Work Text:
"Pardon me, madam, but you could you possibly tell us how to get to Shaftesbury Avenue? We're from Liverpool and don't really know our way round London..."
George Harrison fought the urge to roll his eyes as his friend Paul McCartney tried his patented chat up line on a pair of attractive girls. It wasn't that George was opposed to trying for a pull, especially with London birds, but it was the concept that got on his wick. It's not as if the three of them -- George, Paul and their mate, John Lennon -- were yokels who'd never been down to London before. They'd been here quite often as it happened, so the thought of playing clueless Northerners bothered George greatly. It was bad enough Southerners already thought poorly about anyone from outside the region. There was no reason to add to their prejudices.
Despite Paul pouring on the charm and giving them what John's Auntie Mimi called "sheep's eyes", the girls showed no interest. One of them looked vaguely annoyed while her friend pointed in the general direction of Shaftesbury Avenue before they turned on their heels and sauntered off.
John snorted in amusement. "Nice one, mate," he said, taking out a pack of cigarettes. He offered them around to Paul and George before pulling out a lighter. "Very suave, that."
"Would've worked if I was on my own," Paul grumbled.
"You really need to work on some new lines, y'know," George said, then took a drag on his now lit cigarette. "That whole country mouse lost in the big city bit is growing bloody stale."
Paul pulled a face. "Usually works though, doesn't it?"
"For you, maybe," said John. "Some of us can't throw off our air of sophistication that easily, can we, George?"
"No. Some of us are just born that way."
"Well then, maybe one of you sophisticated chaps," Paul sneered as he said the words, "ought to give it a try then?"
"We couldn't do any worse, could we?" replied John.
George took another long drag rather than chime in. Of course, things hadn't always been like this. A little over a year ago, the three of them plus their mate Ritchie had had their pick of girls, their pick of everything. As the Beatles, they'd been the top band in Liverpool and Hamburg, each up to their eyes in girls, guitars, and guineas, poised to take the world -- or at least the United Kingdom-- by storm.
They'd had an enthusiastic manager who'd worked his fingers to the bone trying to get their names and music out there, plus a record in the charts. "Love Me Do" had hit the top 20 nationwide. They'd had a fan club with thousands of adoring fans, but that was all in the past. To the band's consternation, their second record, "Please Please Me", had failed to catch on, selling well in Liverpool but not anywhere else. At their record company's behest, they'd put out a third single written by some London wanker rather than one of their own original tunes. "How Do You Do It?" had fared even worse than the previous two.
No one outside of their Liverpudlian sphere had been moved by that one either, and local fans branded them sellouts for releasing such awful material. The radio and tv spots had dried up, sending their manager into a spiral of depression and back to working at his family's department store. The Beatles' careers went into freefall. Fans were fickle, always searching for the next big thing, so without any new songs or support, the Beatles had come crashing back down to Earth, ordinary run of the mill lads from Liverpool once again.
"Hey, look, there's three of them." Paul's voice shook George out of his reverie. He looked up to see Paul pointed in the direction of a trio of girls coming towards them.
John squinted, although without his glasses he was as blind as a bat. "Anita Ekberg, Claudia Cardinale, and Brigitte Bardot, I hope?"
"Could be, could very well be." Paul took one last puff of his cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stubbing it out with the toe of his boot. "So, one of you fellers of distinction want to give it go this time, or d'you reckon I can handle it?"
George opened his mouth to respond, but John spoke up first. "Oh, go on then."
George tried not to scowl, certain he could do better than Paul's feeble attempts. He wasn't even really sure why he was here with his mates. They'd come down to see their song publisher to offer up another of their songs in hopes of a sale to some pop group while he tagged along. It wasn't as if he had much to offer in that capacity, and sometimes being in the orbit of the twin egos of Lennon & McCartney was all too much. Still, they'd asked him to travel down South with them, and it was a change of scenery from dirty, drab, and dull Liverpool. The secretaries at the publisher's still seemed to fancy him over John and Paul, flirting with him shamelessly. George supposed that was worth something.
