January 24, 1969 - Friday Morning
Peter and May's Apartment

"N-no, more like this..." he breathed, guiding her hand underneath his pyjama shorts.

"Christ!" Peter exclaimed, and May looked at him with wide eyes.

"What?"

"Your hands are bloody freezing,"

"Oh." she gazed down, and rubbed her hands together, creating a mild warmth.

For fifteen minutes, May had been struggling to get Peter aroused and in bliss. She wasn't very confident in lovemaking, which is what held her back from achieving any sort of pleasure during the act. She had lost her virginity to Peter a few months ago, and it had been fun every time they were intimate since then...but it usually took a lot of time to get going, and Peter didn't have a lot of time at this moment. It was ten minutes until he had to be out the door for work, and all he wanted was a quickie before the day began, but May was just - infuriatingly (to him) - slow.

May was never particularly keen on morning sex...the idea of it turned her off. She usually woke up with really bad hay fever, so she wasn't at her best. She promised Peter she'd be better in ten minutes...but he didn't have ten minutes, which he often reminded her.

"Y'know, it's getting on, May. I'll just have a shower, okay, dear?" Peter said, and lifted the bed covers off of his body.

"Wait." she gripped his wrist. "Are you sure? I'm okay now, Pete. I swear I can do it now..."

He sighed. "May, I don't have all morning. It's fine. Besides...I'm not really in the mood anymore..."

Her eyes fell down his features and neck, as she let out a faint, "Oh..."

Peter left her to take a short shower, and as May heard the water run, she lay back on the bed sheets, wondering what the fuck was wrong with her. She had seen plenty of films, and everyone seemed to get each other off in no time. But it didn't happen for her. It was either she didn't use her hands correctly, or she wasn't whispering the right, dirty things, or she couldn't climax on command. Something was always limiting her. Peter tried to teach her, showing how he liked to be touch, and she would follow his instructions, and yet nearly every time, something inside her always let her down. May narrowed it down to inexperience and lack of knowledge...or perhaps an idiot of a partner who never gave her a chance...

Peter was slipping on a white t-shirt as he re-entered the bedroom after his shower. The fly of his jeans hadn't been zipped up yet, with his blonde hair still damp, messy and sexy. Peter sat on the bed, near May, and his fingers ran down her arm.

"It's fine, sweetheart. I know you're upset about it..."

She looked away, staring at the pink curtains, which hardly let in the weak sun. She watched the trees heavily sway in the wind.

"Looks cold outside," she croaked.

"C'mon May, don't avoid me," he said, and gently turned her chin, so she was facing him. "This happens to some. There's no need to be embarrassed-

"I'm not embarrassed!" she exclaimed, her arms crossed.

Peter sighed. "Fine, fine. You're not embarrassed!" he turned his head away so he could roll his eyes.

Peter's hand found his way into May's, and she squeezed gently.

"May, I know ya don't like to admit it...but, just listen, will ya?" he stared into her eyes, deeply. "Some people have it, and some people just...don't. It's better to find out when you're young, like you,"

There was something in his eyes, that May couldn't understand. It was pure bullshit when she closely observed it. She knew that his explanations for her somewhat incompetence in the bedroom were empty and weak...but she was too slow to protest. Some people have it and some people don't? It didn't sit well in May's mind. Perhaps he is right...with May convinced she wasn't blessed with the flawless smile and seductive touch.

Peter softly kissed her forehead, before saying goodbye, as his words swirled through her mind, manipulating her heart.

* * * *

Friday Lunchtime.
Apple Corps Building - 3 Savile Row, Central London. Basement - Studio.

"Avocado foot...crepe corbett."

May scribbled down on her notepad, her smile widening.

"Broccoli endive," Paul added.

"Sparrow on toast," John requested, and she smirked.

After revisiting the vocal arrangement, and recording a few rough versions of "Two of Us", May politely interrupted the Beatles jamming session to ask of their lunch orders. She was not usually present for lunch at the Apple Building. But her shift had began early as classes finished before noon on Friday's. Seeing as May was the newbie, John and Paul took the chance to be creative with their food selections.

