PRUDENCE

The walls of the hotel room were in some parts a deep cherry-colored wood, in other parts a striped orange wallpaper. A large bed was flanked by red-velvet chairs and sat beneath a green-gold wall painting of two peacocks. A writing desk stood on the opposite side of the room, surrounded by framed antique drawings and letters. In the middle of the ceiling hung a chandelier. Yellow-orange curtains led to a large outdoor terrace. 

Despite all the ornaments, the room felt instantly cozy. Maybe because it was quite small, possibly smaller than my flat. On my way over here I had expected something entirely different, something grander, colder, maybe. This room was probably - no, definitely - more than I could ever afford, but it felt warm and somehow unassuming.

"It's quite lovely," I said. That felt pointless to say, but George smiled back at me anyway as he walked through the door.

I followed him inside, still clutching the note I had scrawled out when he called me earlier. L'Hotel, Rue des Beaux-Artes. He dropped his room key on the dresser and stared up at the peacock painting.

"Oscar Wilde died here, y'know."

"Is that why you picked it?" I asked.

"The hotel? No." He chuckled. "When I got off the plane I asked the driver to take me to a hotel in my best French. Turns out there's one called 'The Hotel', and it's not too shabby." 

"And the room?" I asked. "The 'Oscar Wilde Suite'? You must've known when you were booking it in the lobby." 

George glanced at me, raising an eyebrow boyishly. "Well, aren't you at least a little curious what it looks like?" He looked around, admiring the framed letters as if in a museum. "I'd say it's a nice enough place to spend your last few days. I don't think I'd mind it."

"I wouldn't be too sure. He was probably sick the whole time," I countered, watching him. "Not to mention poor, possibly depressed."

George's curious smile faltered. "Huh. I didn't know that." He took another look around the room before sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms propping him up on either side. 

He added, "I don't s'pose being in such a nice room would hurt, though."

I shrugged. "I suppose not." 

To me it sounded funny, that a Beatle, who could live anywhere he possibly pleased, was admiring - envying, even - a small hotel room that a sick, exiled author died in. I knew, though, that it was the circumstances within his house, around his house, and not the house itself, that George was trying to avoid.  

"Well, it's as good a room as any," he concluded. "'Specially on short notice." With that, he grinned at me. 

"I'm really glad you came by, Pru." His eyes, heavy with dark circles, gleamed.

My stomach made another ecstatic leap, and I joined him on the bed. "Of course I came by! George, I just... I can't believe you came to see me." We were both smiling like little kids. 

"I kind of can't believe it meself," George said with a laugh. "But here I am." 

The smile lingered on his lips but faded from his eyes. After a moment, he looked down at his hands. 

"Here I am." He took a short breath, wringing his hands together. 

Last time we had seen each other, he was cradling me, and I was in hysterics over John and over the past. Just before that, I had been the one to comfort him, at his side in the café . Those were the first times in years that we had been there for each other, and I had expected it would end up the same way after I left London. At the end of the day, we led very different lives, and it probably would be years when - if - we'd each other again. 

I was wrong - he was here, and we could support each other still.

 "George?" I placed my hand on his back softly.

His eyes darted to mine for a second, then back to his hands. "I needed to see you, Pru, I did... but to tell you the truth, I think I also needed to get away from..." He jerked his hand by his temple, fingers flayed. "...everything, I guess." He nodded as if to confirm this thought, then stood up. "Mind if I have a ciggy?"

I shook my head no, leaning back on my arms. George grabbed and lit a cigarette by the writing desk and sat in front of it on the chair. 

"So what's 'everything', then?" I prodded. 

He took a drag and thought for a bit. Eventually he spoke up.

"It's nothing you 'aven't heard from me already." George dragged the ciggy again. "I think it's just all building up and I was getting mad. Coming here was the only thing that made sense." He grimaced and scratched his head. "That doesn't sound quite right when I say it out loud. I was sitting at home, just... stewin', y'know, thinking over how I found out about you leaving."

"How did you find out?" That question had been lingering ever since George's call that day. "I'd assumed John wouldn't have told you if he stole my note."

George smiled wryly. "He told me in the studio afterwards. I think his conscience started peekin' through." He took a puff. "It's usually pretty well covered up. But it has its breakthrough moments."