He knew there were worse things in life than hanging about Charing Cross Road on a pleasant evening trying to meet girls...like being stuck in a depressing job somewhere. God knew his parents would've preferred he had a proper job rather than playing the occasional gig around Liverpool with musicians he barely knew, but that was never going to happen.
Squinting, George watched Paul engaging the new girls who, despite all odds, seemed to be falling for his lost Liverpudlian spiel. At least Paul had some taste when it came to these three. One was a tall, classy-looking blonde, the second an attractive brunette, and the third a petite girl whose hair was what he thought was called strawberry blonde. George liked the looks of all three, but there was something about the smallest one that stood out to him.
The girls glanced over in George and John's direction, giggling amongst themselves.
"Blimey, we've ventured into 'Three Cool Cats' territory, haven't we?" George murmured.
John chuckled. "Aw, buck up, little Georgie. Have faith, we might get lucky yet."
Paul waved his hand in the general direction of his friends, signaling that they should join him.
"C'mon then. Paul's seemingly managed to hold their interest."
"See, no reason to be a miserable git, George. Our Paul's worked his magic yet again."
"Alright, alright." George grabbed John by the arm, dragging him in the direction of Paul and the girls before John's short-sightedness caused any embarrassment. John's inability to see more than six inches in front of his face often lead to him talking to street lamps or mistaking lawn ornaments for card players, and this was hardly the time for that. "Bagsies on the little one," George said in John's ear.
"What if I want her, then?" John argued.
"Too late. I've made a claim on her, you see."
"How d'you know she won't fancy me more?" John leered at him. "Don't assume she'll start swooning over you, Casanova. She might fancy the more mature type.
"You haven't even seen her yet, mate. I have, so shut your gob."
"Fine, fine, you bloody sphinx, have it your way. I'm not desperate for a woman like you are, anyroad. I've got plenty of me own."
George bit back a retort reminding John about the wife and son waiting for him back in Liverpool. That seemed too churlish and John hated when the subject was brought up. The last thing George wanted to do was argue with his friend, especially when there were girls to impress.
"Took your time, didn't you?" Paul drawled. "Ladies, these are the mates I was telling you about, George and John.
"Hiya." John grinned.
"Pleased to meet you," said George, giving them a subtle once over.
The three girls smiled. "Hello, I'm Patsy, Patsy Collins," said the tall blonde, extending her hand. "This is Vanessa Ludlow." She pointed to the brunette.
"Please, call me 'Nessa'."
"Och," John said, putting on a thick Scottish brogue, "is this a sighting of Nessie herself then?"=
Both women gave him confused stares before Patsy continued. "And last but not least, Annie Kent."
Annie flashed George a shy smile as he shook Patsy's hand.
"Charmed," he said, then shook the other girls' hands in turn as did John.
"Patsy suggested we all go for a drink and get ourselves more acquainted," Paul said, sounding smug. "You lot up for a bevvie or two?"
John grinned. "With such pretty birds? Don't mind if we do."
"We can go to the Ship on Wardour Street," said Patsy. "It's not too far from Shaftesbury Avenue. You can easily get to your other appointment from there."
The three boys exchanged sheepish glances.
"Yeah, alright then," said John. "Lead on."
Patsy began walking, heading along Old Compton Street to Wardour Street, chatting animatedly with John and Paul while Nessa kept pace with them. George followed behind, making sure that Annie was still with them. She walked beside him in companionable silence.
None of the ex-Beatles let on that they knew this area of London far more than they'd pretended. They'd spent plenty of time in the vicinity back in the days when they'd been on an upward trend, back when the three of them and their drummer Ritchie had truly believed they were destined to reach the "Toppermost of the Poppermost" as John always put it.
It was a short walk to The Ship, the six of them slipping in through the front door and into the pub. It was cramped, warm, and noisy inside, crammed wall to wall with people. Patsy wended through the crowd, and snagged a table large enough for their group, then waved for everyone to join her.