"...boiled testicle." Paul softly spoke into the mic, and she rolled her eyes, pretending to record it on her notepad.

She was about to announce "would that be all?", but already one of the cameramen and Michael Lindsay-Hogg, the director, had captured John and Paul's attention. She sighed, and tapped the end of her pencil on the sheet, spotting Ringo and George near the piano. She walked up to them, giving a shy hello.

"Hey, June. What brings you over ere' then?" George asked, as he leaned against the piano.

"Lunch...what do you guys want?" she replied, pen to paper.

George glanced at Ringo, smirks on their faces.

"We'll get the boiled testicle." Ringo answered.

George agreed, winking at her, and her laugh radiated throughout the room.

                     * * * *

       
George smoked a cigarette, sitting on a stool, in the kitchen, taking glances at her as she worked. She was busy, chopping up celery sticks, adding it to the salad. Lunch was pretty much ready, but she was delaying his departure to the cafeteria, wishing to extend their time alone. George was silently thankful for her. He didn't want to go out there and face the cameras. It was getting ridiculous, but they had to finish the film.

Her back was to him, his eyes running up her body, as the smoke from his cigarette entered his throat, to the core of his lungs. He flicked ash into the ashtray, clearing his throat. Her hair was always in that braid...long, brown hair...beautiful. George noticed that her skirt was raised a few inches shorter than usual, and he couldn't help but ponder if that was intended for him...to tease him a little. It was a daft thought, but George's ego got the better of him, and he concluded that...yeah...it was for him.

May faced him again, cutting up tomatoes on the chopping board. To her, George seemed exhausted, deeply sighing...sighs so deep and gloomy, like he was suffocating...and she knew his chain smoking certainly wasn't helping his state.

"You look tired today, George. Did you have a late night or somethin'?" May asked, placing the slices of tomato in the bowl.

He shook his head, intending to decline, but changed his mind halfway through. "Ah, kinda. Was up working on some things," he answered flatly, stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray.

May guessed he wasn't in the mood for questions, so she let him be, and George appreciated that. She had a great sense of situations, when to shut up and keep to herself, and George really admired that at a stressful time like this, when everyone wanted a fucking piece of him. He could sense she was about finished preparing the salad, so he quickly thought of a way to prolong their time together.

"Ah! So everything forgotten about with Peter?" he asked, adding a smile.

May looked at him. "Who?" she questioned, one eyebrow raised.

Although his smile started to drop, the grin inside him couldn't help but grow. "C'mon, love,"

"Oh, sorry...I thought your advice was to forget him, not his bullshit excuses," she curtly replied, and began to drizzle dressing on the salad.

George sensed he hit a nerve...something's happened very, very recently then. George was debating whether to push her about it...talking was always a good remedy to life's problems. But talking had become so overrated these days. Nonetheless, George tested his luck.

"He's not that bad, is he?"

May continued to toss the salad with a pair of tongs. "Y'know, for someone married to a beautiful model, you seem to be very, very interested in my fiancé. Are you sure you don't fancy him?"

George lightly chuckled...she was a bit snappy today...fuck, something really happened that pissed her off, he mused.

"No, no...don't fancy Peter," he bowed his head, before gazing at May. "Although his wife's a bit of an alright," he smirked, and watched her blush.

May failed to fight the grin that spread across her face. She pointed her finger at him.

"Soon to be wife, George. Soon to be wife—I'm not quite there yet!"

It goes quick, May...it really does, George thought, but nevertheless grinned with her.

She sighed. "Well...salad's done,"

George smiled, and placed his hands on the side of he bowl. "I'll take it out," he offered, and stood up, as May followed.

                        * * * *

A few hours after lunch...

Lunch had panned out well. May enjoyed the lively chatter of people, with George and Derek Taylor sitting across from her, making plenty of jokes, some May didn't quite understand, but she laughed nonetheless. Since everyone was full and feeling cheerful - at that moment - May was allowed to join the Beatles for a short - very short - portion of the session.