I nodded slowly. "I remember." And I did. All those years ago, John could be so sweet, underneath that Teddy boy façade. And even just now, back in London, I saw that underneath it all, it hurt him to see me hurt, to see us broken. 

I felt George's eyes on me, but I couldn't return the gaze, staring instead at the writing desk behind him. Finally, he looked away, putting the cigarette out on the nearby ashtray. "John called me before I flew out," he said. "He apologized." He looked at me, expecting my next question.

"And what did you say?" 

"I told him I couldn't forgive him yet and that I needed time. But I think I'll come 'round soon enough."

I couldn't help but smile. Thoughtful, considerate, selfless - it must've taken so much of George to tell John that, to acknowledge that forgiveness was on the horizon. "You're quite generous. More than I am."

George's arms were splayed behind him on the desk. "Dunno about that. On the phone, he sounded rather sincere. I think he's really tryin'. Gotta give the divvy credit where it's due." His lips turned upwards ever so slightly, but they dropped after a second, as did his brow. "Could you forgive him for stealing the goodbye?"

I sighed, and thought about it for a minute. I never considered the idea of anticipating forgiveness, but it seemed possible. "I don't know... I guess you're right. I could do eventually." I folded my legs up under me. "If you can, I think I can, too."

"And for the rest of it?" George asked softly.

"The rest of it...?" 

I allowed myself to think about the past few weeks and everything that unfolded, thoroughly, for the first time since I got off the plane in Paris. John sure had acted like a cuckold, but then again, so did I. And what did it all boil down to? A... miscommunication. Letters, penned by lovesick teenagers, never received by the other. 

"Well, I guess there isn't much else to forgive, all in all."

A few days ago, without John to place blame on, I felt untethered, which terrified me. Now, as I picked through every event, every moment with John since the wires were crossed, and released it into the wind, the freedom was buoyant instead of frightening. I could forgive what John had done to me, and accept what he couldn't control. 

For a split second, my chest tightened, as if the wounds in my heart were being stitched up. Could it be so easy to forgive, to accept the unalterable past? How could it be so easy now, and why was it so impossible these last few weeks, these last years?

My cheek felt warm. I was crying. George sank by my side and enveloped me in a hug. 

"It's okay, Pru," he repeated softly, stroking my back. "It's okay."

"I think I... I'm feeling better, George." I sniffled. "It feels easier, somehow."

"It's the lettin' go, isn't it?" he whispered. He sounded as if he was just realizing it himself. I nodded into his shoulder. He rubbed my back silently. Finally, he said, "I think I need to let go of some things, too."

I didn't ask what he meant. He didn't elaborate.

We sat together, holding on to each other, for what could've been seconds or could've been days. George was finally the first to break the hold. He grabbed my shoulders and looked at me.

"Enough of these blues. We should do somat."

I reached for my wet cheeks with the back of my hand and giggled. "Like what?"

"Well, there's not much I can really do in terms of," he laughed, "spending time outside in public. But, this room comes with a private hour in the pool. What say you to sending for bathing suits and goin' for a swim?"

JOHN

Paul slid the ashtray down the table to where I had sat down, and took the seat across from me. Ringo was seated to my left, smoking his own cancer.

"Ta," I said, tapping the ashes off the end of my ciggy into the ashtray. Paul nodded, lips tight and eyebrows raised. 

The air was still. It was just the three of us in the Apple kitchen, an unusual occurrence. Then again, this was an unusual meeting. It was my first day back in the studio since... Anyway. I had asked that the crew all sod off for a bit while I talked to the lads, or the lads that were here, at least. George wasn't here; after our phone call, I half expected him to show up. Silly of me.

"How's the missus?" Ringo asked, elbows propped on the table. It was an innocent enough question, but Paul sucked in a breath, expecting the worst. I wasn't on the defensive today, though. I couldn't let myself start another stupid battle. The agony of the last few days had given way to clarity. I was on a mission, and I wasn't going to ruin my efforts with a biting remark, as I had done countless times before.

"She's fine. At home," I inhaled my ciggy and released some smoke before continuing. "She agreed it'd be better if she didn't come."

