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Students from a nearby school in Liverpool were leaving the building smiling, clutching certificates that listed their grades and details of special academic achievements. Everyone seemed happy; some gathered in groups to swap holiday plans - a sight that made you smile, too. You had fond memories of the end of your own schooling, even though that period had been punctuated by endless questions about where you planned to go to university. Your parents had decided you would pursue your education to the fullest, joining those who stayed on at school to prepare for universities scattered across the UK and other countries (mostly within Europe, as going further afield was simply too expensive - and besides, how would you stay in touch with family?). No, that path wasn't for you; you were so deeply attached to your family home and your relatives that even the prospect of attending university in another city held no appeal.
As fate would have it, you met Paul during your school years. He was a genuinely nice guy who respected your somewhat unconventional outlook on life and accepted your firm stance against moving far from your family home - a place that meant the world to you. Many men might have run off at that point, seeking an adrenaline rush in some far-flung corner of the globe, but Paul stayed. Well, his name was actually James, but you’d grown used to calling him simply Paul... Or using the names interchangeably, depending on your mood that day. It didn't really matter. You met him while you were still in school, a time when worries about the future were starting to creep in - wondering if you really had to go to university, whether you’d let your parents down, where you’d find work, how you’d support yourself, and what would happen if you never met "the one." Fate proved kind, however, and handed you the answers to everything in the form of a musician. Mind you, his first meeting with your parents was a bit awkward; they couldn't quite grasp the idea of Paul being a musician - and nothing else - with music as his sole source of income. Doubts arose about how he’d provide for you and whether you’d manage in the long run, but once the Beatles phenomenon exploded, those worries fell by the wayside. McCartney was basking in fame, while you found work, first in a shop, and later as a hairdresser. You enjoyed the job; it gave you something to do with your hands and a way to channel your restless energy, which made cutting hair (following the clients' instructions, of course!) the perfect fit for you.
“What are you thinking about?” Paul asked, and you nearly jumped in your seat - restrained only by the seatbelt he had carefully fastened for you when he picked you up from work. Watching students leave school like that while grinning to yourself was a bit puzzling, really; it was hard to guess what the other person was thinking in a moment like that. It would have been different if you’d been gazing at flowers, one could easily deduce you were admiring them, but this? You shook your head to yourself, finally snapping back to reality.
“Nothing important, don’t worry.” You smiled at him, and he visibly relaxed a little.
“Come on, we’re goin’ to be late for rehearsal. Pete won’t be there today, he’s knackered... But that’s alright; we’ll focus on polishing the lyrics a bit.” He explained. Ever since you’d met, you’d felt that McCartney was trying to bring you into his world. You might have known the Beatles from newspapers and interviews, but he wanted you to know they weren’t just a group of musicians devoid of heart and soul. He wanted you to experience it all from the inside, from the very core - something you truly appreciated. You could see that he loved music and was simply doing what brought him the greatest joy.
After getting out of the vehicle, you only had to walk a few hundred meters to the spot where the rehearsal, the one Paul had specifically pulled you away from work to attend, was taking place. It wasn't the grand studio you’d imagined before your first visit; it was actually just a smaller room inside the Cavern Club! Who had come up with that idea, anyway? Still, as long as they liked it there and the acoustics suited their needs...
You exchanged brief greetings with John, and then with the youngest member of the band, George. There wasn't much of an age gap between you, so you got along well, though you also tended to view him as a bit of a kid. It wasn't really about his age, but rather how the rest of the band treated him - which influenced the way you saw him, too. He didn't seem bothered by it, though; after all, he wouldn't hit a girl or yell at someone outside the band, right? Especially since you were the partner of the very man who had brought him into the group! That would have been disrespectful - at least, that’s how you saw it.
You took a seat on one of the dusty chairs lined up against the wall. From there, you had a clear view of the three musicians; the drum kit didn't block your line of sight, and you weren't sitting right next to an amp or speaker, so you were quite happy with your spot.
You were sitting comfortably in your chosen spot, pulling a magazine from your bag and happily leafing through it. You enjoyed moments like these - times when you didn’t have to constantly check if the dye on Mrs. Smith’s head was melting her hair off or if another client was waiting for a haircut. Sure, it was a bit noisy with the instruments and the bandmates’ constant bickering, but it beat constantly watching the clock and the customers.