The mood remained lighthearted, until conversation of touring arose.

May sat across from him, legs crossed. A notepad held up in her hand, covering her face, pencil occupying the other. George had, had difficulty taking his eyes off her since her arrival. Despite the notepad obscuring her view, George was certain she was aware of his continuing gaze. A young woman of that beauty just had a sense of these things, despite their insecurities. He had lived with a model - now his wife - for close to six years, so he was accustomed to the consciousness of a beautiful woman. And this seventeen year old nobody was mesmerising to him. So shy and immature, with a bit of bite to her. She seemed so addictive.

But her next move was almost out of character.

The band were discussing the end of the film and possibility of touring. But something had caught George's attention early on. May's hand on her knee, slowly creeping upwards, legs now uncrossed. Her fingers glided across her thigh, and George could only dream of those long nails of her's dragging down his back and through his hair.

George was uncertain if the others had noticed her little raunchy act. But the muffled chatter continued around him, so he assumed they hadn't. And it was for the better, because she was his after this. There were the constant warning signs, to turn away and contribute to the discussion. But George's eyes refused to move. Her legs opened a touch wider, and yet her face remained hidden beneath that stupid, fucking notepad, and he craved to get a glimpse into those hazel eyes.

It all happened so quickly. Flashes of her underwear and lingering touches. Her fingers pulling back the grey skirt subtly, revealing a bit more skin, with those long legs widening only a fraction more. Her fingernails painted a light pink, one of a sweetheart and teacher's pet, but George could tell she was anything but. There were the thoughts of his, begging her to stop, but deep down, he knew it was not what he desired. In fact, he wished things would go faster.

And if by magic, she ceased all movements, slapped her legs shut, notepad on her lap, pencil still in hand, just staring at him. That's when he heard his name.

"George!"

His gaze hesitantly broke from May's to John's, his heart beating madly, and it was then that George noticed everyone in the room looking at him.

"Jesus, kid. Are you fucking listening? Or too busy trying to fuck the tea girl?"

He didn't know what embarrassed him more; being addressed as "kid" or the fact he had been caught. George quickly debated in his head if perhaps he was acting like a "kid", nearly drooling over a sexy seventeen year old. It was why he decided not to protest and cause an argument.

"I-I'm sorry. I'm listening, yeah." he nodded.

The conversation gradually returned back to normal, but the faint whispers of George's behaviour by the film crew and others were not unnoticed by him. There were brief moments of silence, and George kept to himself for most of the session, only giving input when asked. The tension was high, filtering throughout the studio like the smoke from Ringo's cigarette. And there sat May, in front of him, refusing to turn away.

He watched her hastily scribble on the notepad, tear a sheet up, and stand, her skirt falling above her knees. Their eyes met, a deep intimacy present, as she folded the note, slipping it to him. Their fingers touched as George accepted it, and the side of May's hip brushed the side of his chair as she left the studio, his heart dropping in disappointment as he heard the door slam shut.

Paul watched as George closely interacted with May, knowing that another one of his friend's had been captivated by a woman, as the group drifted further apart.

                        * * * *

9:30 pm.

George sat in his car, ignition off, in front of her apartment. He had been wasting time, glancing at the light on in the apartment occasionally, the paper crinkled in his hand. His heart had jolted when he uncovered the folded sheet for the first time.

'9 COMMERCIAL STREET, MAYFAIR' in her scribbly, uppercase writing.

He could hardly believe that she had given him her address. He adjusted his striped jacket, covering himself, as the wind picked up outside. The thought that May's fiancé might be home did not cross his mind until he had knocked on the front door. He cursed himself for being so thick. It was a Friday night, and it was a possibility May was home alone. The thrill inside of him caused by the thought of them together, alone in her house, alarmed him. He smiled when she answered, unlocking the door for him.