George, John, and Paul made sure the girls were seated before they took chairs for themselves.
"So, when have you got to leave?" Patsy asked. "There ought to be time enough for at least one drink before you need to get where you're going."
Paul's expression turned slightly guilty, and he blushed. "Erm, well, about that actually--"
Patsy raised a well arched eyebrow, giving him a cool stare. "Yes?"
"Paulie, have you been telling porkies again?" John shook his head, feigning shock. "Tsk tsk. Can't trust you for a minute, can we?"
"Dead pathological, he is," added George.
"I sussed out you were telling a bit of a fib," said Patsy. She cocked her head, brow creased in consideration as she studied their faces. "You look awfully familiar to me. Have we met before?"
"Blimey," John said, "I thought that was a line one of us would use on you birds."
"No, honestly. I'm certain that I've seen you somewhere. Are you actors?"
"I'd know if they were," Nessa interjected. "I'm certain they're not."
"And how do you reckon that, then?" countered John.
"I'm an actress," she sniffed.
"Oh, oh, aren't we grand?" John affected a posh accent.
George's lip curled up in disdain. "So, you know everyone in the theater, do you, Elizabeth Taylor?"
"I'm reasonably sure I'd remember a bunch of Scouse scruffs like you."
"Oh, stop your airs and graces, Nessa," Patsy said. "She's not so much an actress as a struggling one."
That earned her a glare from her friend. "I do radio plays!"
"They're small roles, but she's very good," Annie insisted.
"Well, we're not actors anyroad," George said.
"No, we're not. We're songwriters," said Paul, preening. "We'd just finished meeting with our music publisher when we saw you."
"All three of you?" Annie's eyes grew wide. George noted they were very blue. "How exciting!"
"We are, he's not," John scoffed, indicating George. "He's just a guitarist from our old group."
George cast a dark look in John's direction, irritated by the slight. "Ta very much for that.
"Now, now, Georgie, don't sulk."
"Group?" Annie continued. "Would we have heard of you? Patsy knows loads of musicians she 'cos she works at the NME. You know, The New Musical Express."
"You're a writer then?" Paul turned his attention back to Patsy. "So's Our John here. He writes for the Mersey Beat."
Nessa let out a snicker. "Hardly. Patsy's an executive secretary."
Patsy scowled. "I assist with editing too. What's your group called?"
"The Beatles. Well, was," Paul replied. "We're done with that bit now, really."
"Oh, I remember you! You had a record in the charts, and toured with…Tommy Roe and Chris Montez, wasn't it? You were touted as the next big thing, and then you fizzled out, didn't you?"
"You didn't have to put it that way, did you?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend. Just meant that you didn't quite go anywhere." Patsy shrugged. "From what I recall, I rather liked you."
"Glad somebody did," said George with a sigh.
"Seems as though we brought you to the proper place. The Ship's the best place to see and be seen if you're a musician. See that bloke over there?" Patsy pointed to a moody looking young man with a crew cut nursing a beer sitting alone. "That's Eric Clapton."
George wasn't sure if he ought to be impressed or not. "And who's he when he's at home?"
"Only the best blues guitarist in the country," replied Nessa. "He plays with John Mayall. His fans say he's God."
"And those chaps sitting there --" Patsy indicated a quartet of younger men at a nearby table, their heads together in deep conversation. "They're the High Numbers."
"The who?" asked Paul.
"No, the High Numbers. They used to be the Detours but they've changed their name," Nessa explained. "Hottest R & B group in London. They headline at the Marquee regularly."
"I've got connections with everyone on the London scene," said Patsy. "Perhaps I can be of assistance to you. Of course, one good deed deserves a reward or perhaps," she winked at John, "some compensation. I scratch your back, you scratch mine."
"You want us to pay you then?" Paul asked. John was amused by his friend's confusion.
Patsy smirked. "No, darling, but you could start by buying us some drinkies. We'll see where it goes from there."
