langueurmonoton (langueurmonoton) wrote,

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Fanfiction: The Interview (Part 1)

Title: The Interview
Rating: PG-13, but R in certain areas

Summary: The elusive fifth Beatle gives an interview about her life.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is about as AU as you can get. Involves a fictional "fifth" Beatle, so a history (and certain dates) will very obviously be fudged with. This is a dream that I had for a week -- this wrote itself.

Go to Part Two

Summer, 2008

The reporter from Rolling Stone looked at me from across my kitchen table. Her eyes were filled with a mixture of curiosity and calm, and I could almost hear the thoughts going through her head, “What does Liz McCartney have to tell me of all people?” I saw her switch on one of those new fangled voice recorders that she’d removed from her bag a while ago and set it on the table.

That’s who I am, by the way, and yes, I know that you know who I am: Elizabeth “Liz to my intimates” McCartney…Harrison if you feel the need to be specific; the one and only female guitarist in one of the best rock bands that ever existed. That I happened to be the younger sister of one and eventually married another member of this rock band made me more than an anomaly; I was a walking curiosity.

It was a cold Thursday morning, the kind of morning that George loved when he was alive. I looked past the reporter’s shoulder to stare fondly out the window onto the rose bushes that he’d so lovingly tended the few weeks before he’d died. “Spring’s a-coming, Liz. Think about looking at the rose bushes when you’re having your cuppa in the morning.” And he’d smiled at me, a glint of mischievousness in those dark brown eyes of his that had somehow always managed to look deeper into me than anyone else had.

It didn’t hurt to think about George anymore, not the way it used to. He’d told me once, a few months before he died to “always keep the thoughts I had of him happy because they’d reach him wherever they were.” Having loved that man for over thirty-five years, I’d had plenty of not-so happy thoughts to take along with the happy ones, but fortunately, the former had faded over the years, and in their place, the happier had taken precedence.

“So Elizabeth –“

“Call me Liz,” I interjected immediately, giving the reporter what I hoped was a friendly smile.

She smiled, and I guessed that it had helped. “Liz, I’d like to thank you for granting us this exclusive interview. I understand that you haven’t given an interview since George died…” Her words trailed off in one of those pauses that people use when they are unsure of how to or even if they should talk about something. I gave her a quick nod, before proceeding.

“This is the first interview I’ve given since we were promoting the Anthology.”

“Why now? What made you decide that this was the time to finally speak?”

I coughed and automatically reached for my cup of tea and brought it to my lips, wanting to give myself a few seconds before continuing. Not knowing whether I’d be able to.

“I’m not sure exactly. I thought it was time to just go for it. I’ve never been too comfortable with the entire notion of giving interviews; my early days in the business quickly cured me of whatever interest I might’ve had for it.” The words rolled out of my tongue smoothly, quickly, and most importantly, honestly. I tucked a piece of dark hair littered with strands of grey that hung close to my face behind my ear.

The reporter (whose name is Nancy Carmichael by the way, but I feel weird calling her as ‘Nancy’ when I doubted I’d see her again after I got through this…something as necessary as this) nodded and then smiled, almost eagerly. “Can I just say something and get it out of the way? I have the feeling that it will be very awkward for me if I don’t.” I nodded in response, not entirely too completely sure where this was headed, but having an idea. “I am such a fan of yours! I mean, do you ever stop and think to yourself, ‘I am Liz McCartney! I was part of one of those influential groups in music! I am an inspiration to every single female musician around today!’?!”

I laughed at the excitement in her voice, unable to do anything other than that as I imagined myself to be the oh-so-mythical creature she’d just described. “I guess I’ve had my moments, but in answer to your question, not really.”

“How can you not though? You were a part of The Beatles! It’s been over forty-four years since you came to the States for the first time, and young kids are still getting into music. My son is actually attempted to learn how to play the intro to I’ve Just Seen A Face and is driving us up the wall!” I chuckled along with her.

“I see myself as a person who loved to make music and who was lucky enough to get the chance to be in a band that people liked. I’m not too different from most women out there you know, I was just able to do something that I loved to do. But it’s very sweet that your son is trying to learn that bit; it’s one I liked a lot.” I felt a fond smile cover my face as I thought of my own grandson Rafferty singing along to Octupus’s Garden when I dropped him off at nursery school a few weeks ago.