"Come in, George. Thanks for doing this,"

He was confused, but followed her inside, closing the door behind him. The flat was simple. The only mess he could see were the numerous records strewn across the living room floor. George knew it then; she would make a fantastic wife - hospitable, clean, and easy on the eyes. After recognising this, he buried the thought deep inside of him.

"Would you like a tea?" she asked, as they reached the kitchen, the yellow curtains pulled shut.

"Only if you're having," he replied, and sat at the kitchen table.

Mary Hopkin's "Those Were the Days" played lowly on the radio as May poured the steaming water into cups.

"In the early days we owned a flat in Mayfair on Green Street,"

"Oh, all four of you?"

"Well, John moved out early - so did Paul, he lived at Jane's parents for a bit. He got the crappy room, so he went," he grinned, and May giggled softly.

"So, uh, you own this place?" he asked, and patted down his jacket for his cigarettes whilst viewing the chipped white paint on the walls.

"No, no. Parents," she replied, and added milk and sugar.

"Do they live here?"

"Uh, well-

"You don't mind if I smoke in ere', do ya?" he interrupted, holding up a cigarette.

"Uh, no, it's fine..." she began walking over to the table, gently placing the cups down.

"Ta, love." he nodded, giving a smile, before lighting his cigarette.

"Actually, uh..." she sat down, next to him, and watched him smoke. "Do you mind if I have one?"

He handed her the cigarette already in his mouth before lighting himself another one.

"Anyway..." she continued, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth, away from George. "My parents are on holiday at the moment. For some reason they trust me living with a boy,"

He smiled, reaching over to the ashtray on the other side of the table. May moved it closer to him.

"Thanks. Do they mind Peter?" George asked.

"Yeah, yeah. Approved of him and everything,"

He shook his head, flicking ash into the tray, before taking a sip of his tea, his tastebuds overpowered by the sugar. Her nerves had consumed her mind, that she had put too much in. Three or four teaspoons...May couldn't remember. George didn't make a fuss however, but May soon realised her mistake. Despite this, she was more concerned with the troubled expression on George's features.

"What is it?" she asked, and took one last inhale of the cigarette, before stubbing it out in the ashtray.

"Nothin'...you're..." he looked at her. There was a faint piece of hair in her eyes which briefly caught his attention. "...you're just so damn young for it all. I don't think you realise,"

"For it all? Marriage, you mean?"

He nodded, his finger trailing along the rim of the tea cup.

"Well, perhaps, but...you're young and married,"

"Yeah, and I know it's no fucking picnic," he snapped, a hand in his hair, refusing to lock eyes with May, and she was reminded of this morning with Peter.

That...annoyance, she seemed to annoy people, and May was racked with guilt. She relaxed for a bit, before saying,

"Don't get cross with me. Why would you come to my house just to yell at me?"

"I didn't just drop by. You asked me to come here,"

"No, I didn't." she shook her head. "I gave you the address, George. But I didn't tell you to come to my home,"

"Well...maybe I should go then," he coldly replied, but neither of them moved.

They cooled off for a bit, sitting there, listening to the radio. There was this comfortable silence between them, which was odd as they had known each other for a very short amount of time. May could only sit without conversation with people close to her, such as Peter or friends. But this quiet behaviour seemed natural with George. They were left to think about their own problems and tensions, mistakes and wishes.

May cleared her throat, as George drank his tea.

"I wanted to say I'm sorry about today...for distracting you..."

She internally cringed, it was so embarrassing for her to admit. She couldn't look up at him, but she felt his hand on top of hers.

"You're a little minx, aren't ya? For doing that," he said, and gave her hand a squeeze.

When she looked at him, he wore a toothy grin, and could finally laugh at her own behaviour.

"S'okay, though...it'll be forgotten about tomorrow. What made you do it though - not that I minded, of course."

He worked his charm so well - and in such a short amount of time - that it clashed against the vexed mood he sported minutes ago. Her cheeks blushed like mad, her smile growing, and with his hand still resting upon hers.

"Oh, I don't know..." she replied, but at the time, she had been thinking about the distant glare and comments from Peter.