“Oi! Look at the paper, Lenny.” Paul grumbled, but John just laughed it off. It was this initial friction between the men that made you look up from your magazine and arch a brow slightly, trying to figure out what the issue was.
“I don’t find it funny, lad.” The bassist added, yet Lennon kept laughing it off, as if it were just some trivial matter. Maybe a misunderstanding over the lyrics to their latest song? Or perhaps the guitarist had fallen in love and couldn't focus? You snapped the magazine shut, intrigued, while continuing to size up the situation.
The silence that soon fell between the musicians prompted you to return to reading, or rather, admiring the articles about cosmetics and the latest celebrity news. You felt a bit of being watched, though, which made you feel a bit uneasy. You tried to ignore it, insisting that it was probably McCartney trying to embarrass you by constantly staring at you. Eventually, you’ve decided to look up, feigning irritation, but instead of the bassist's eyes, you did notice his friend staring at you. Could that be the point? You’ve wanted to say something, but your partner quickly cut you off.
"Are you feckin' serious now, John?" Paul spat, grabbing his friend's arm.
"Yer bein' dead dramatic, lad." George laughed, trying to diffuse the situation, but he too was glared at by the irritated bassist.
"Me? Dramatic? He's the one who keeps looking at her!" Your partner continued to insist, his fingers gripping the fabric of John's shirt tighter and tighter. John was still laughing as if it were just a joke on his part, like any other.
"For crying out loud, why are you getting all twisted? You never 'ad to bring 'er along - then I wouldn't 'ave looked." John rolled his eyes, and seeing his friend's blood boil, he decided to add, "Anyways, you should be glad other lads are gawping at 'er; means she's a right stunner."
“...now I think ye've really gone too far, y’know…” George cleared his throat and took a large step back, as if he could already foresee what was about to happen.
That was the moment McCartney’s fist connected sharply with Lennon’s face. You had never seen your partner get into a fight, you’d always assumed he preferred talking things out rather than resorting to punches - but this? Well, it shifted your perspective of him somewhat, though the important thing was that he had never raised a hand against you. That was what mattered most.
“Bloody Christ!” George hissed through gritted teeth, deciding to step back into the space right between the two musicians. He most likely anticipated a blow to the shoulder or something similar - which is why he backed away - but he definitely didn't expect a punch straight to the face! Wedging his shoulders between them, he forced them apart, leaving you to simply watch it all unfold, jaw agape. You were in shock - safe to say - so it was no wonder you couldn't bring yourself to do a thing. You rose from your armchair and set aside your beloved newspaper, glancing from one man to the next: first at John, checking if his nose was broken; then at George, who was trying to push the two men as far apart as he could; and finally at your partner, who was seething with rage. You had never seen him quite so furious; just like the sight of Paul actually hitting someone - especially his best mate - this intense anger was something entirely new to you.
You cleared your throat, drawing the attention of not just one, but three men.
"I think... It would be best if you wrapped up rehearsal for today, because nothing good is going to come of this." You announced, flustered by the scene that had just played out before you.
“I think she’s right.” George added his opinion and nodded at you, agreeing with you.
Gathering up all the cables and instruments felt like a fever dream; you didn't remember much of it, given how quickly you were trying to help pack everything up. Since Lennon and Harrison had left through the main exit, you decided to take McCartney and leave via the side exit - just to make sure he didn't get into another argument with his bandmates over who would go through the door first. That had happened before... Sometimes it was like dealing with three children!
You lingered with your partner a moment longer after leaving the building, giving him a moment to recover. You waited beside him as he leaned his shoulder against the cold brick wall.
"I'm sorry, luv. Didn't mean to... Y'know, hit him right there." Paul sighed, slowly reaching out to pull you closer and resting his forehead against your shoulder. He loved the scent of your perfume and shampoo; it calmed him like nothing else. Even cigarettes and alcohol never relaxed him as much as your touch and scent. And your voice? Oh my, he could die of happiness.
"It's just... I love you so much, and I think I'm just dead scared someone might nick you off me one day. Y'know, like you'll find someone better or summat." He sniffed, and in response, you placed your hands on his back, silencing him without any words.
"Who put that nonsense into your head, Paulie?" You hummed, kissing him above the ear, where you had the best access because of how he was snuggled up against you. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, you daft." You added, to which he laughed in response. It's unclear how long you stood there, because by the time you managed to tear McCartney away from you, it was starting to get dark outside, and the wind had picked up. It was time to go home.