“Well I know that I am speaking for all our readers when I say that you accomplished something that most of us can only dream of. You were one of the first women that paved the way for female musicians, not just female vocalists, in music.”

I coughed, feeling uncomfortable with praise that I felt was almost a little unfounded. “Thank you,” I said finally before noticing her empty cup. “Fancy more coffee?” I asked. I’d purposely purchased some coffee from the shop a mile down the road for my American guest. The light on the Mr. Coffee (my son Sam’s idea of a joke) was still on.

“Oh no, I’m fine for now thank you.” The reporter paused for a moment and I let it be because unlike many, I wasn’t uncomfortable with silence, with the quiet of being with another person. “What was it like though? If you could start from the beginning, what was all of it like?”

I laughed, “It was…I think as John once described it, like being in the eye of a hurricane. It’s uhhh…hard to describe it properly.”

“If you could though, ‘describe it properly’, what was it like from the very beginning?”
I looked at her consideringly over the rim of my cup. What was it like from the very beginning? Was it possible to describe something like sixty-five years of memories in one go? Did I even want to bother? I tried to remember why I’d agreed to do this in the first place, why I had finally told my publicist Derek, “Alright then, I’ll give it a go” when he’d mentioned it to me a month ago after refusing to do interview after interview over the past forty-five years of my fairly hermit-like life, only agreeing in the first few years of the madness that was The Beatles when one of the lads or Brian had wrangled me into it.

“Err well…You know that I’m an old geezer, don’t you? What I have to tell isn’t really different from anything one of the others told – it was a pretty mad for the most part.” I chuckled, knowing that what I’d just said was an understatement.

Being the good reporter that I knew she was (I had read her interview with David Bowie a few years ago and had been quite impressed – as impressed as I could be with journalists in general that was) she answered quickly, “You’ve never spoken about it, and I’m sure that the fans would love to know: What was it like to be ‘Elizabeth McCartney’ during the trajectory of The Beatles?” The way she said my name made my stomach drop; I still was not used to the reverence that some people had in their voices when they talked about me (when they did).
I suddenly remembered a chat I’d had with my old friend Eric about a photo of a dog pissing over ‘Clapton is God!’ spray painted on the side of a building. The irony of it had made us giggle like loons (it could have also been the Cuban sized hash ciggie we were sharing between us). Probably not something that I should tell yon reporter. All I needed was Eric-bloody-Clapton to take the mickey out of me for telling stories about us after so long.
“How long do we have again?” I asked with a laugh and she replied in kind, “An abundance of it, I’m afraid.” She smiled and I did the same.

Well that was it then. I guess I’d try to spare the gruesome detail – it was one thing to deal with old friends like Eric, but it was quite another to get the perennial well meant brotherly ring from older brother Paulie.

“How long have you played the guitar, Liz?” My mind stopped wandering.

“I began messing 'round with it when I was about thirteen, but didn’t take it seriously until I was about sixteen. I’d been a true blue cellist until then – still am at the heart of it.” I settled back into the curved back of my comfortable wooden chair.

“Oh yes! You played the cello on a few of your albums didn’t you?”

I nodded. “Yeah, whichever song John or Paul decided needed some sort of orchestral accompaniment, there I’d be with my trusty Stradivarius!” I grinned as a I remembered my first big purchase. The lads had taken the mickey out of me for buying a cello when they were off buying Rolls Royces and Aston Martins, but I’d loved it on sight and it had a room of its own upstairs – I doubted that Nancy would get a look at it.

Eleanor Rigby wouldn’t have been the same without it!”

“I played both the violin and the cello on it, but thank you.” I knew that I was giving the reporter the opening that she was looking for, and like I said before, being the good reporter I knew she was, she took it.

“You learned to play the piano first though?”

Right. “Our Dad had been in jazz band when he was younger and taught us to play the piano as babes. I remember how Paul and I would thrash away on our old piano while Mike worked the pedals. Paul’d work one half of the keyboard while I took the other.” I couldn’t keep the grin off my face as I remembered the Saturday afternoons we’d spend doing that and how sore he got when we were older and I’d learned to play Jerry Lee Lewis’s Great Balls of Fire before he did.

I held that over his head to this very day.

“When did you decide that you wanted to play the cello?”

