." I laughed softly, and he smiled. "Good, at least I can still make you laugh."
The room was draped in another comfortable silence as we sipped our steaming tea. I was thrilled that Rich and I could have such a relationship where we could just sit and talk like this. We both could bare a big part of our souls with little or no worry as to what the other person would think. We trusted each other, and we respected each other. It seemed perfect.
Late that night, or, should I say, early that morning, we decided it was best to head to bed, considering Rich would be in the studio early again, and he and the boys had asked me to come in for the final cuts of Don't Pass Me By. We both slept in my bed again, in each other's arms, but once again, no further than that.
I awoke first the next morning, squinting out the window at the newly fallen snow. Gently untangling myself from Rich's sleeping arms, I stood and stretched. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, I flicked the soft, brown hair from his closed eyes and kissed his forehead softly. Wrapping myself in a raggedy old robe, I ran to take a quick shower.
When I came out, Rich wasn't on the bed. I panicked, thinking that I had taken too long and he'd left without me, so I rushed to the kitchen, looking for a note or something that said where he would be.
Instead, I found Rich, making blueberry pancakes over the stove. I smiled, laughing at my silliness. Rich looked over, cocking one eyebrow. "Love the outfit. Does it come in peach?"
I looked down, realizing I was wearing just a towel. Blushing madly, I raced back to the bedroom to dress. I could hear him laughing in the kitchen, and I smiled in spite of myself. I slipped into a pair of tight, fraying bellbottoms and a large purple sweater, combing my wet hair and pulling it into a hasty ponytail. I pulled on a pair of white boots, then put on a minimal amount of makeup. Returning to the kitchen, I grabbed my silver-rimmed sunglasses and perched them carefully on my head. Rich sat me down at the table, putting a plate of delicious-smelling pancakes in front of me, smiling wickedly.
"Oh, why'd you have to go and get dressed?" He asked, eyes twinkling mischievously. I blushed, making a big show of pouring syrup onto my pancakes.
"Well, I doubt you'd be thrilled if I went waltzing through the streets in that getup!" I countered, smiling. He laughed.
"No, I suppose not."
Breakfast was delicious, of course. Rich is one of the best cooks I know, even though he never likes to give himself any credit. Modest ol' Rich.
After we finished breakfast, we washed the dishes and jumped into his car, running off to the studio. I didn't bother taking my violin, seeing as my part was done and all that was needed of me was my musical aptitude for the final mixing.
When we arrived, the other three were already there. I seated myself in a metal chair in the corner, crossing my legs nonchalantly and waving to the men in the booth. George Martin waved back, mouthing, "Hi, Tessa"
I greeted the other lads as they set up their instruments. John crept over to Rich, and I could tell he was up to no good.
"Psst…hey, Ringo…have a nice time at Tessa's apartment last night, eh?" John whispered, but I could hear him quite clearly. He elbowed Rich gently, wiggling his eyebrows. Luckily, George and Paul were engrossed in tuning their guitars enough to not hear. I snickered into my hand as quietly as possible as Rich turned seven shades of red.
"We didn't DO anything!" He protested quietly, and the look on John's face fell.
"Oh." He looked terribly disappointed, heading back to his tall wooden stool as Rich breathed an audible sigh of relief. I bit my lip, holding in my laughter. Rich shot me a pitiful look, and I all but fell off my chair laughing.
After I'd composed myself, the boys in the booth played the tape for us. After a few play throughs, the editing began. Things were taken out, moved around, added, thrown together, fixed-up, and patched. No matter how constructive the criticism, however, Rich still seemed very touchy on the subject of fixing and or changing it. I glanced to him every now and then, and he seemed to be uncomfortable with some of the changes the others were proposing. Rich slowly became more and more frustrated, his responses short, sharp, and biting. Relations in the studio wore thin, and they argued over the most trivial things. I kept my mouth shut during the whole fiasco, but I started to shift uncomfortably as Rich and Paul began arguing over a particular drum part.
"Ringo, I think there was this little bit where you fluffed the tom tom just a little bit…you can hear it right after that…"
"Paul, it's fine!" Rich burst out, anger written on his face. I opened my mouth to speak, but quickly shut it; this wasn't my argument.
"Well, with the fans analyzing everything like they do…" Paul replied, trying to keep his anger in check.
"Fuck the fans! Since when do we care whether they know about a bloody fluffed tom-tom?" Rich countered, standing up angrily. Paul followed suit.
"Look, all I said was that we needed to redo five bloody seconds of the drum tracking. You don't need to get all defensive!"
"Don't you think you've changed enough of MY song? You're changing everything like it's your own song! I finally come up with a bloody song that you'll even acknowledge and you have to go rewriting it already?" Rich tossed his drumsticks away. "Forget it. Come on, Tessa. We'll leave them to work on their song." He stood up stiffly, walking with long, angry strides to where I sat. He tossed me my coat and grabbed my wrist, heading for the door. I looked back at the boys, a look of astonishment on my face as well as theirs. I shrugged, as if asking permission to leave. They nodded, slowly and confusedly as he led me from the studio.
"Rich, what are you doing?" I asked as he all but dragged me into the frigid air of London. Rich continued walking, myself stumbling to keep up, headed for the parking lot.
"I'm sick of them changing everything about my work!" Rich opened the door for me hastily, and I quickly jumped in. He slammed the door, then roughly threw himself into the driver's seat. "Rich, don't you think…"
"Oh, don't you start!" He interrupted rudely, pulling out quickly onto the city streets. "All they ever do is critique me. If they're so damn good, why don't they play the fucking drums!"
"Rich, stop this…" I replied softly, trying to calm him down. He was speeding down the road, every angry sentence punctuated with a sharp turn. "Rich, where are we going?"
"I don't know. Somewhere away from bloody Lennon and McCartney, songwriters extroardinaire," He spat sarcastically, speeding around another corner on two wheels.
"They're just trying to help!" I cried, gripping the seat nervously as he made another sharp turn on a busy city street. A taxi honked, and he swore.
"Help, my ass. I'm sick of them changing everything like they own the bloody band! George had the same problem, but he never did anything about it! I'm finally doing something I should've done a long time ago."
My heart dove into my stomach. "What…what's that?" I asked quietly, but I already knew the answer.
"I'm quitting the Beatles."
"But Rich…" I ended my sentence with a yelp as he swerved in front of another car. Rich swore again, jerking the wheel away and continuing on his furious rampage.
"Don't try and change my mind. Those two deserve it."
"Rich!" I cried out. "The light is red!" But he wasn't paying attention.
"Fuck the world. I they don't need me, I don't need them." He muttered angrily, still not aware of the blazing red traffic sign.
"Rich, STOP!"
"What?"
"The light is RED!" I screamed.
"Holy SHIT!"
Tires screeched as we flew into the intersection. There was the horrible sound of screaming metal as the two cars collided. I heard Rich cry out, and I reached for him, but I couldn't find him.
Pain lanced through my head, and I passed out.