Yoko'd encouraged it, in fact. In this, as in everything, she was nothing but supportive. She'd let me cry on her shoulder for days, and she carried my weight with me. But this particular moment, we both knew, was my battle alone.

Ringo nodded his understanding and leaned back with his cig in his mouth. Paul crossed his arms on the tabletop. He seemed nervous. I could understand why well enough.

"I'm not here to make a fuss, lads," I began, crushing my ciggy into the ashtray and looking at each of them in turn. "No dramatics, no pyrotechnics. I want to say that I'm sorry."

Paul and Ringo both looked surprised, stealing a look at each other. I chuckled.

"Fair enough. It is a bit out of character for me." I lifted my hand to stop Paul before he had the chance to politely disagree. "I know it is, Paul, and don't argue." He said nothing, and I continued. 

"I've been dealing with everything in absolutely the wrong way. I have to own up to that. I understand that it might not make things right, but I need you to know that I am sorry for how it all happened. It's, erm..." I didn't know what else to say, but I hadn't yet said everything I needed to.

"You're my best mates, y'know? You and the lad who should be sitting here, too. And it isn't about the band, really. It's about the four of us. We're all we've got, and I don't want it to... to end, because of my... well, y'know. That's about it, then." 

I stared down at the ashtray, cheeks growing hot. I really should've just done this over the bleedin' phone. What was the need to adjourn a meeting and grovel in front of the boys? With George, I at least didn't have to face him. I held my breath, willing myself to remain calm, to stay put, not to run out again.

"There he is, the big softie," Ringo said quietly, a twinge of shock in his voice. I looked at him. Cig in his teeth, he grinned. "I knew he was under there somewhere."

I let out a breath and a chuckle. "Took a bit of diggin', it did," I admitted, then turned to Paul. His eyes were sad but he smiled.

"I'm glad you got 'im out, John," he said. "I don't want us to end, either." He looked at Ringo and sighed, reaching up to brush his hair out of his face. "Shame that Geo isn't around. He'd probably like to hear this more than the rest of us." 

"I already talked to him. On the phone." I tapped my fingers on the tabletop, tenseness in my throat. "He said he could forgive me in time, so's light's at the end of the tunnel."

"When?" Paul asked. His voice sounded strange. 

"How does that old chestnut go, Paulie?" I couldn't help a smirk. "Yesterday."

"You called him at home?" Ringo's eyebrows rose as he spoke.

"Where else would I call?" 

"Well, we thought... the note didn't say specifically, but we think he went to Pru in Paris." Paul looked at me. "We could've been wrong, though. Did he say anything about it?"

"No. Well, he said he had to go at the end. Maybe he was on his way there. It makes sense, I s'pose." I grimaced, again reliving the past few days, thinking how different it might be if George had been the one in Prudence's flat saying goodbye, instead of me, saying nothing. For the hundred-thousandth time, I let it play in my mind and cut a gash in my chest, before it faded away. I knew the regret would return, and turn millions of times over, for a long time.

"It's good you called 'im," Ringo put his cig in the ashtray and dropped a hand on my shoulder. "It's good you're ownin' up. Georgie'll come round. He always does." Paul nodded encouragingly.

The lump in my throat dissolved and I felt a smile, a genuinely hopeful smile, tug at my cheeks. It had seemed like ages since I knew how to smile like that. I thought I'd forgotten how to. 

{{{Okay so the George/Pru section feels out of character for both of them, but I like it. I think it's the Oscar Wilde thing that made it a little disjointed, but I wanted to throw him in there since I'm very much in an Oscar Wilde phase at the moment.

And all these chapters I write seem pretty anticlimactic, but we're (probably) reaching the end so everything is just coming to a slow resolution. Kinda boring I guess but it is what it is.

tbh I'm not too happy with this chapter but maybe I am? i don't know

at least I updated something! right?

in personal news I am about two months in my renewed Velvet Goldmine/70s/Ewan McGregor obsession so that's fun. I'm expecting the Velvet Goldmine CD to be delivered tomorrow and I'm VERY excited b/c that soundtrack isn't available on Spotify and I wanted my hands on it

Alrightie if anyone is still reading at this point I hope you liked (or at least tolerated) the chapter and are having a nice day :)

PEACE AND LOVE L***}}}