“I was about seven.” I leaned forward in my seat, resting my chin on the heel of my hand. ”I remember that I was helping my Mum make tea one day and we had the radio in our kitchen switched on. My Mum used to love to hear classical music when she was home during the day, and that day I heard someone playing a piece by Elgar and I remember thinking to myself ‘That’s the most beautiful sound in the entire world!’ and after finding out that the fella on the radio was playing the cello, I hounded my parents about three weeks to let me take lessons. Finally my Mum arranged for me to take lessons with an old school teacher who lived down the road from us.”

“So at the great age of seven you decided that you wanted to play the cello.”

“I enjoyed learning to play it, but really, I just loved music. So yeah, I started off with it, but fairly soon I began to play around with a few other instruments –“

“How many do you play?”

I paused while I considered. “Well including the piano and the cello (obviously), I’ve played around with the violin, the harpsichord, the harp, the metronome, the mandolin and a few others– the thing with some instruments is that if you can play one decently, you’ll do alright the others, or at least, it’ll come easier.”

“That’s certainly enough to make your CV look pretty impressive I have to say! Before we get into it though, can we establish some well or even not-so-well known general information for our readers?”

“Alright then.” I replied after a brief pause.

“What is your full name?” It was one of those questions that we were asked by fan rags back in the day – I fully expected to be asked what my favourite foods were.

I shook my head and laughed, “Mary Elizabeth McCartney….Harrison.”

“You’re like Paul then and go by your middle name then?”

“When I was young, since our Mum and I had the same name, it could get a wee bit confusing to ask for ‘Mary’ and have both of us respond, so I was known as ‘Liz’ from the time I was a wee one.”

“When is your birthday?” Another fan rag questions. I expected to be describing my favourite colour in the next three minutes.

“Do you really expect a woman my age to tell you that?!” The reporter obviously did not know if I was taking ‘the piss’ as she may have expected most English people to do, or if I was offended, but I was grinning so I think she decided that I meant no harm. “It’s 15th March of 1943 – the ides of March.” I chuckled.

“You and Paul are about nine months apart then?” She looked impressed and almost a little horrified.

“Mike and I were born early, but aye, you can tell that Mum and Dad wanted to get the baby makin' out of the way!"

“So you all grew up together then? You were playmates?” She gave me a surprised smile.

“Yeah, the three of us were great mates.” I drank more of my tea. “I know about the weirdness that most brothers and sisters have together; that it isn’t until they’re older that they can have anything to do with each other without wanting to punch each other’s faces in, but that was never the case with us.”

“Are you and Paul very close?” She made the prospect of it sound terribly sweet.

“We’re terrific mates; we’ve gone through a lot together, you know. He can be a bit of an old woman at times, but he’s a lovely man and I love him dearly. You know how family is, through thick and thin and all that.”

“So how did all of this come about then? How did you go from being the younger sister, someone who might have considered becoming a professional cellist, to being in a rock band like The Beatles?” Hearing her question made me glad that I’d kept the kettle on – this might take a while.

“I think to answer that, I should start all the way at the beginning then.” And so I did.


“Our Mum died when I was thirteen, and after that we were raised by our Dad. During that time, there was a lot of talk between him and a few of my aunts so that I could go and live with one of them. It was hard for my Dad to raise two boys and a girl on his own, and he probably thought it’d be easier for me to be raised by an auntie. But I wouldn’t have none of it, and after a month or so, the talk ended. I didn’t want to leave my family.”

“That must have been difficult for you – losing your mother at such a young age,” she said to me sympathetically.

I coughed, a little uncomfortably, “No more difficult than for anyone else going through the same thing, I guess. “

“But to lose your mother just as you turned into a teenager and were going through all those changes, were experiencing all those thoughts and feelings that all teenage girls go through, must have been very difficult.” I looked at her consideringly before nodding slightly.

“I guess in the beginning it was rough, but my old man raised us the best he could and then again, the aunties were always around in case I needed a woman’s touch or I was getting common as muck. Our Auntie Gin, Dad’s sister, was really lovely. The most obvious thing that came from it was that I really didn’t have someone constant in my life who taught me how to behave as a young woman.” My eyes widened with this last part, and looking at the reporter, I could see that she understood what I meant. “It’s not that I was raised as a lad or anything, but during my adolescence, I developed a very ‘you don’t talk about it’ or ‘get on with it’ type of attitude about stuff. We weren't encouraged to sit around feelin' sorry for ourselves or anything.”