"I'll do it." John hopped to his feet. "Tell me what you birds want." He took their orders, then stalked off towards the bar.
Immediately Paul launched into further conversation with both Nessa and Patsy.
George glanced over at Annie who was far quieter than her friends. "So, what do you do?" he asked. "Something as glamorous as your mates? Let me guess -- you're a model."
"Who? Me?" Annie shook her head, blushing prettily. "Don't be silly. I'm way too short for that. Actually, I'm in music like you lot are. Or...were?"
"I still play guitar. I sit in with a few local groups just to keep my hand in, but it's dead boring really. I miss having a regular band to do gigs with, but them two," George indicated his friends with a jut of his chin, "packed it in. We still get together and play for a laugh, but it's been pointless to keep going when our drummer -- he was called Ringo, but his real name is Ritchie -- buggered off to America. He's doing session work for people like Phil Spector and such in Los Angeles. So, what do you play?"
"Piano. But," she let out a nervous laugh, "I just teach. Definitely not performing material. I learned that after one too many disastrous recitals at school."
"So, not the next Van Cliburn, then?"
"Oh goodness, no." She laughed again, and George was relieved that she'd taken his ribbing in the spirit he'd intended it. "It's all well and good to play for friends or my family in a small setting, but put me on stage in front of a crowd of people and I'm utter pants. I get stage fright something awful."
He leaned in closer to talk to her over the din. Paul caught sight of him, giving him a thumb's up of approval. "If you must know, I get that way too, and I've played hundreds of shows. I'm always nervous until I actually start."
"I couldn't imagine playing hundreds of shows. I'd die of panic first."
"Hey, George," Paul called over, "Patsy's suggested we go next door to this club and check out this band she says is fab. She thought they might be in the market for some new songs courtesy of us."
"Is that so?" John placed a tray of drinks down on the table, handing them round.
George shrugged diffidently. "Might as well. Not as if we've got any other great plans for the evening, is it?"
They drank quickly, finishing up before strolling a few doors down to the Marquee Club. A long line of kids wound around the block.
"Let me sort this out," said Patsy. She ran up to a burly bouncer, greeting him with a smile. He seemed to recognize her. They spoke for a few moments, and then he gave her a curt nod. She returned, grinning in satisfaction. "I've said you're a very important group from the North and the Stones would be terribly disappointed if they missed you. He trusts me, so there we have it -- Bob's your uncle."
They had exchanged one dark, noisy environment for another. The Marquee was packed with a surging sea of kids. On stage a band called Davie Jones & the King Bees were finishing up their set. George thought they sounded like decent rhythm & blues although the singer, the aforementioned Davie, sounded too much like Anthony Newley for his tastes.
Patsy pushed ahead as if she owned the place, the others following in her wake. They wound up near the front of the room, by the stage, crammed together in a tight group. Annie slipped in front of George, allowing him to see the stage over her.
The Rollin' Stones came out soon after to a roar of approval from the crowd. A wave of melancholy washed over George. He remembered that noise from the audiences in Liverpool, Hamburg, and other places when the Beatles had toured, but that moment had passed, taking their luck with it. It hardly seemed fair.
There were five members of the Stones: two guitarists, a bass player, a drummer, and a lead singer who immediately launched into a frenzied performance reminiscent of James Brown. Their sound was loud and energetic. The band barreled through a varied set: American blues, Motown standards, Chuck Berry, and Buddy Holly tunes. George had to admit to himself that they were good, even if he thought the Beatles had done the same songs better in their heyday. The only exception was the small blond lead guitarist who was using a metal slide to coax incredible sounds out of his guitar. George made a mental note to learn how to play like that.
Annie seemed to be enjoying herself too, swaying to the music, and clearly engrossed in the performance. However, she gazed up at George more than once, beaming when she did.
The Stones played their final song, then dashed off stage.
"Come along," Patsy ordered, already on the move. Nessa and Annie dogged at her heels, John and Paul right behind them. George followed suit, unsure of where they were going or even why.