All she wished to do was...create a response from someone. There was a lack of attention from Peter, and all she wanted, as a seventeen year old girl, was attention. It was shameful to admit - and May was certain she never - vocally - would. George's hand left hers as he lit a cigarette. She decided to push her luck a bit more.

"So, you'll forget about it tomorrow? Just like you said?" she asked, and the innocence she played made her more irresistible to George, that he had to glance away for a moment.

George didn't want to reveal that in fact he had been tormented by images of her for the entire session and long after she left the studio. So he kept it simple.

"I think I could make a few exceptions..."

She offered to put a record on to hide her flustered cheeks, as his stare, wink, and flirtatious words swirled in her head. He agreed, and they listened to Elvis Presley, gradually sitting closer to each other, their tea now abandoned. It was not her intention to tempt George, and yet, she did it so effortlessly. She danced for him, to the track "The Girl of My Best Friend", with her shoulders, arms, and legs moving to such a lovely rhythm, her hips swaying with a touch of sensuality, that George had to take off his jacket. It was silly in a way, but they were having fun, and that mattered to both of them.

George picked a record out this time - Otis Redding's "(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay" - and they slow danced together. It wasn't a compromise for them, they silently desired to feel each other in their arms. So when George stepped up to her, his hands on her waist, May accepted it as if they had been dancing together for years. He'd mumble things like "nice bass line" and even sing with her. And at the end, he whistled the harmonic, soulful tune in her ear, his light breath flush against her skin and neck, their bodies close and hands clammy. She could feel his stomach as he breathed in and out, standing still once the record was over. The same bit of hair was still covering her right eye, and he had the urge to just flick it back...touch her face, even more. He had to stop.

George let go of her suddenly, and she missed his warmth in an instant. He cleared his throat, smiling at her. She glanced up at the clock - 10:32 pm.

"Oh shit," she muttered. "George, you've got to go, I'm sorry," she said, walking to the table and collecting their cups, which were still half full.

"Why? Is...he coming home or somethin'?" George asked.

May nodded, swiftly walking to the kitchen. George followed.

"And...I can't stay?"

"No, you can't." she looked at him, anger faintly in her eyes. But what she was angry about, even May could not determine.

George sighed, standing next to the kitchen bench top. Her words ate him up inside, and he felt physically ill from the rejection, because he could see in her body, that she wanted him there more than anything. Maybe it was the ego in him that caused this...desire for her, the chase for her.

"We were having a good time," he said quietly.

After rinsing the cups, May turned, locking eyes with him.

"I know. But Peter will fucking flip if he sees you here," she explained.

"Flip? How?" he questioned, his eyebrows furrowed, concern in his voice.

She rolled her eyes. "Not like that, George. Not violent or anything. Just...he'll be angry at you." she slightly bowed her head. "And I don't want that," she admitted softly.

"You'd tell me if he was violent, wouldn't you?" George moved a bit closer, and May almost flinched.

"I would." she spoke honestly, gritting her teeth, fists clenched. "But he's not. So can you leave now...please?"

George walked to her, tucking the tendril of hair behind her ear, and he could finally view those gorgeous hazel eyes, which now seemed so confused and worried.

"It's been in your eyes all night," he whispered, and ran the back of his hand down her cheek, getting at least one touch for the evening.

His eyes scanned along her collarbones, and he could sense her trembling soul, and wondered if he was frightening her. It seemed she could turn from a bright, joking girl, to a terrified, enraged woman spontaneously. May opened her mouth, ready to speak, but George cut her off.

"Save it, May. I'm going."

She watched George leave the kitchen, his footsteps growing softer as he reached the front door. May's eyes scanned the room, falling on his striped jacket which he had hung on the back of the chair whilst she was dancing.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," she muttered, and quickly fetched the jacket, running down the hall to the front door.

George was lingering near the driveway, and she called his name, holding the jacket up.

"You're like me own coat rack," he smirked as she handed him his jacket.

"At least I'm good for something,"

"Yeah," he breathed, and examined down her body. "You wouldn't happen to have a pen or somethin' on you?"

