MARGO

"Ready to go?" George asked me. He handed me a pair of sunglasses and a wig, similar to his own disguise.

"No one will recognize me without this stuff," I answered, remembering the moment in the airport back in England, where the stewardess laughed when I said who my boyfriend was. "I'm the secret girlfriend, remember?"

Paul was the "cute one", and therefore had to be deemed single. Just as Cyn and John, I was kept hidden, sneaking away with Paul whenever we could. But, unlike Cyn and John, who have already been publicly released, I was still a carefully kept secret. Not that I didn't mind. Being ambushed by paparazzi was not my cup of tea.

George pushed the disguise further towards me. "Still," he said, as I reluctantly took the accessories and put them on, "precautions must be taken."

He placed his own disguise carefully on his head, then zipped up his jacket. "John," he shouted down the hall. "We're leaving! Alright?"

"Yeah!" he shouted back. "Just so you know, I'll be ordering a million pounds' worth of room service!"

"Got it!" George yelled with a laugh. "See you later! We'll call if anything."

"Bye, John!" I said, and walked out the door.

"Ta, pals!"

George stepped out, and closed the door behind him. We took the elevator down. I looked at George, whose hesitant expression was reflected a million times in the mirror walls.

"George?" I asked, and put my hand on his arm. He didn't look at me. "Don't worry, everything will be fine."

"I have to tell you something."

My worst thoughts popped into my mind. "What?" I asked, though I wanted to ask more.

Is Paul okay?

Will he die?

Has he died already?

Are we going to his funeral?

My crazy imagination scares me sometimes.

George sensed my panic, and turned to me. "No, no, no, it isn't that serious," he said. I calmed down, and ran my fingers through my head of fake hair. "Paul is going to get better, he will. But they're having doubts about his touring."

"What?" I wasn't expecting that.

"It probably isn't true," George said, sternly, his eyes turned downward, talking perhaps more to himself than me. Then he looked back up at me. "But some people were thinking that his performance career may be over."

"But it's barely started!" I spluttered, tears welling in my eyes. "This is his passion! Music is his passion! The Beatles are his life!"

"I know, Margo, I know," George said, leaning back against the wall. Thousands of slouched figures shone in the reflections. "But it's probably all a lie. A publicity stunt."

I quickly wiped away the tears before they fell. "It better be," I retorted. As the elevator doors opened to the lobby, I added with a small chuckle, 'Otherwise he'd be moping around the house all day, and I'd have to leave him."

George faintly smiled, and the two of us walked outside into the bright sunlight.

JOHN

"Harumph," I muttered. "Nothin' to do here."

I wondered how far Margo and George had gone. They were probably in the car already, driving down the freeway.

I looked around the room. My bruises ached a lot less, but I still didn't want to get up. The bed was much too comfy.

I thought of Paul. Was he this comfortable, in his own hospital bed, with people fussing around him?

I sighed. I had really wanted to see him. But I guess another day wouldn't hurt.

The remote was next to me, and I flipped the telly on. I clicked through the channels, finding nothing interesting.

Then I saw Paul's face. I flipped back to the channel. We were on the news. We usually were.And of course, this had to be the story of the century. I sat up, and turned up the volume.

"...is still in the hospital after collapsing on stage during a New York concert. No further reports have been made on Mr. McCartney's condition. But a source, who wishes to remain anonymous, claims that there are doubts of him ever touring again. Will this be the end of the Beatles, after only a few months of fame? Here is Anita Smith with the fans, who-"

I muted the T.V., and dropped the remote onto the bed. I stared at the silent box, as pictures of crying birds filled the screen.

...doubts of him ever touring again... the end of the Beatles...

Another tearful girl's face flashed onto the screen. She held a poster of us, and hugged it tightly to her chest.

I grabbed the remote, and threw it at the bird. The remote missed by a mile. She continued to sob, and it irritated me.

Why do people cry for someone they've never met?

Why are they all sad anyway?

Paul will be alright.

He will be fine.

This is all rubbish.

The girl kept on crying.

"AAAARGH!" I screamed, and rolled off the bed, falling to the floor. I stood up shakily, and hobbled to the telly. The pain and anger shook me in tremors, and tears fell down my face.

I swung back with my leg, and kicked the bird in the face. A shot of pain went through my leg.

I kicked again. And again. And again.

"STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!" I shouted over and over, and continued to kick. The screen cracked, and smashed into pieces. I kept kicking, and screaming, and crying, and aching, until I ran out of tears and energy.

I limped away from the box, now destroyed, and flopped onto the bed. I trembled with hurt and anger, and shoved my face onto the pillow, letting out another scream.

I don't know when I stopped screaming, or when I stopped shaking. But I did, and soon I was just lying there, a heap of pain and hurt and anguish, breathing heavily.

I reached for the phone, and dialed a number.

"Room service," a bored voice said on the other line.

"Yes, this is room 449," I answered calmly. "It appears that there is something wrong with the T.V. Please send someone to fix it as soon as possible."