The Stones' members were busy packing up their instruments when the group arrived backstage. The Stones seemed unperturbed by the company, giving Patsy a friendly reception. She made quick introductions all around, explaining to Mick, the lead singer, who their visitors were.
"They write original songs. They had a few records in the charts -- you might remember the Beatles?"
"We've got a contract with Dick James," Paul added.
Mick seemed less than impressed by the revelation. "We don't need originals," he muttered. "Especially pop tunes."
Keith, the rhythm guitarist, ran his fingers through his already unruly thatch of hair. "Sorry, man. We just play the blues."
"We've written for a number of Liverpool acts," Paul continued. "We're very popular, you know."
"You may have noticed we're not in Liverpool, mate," said Mick scornfully. "This is the London scene."
"You might want to broaden your horizons then, son," John sneered. "You can't subsist on Buddy Holly or fucking Chuck Berry covers forever."
Mick's scowl grew deeper. "Oh, really?"
"We've already been through it. Audiences want more than just the same old, same old. But of course, you must know more than us Northern yobbos, mustn't you?"
"C'mon, man, don't row," Keith broke in. "We gotta go anyway. S'nice meeting you."
Mick leaned over to Patsy and whispered something in her ear before striding off with his bandmate.
"We've been invited to a party," Patsy said. "A private party so just we three girls, I'm afraid. Terribly sorry, boys." She reached into her handbag and pulled out a business card. "Here. Give me a bell the next time you're in London and I'll see who else I might be able to connect you with."
John accepted it with a frown. "Not sure we need any more of your 'help', love."
"Oh, don't be daft. I really do want to do something for you. Girls, are you ready?"
"Of course," said Nessa, already heading off to wherever Mick and Keith were.
"Annie?"
Annie looked over at Patsy, then George, then back at Patsy. "In a minute."
"Don't take too long, please. We don't need your dawdling."
"Bloody Southerners," John muttered under his breath as Patsy turned to leave.
"Wait." Brian, the lead guitarist, trotted over, guitar case in hand. "Sorry about those two. You know you really ought to speak with our manager. Giorgio's really the one to talk to about new material, and I wouldn't mind hearing what you've got to offer. I can give you his telephone number if you'd like."
"Can't hurt, can it?" Paul mused.
"S'pose," John replied grudgingly.
"I've got a bit of paper in my bag." Annie dug a notepad and a pen out of her handbag and handed them to Brian. He scribbled down a number, tore off the sheet, and gave it to John.
"Gotta split," said Brian. "See you around." He paused for a moment. "Annie, you joining us?"
"Yes, tell them to wait for me. I want to say goodbye."
"Alright. See you in a tic."
Annie stepped to the side, motioning George to join her, away from his mates. "I really do have to go with them," she said sotto voce, "I'd rather not but..."
"No, I understand. Really."
She took her notepad and wrote something quickly. "Here's my number. I don't know if you're in London often, but if you are, I'd love to see you again." Even in the dark room George could see she was blushing. "I hope you don't think I'm being too forward."
"No, it's nice, really. I'll definitely phone you…if I'm still here in England, that is."
"Why? Where else would you be?"
"America." As soon as he said it, George knew this was where he wanted to be. "Me sister lives there, and Ritchie's been on me to move to Los Angeles and work with him as a session musician. I'm dead fed up here. Writing songs and such are alright for them, you see," he pointed to John and Paul, "but that's not me. I don't want to be famous, really, just successful. Playing guitar's all I know how to do. They don't care where you come from in America, they just care if you can play."
"Well, if you do go there, would you send me postcards. I..I'd like to keep in touch."
George grinned. "Yeah, me too."
"Annie, do hurry up! We're leaving!" Patsy called from somewhere in the distance.
Annie stretched on her toes and planted a kiss on George's cheek. "It's been lovely." With that she scurried off after her friends, leaving George alone with his mates, and his thoughts of America.