"Pen? Yeah, inside. One minute," she said, and swiftly retrieved one from the desk in her bedroom, before meeting George outside, near the trees.

He smiled, and gently held her hand in his, and began to write on her skin. It was a number. His number.

"Why are you giving me this?" she asked, as goosebumps prickled up her legs and arms.

May lightly touched the ink on the back of her hand, careful not to smudge it.

"If you don't feel safe, you just call me, okay?"

"George, I told you-

"I know, okay? I know what ya said." he paused briefly.

"But you're both young, and...young people do stupid things..." George continued, voice stern. "...I would know, wouldn't I?" he quickly added, and shrugged.

May nodded, accepting the reason, and yet she was suspicious that there was more to it. She personally believed that George gave her his number just for the sake of it, to ring him up and talk...to be a normal guy just giving a normal girl his number.

"Fine, yeah, I will," she replied, but a thought entered her mind. "What if your wife - Pattie, yes?" she questioned - pretending to not know - and he nodded. "What if she answers?"

"Doesn't matter." he shook his head. "I gave you the number which links directly to the phone in my studio. It's different to my home phone."

"Oh...they can do that, huh?"

George smiled, and nodded. "Yeah, sweet. Being a Beatle s'got to pay off somewhere, don't it?" he winked.

She weakly smiled in return. "You better go. He'll be here any minute."

"Yeah, okay. You in tomorrow?" he asked, walking to his car.

"Yes, only the morning shift though!" she exclaimed, and George gazed at her from inside of his car for a moment, before turning on the ignition, and driving off down the street.

* * * *

9 Commercial Street, Mayfair - May and Peter's Apartment.
11:00 pm.

May fidgeted on the couch, filing her nails, before checking the clock, and sighing deeply. Peter had missed dinner. After George's departure, she had prepared sandwiches, believing that Peter would be home soon. But that was not the case. George could have stayed, she thought, and May wondered for a moment the sort of activities they could be doing if he had stayed.

It was usual for Peter to have a drink down at the pub with the boys after a day of work. May had no troubles with that. But she wished he had informed her he would be out late that morning.

She pondered for a moment if it was best to go to bed, when the front door opened.

"Hey," she immediately greeted Peter. "Night out again?"

"Mmm, yeah, sorry," he replied, and locked the door.

"Will you be going out again tomorrow night?"

"Um, I don't know." Peter took off his coat and maroon scarf.

May stood and retrieved the coat from him, planning to return it to the bedroom. Peter followed her. Once they reached their bedroom, Peter began to unbutton his shirt, as she hung up the coat.

"Y-you didn't tell me you were going out tonight...I had to walk home from Apple," she remarked, but she was met with silence from Peter.

She tried again at conversation.

"How was work?" May asked, sitting on the bed.

"Yeah, fine,"

"Mine was fine, too." she nodded and bowed her head, picking at her nails.

"I made some sandwiches for dinner...ham ones - your favourites. Would you like your dinner now?"

"Mmm, later." Peter threw his shirt on the bed, joining May, before untying his shoelaces.

She furrowed her eyebrows. "What's wrong? Somethin's up,"

"Nothin's up,"

She watched him un-do his belt and take off his singlet, and he refused to met her gaze. Maybe it's about this morning, May figured.

"I'm going for a shower." Peter stood, walking down the hall to the bathroom.

May followed.

"What are you not telling me?" she questioned, and they stopped in front of the bathroom door.

"What are you on about? I said I'm fine. I just got home from work," he replied sternly, and she regretted interrogating him.

"Christ," he muttered, before switching on the light and entering the bathroom, slamming the door in her face.

May rested her hand on the door, giving a weak knock.

"Can we talk about this morning...please?" she asked, her voice quivering from nerves.

She did wish to settle this awkwardness they had in the bedroom. May reckoned that their small issues were both their fault, and that they should talk about it. But as May heard the light mist of the water from the shower, she finally understood that Peter didn't think talking was the solution, and her opinions were of no value to him.