“Have you found that not having that constant feminine presence in your live has affected certain relationships you’ve had with other women?”

“Yes and no. I tend to be a lot more straight up about things, not so waffly as most women. But that’s not always a good thing I’ve found. But as I said, our Dad was really wonderful, truly. He was a very dependable sort of fella, and a really lovely old guy. More importantly, he could see that we really enjoyed music and didn’t discourage us from making it or listening to Elvis or Chuck Berry.”

“He was very encouraging of you when you were going through your ‘true blue’ cellist phase?”

“Oh aye, he was very encouraging. He knew that I enjoyed it and didn’t discourage me from getting on with it whenever I liked.” I had a sudden memory of my dear old Dad yelling at me to stop with the bloody Bach after an entire afternoon I’d spent practicing, but only because it was my turn to make supper.

“How did your Dad handle your brother eventually dropping out of school to play music full time in The Quarry Men?”

I laughed. “I’m sure he would have preferred something different, but I know that he understood that music is what Paul wanted to do. Paul’d expressed an interest in going to teaching college when he was young you see. But I remember that that changed when Paul and John met up for the first time that it was the summer of ’57. In that time, all the surrounding parishes would have fetes, or ‘neighborhood block parties’ as you Americans call them, and bands would perform. Most of them were crap,” I grinned, “but Paul had gone to the one at Woolton with one of his mates from school and had come home going on about a bloke he’d met who fronted a skiffle group. He had told me that this kid, who as you may guess, was John Lennon, was pretty impressed that he knew all the words to Twenty Flight Rock when he’d performed it. I just remember how impressed Paul seemed to be with John, and I had a similar impression from John about Paul when I met him for the first time.

“When did that happen?” I could see her eyes brighten as I mentioned whom I assumed to be her favourite Beatle. The Witty One struck again.

“After meeting up, Paul and John began to hang around a lot together and then Paul joined the band. Eventually, I think it was a few weeks later, Paul brought him to our house for a jam session. John was a class act, a real teddy boy if there was one, and our Dad wasn’t too keen on him. But you could see that they really enjoyed pissing around with one another.”

“I’m sure your Dad must have liked him a lot more when Paul decided to go along to Hamburg with them!”

“It wasn’t what my Dad would have wanted, and he was pretty vocal about it, but I think that he saw it as something that Paul needed to get out of his system and so he didn’t stand in the way. Even though they were all really young – John wasn’t even twenty, Paul was almost eighteen and George only seventeen, he’d joined the band a few months after Paul – they decided to go to Hamburg to try to make it big!”

“Did you go too?”

“No, wasn’t in the band yet, but I did visit for a few days during a school holiday.”

“Your Dad didn’t have a fit when you went to visit? You were seventeen when they went over, right?”

I laughed, “I don’t believe he was too worried about it actually. As I said earlier, from the age of thirteen, I was raised with my Dad and brothers – virtually sandwiched between the both of them, so it was sort of inevitable that going through my adolescence wouldn’t be too common. ‘Sides, I was going to visit my brother, and was paying my own way, and I don’t think he felt right telling me, ‘Cor, Liz, you carn’t be going off to Hamburg to visit your brother and his band of scousers!’” I raised my brows in that exaggerated way my Dad used to when he was quite excited about something, which even-tempered fella he’d been, hadn’t happened too often.

She chuckled. “What was their being in Hamburg like?”

“They lived in the Reeperbahn, so there was lots of booze and crazy sexual deviance or something like that going on all the time, or at least that’s I was told.” I said this with an amused grin, feeling the crinkles on my eyes become even more apparent than they already were.

The reporter’s eyes widened, not having expected how candid I probably spoke about it. I hoped that she didn’t need reminding that the lads and I had taken “the world by storm” during the era of Free Love and countless mind-altering chemicals.

“Were they expecting you?”

“I just showed up one morning at the beginning of one of my school hols. The way it had come about was that Paul and I kept up with each other through letters. Before he’d gone off to Hamburg that first time – posing as student who hadn’t even managed to finish his O Levels mind you – we’d agreed to write to each other every day. We were very good mates and it wasn’t as if we could just ring each other when the fancy struck – it was the ‘50s after all! I remember how bloody excited he was in all of his letters! He’d said they lived in a fairly rundown flat, but really, they lived in a shithole with barely a pot to piss in, in a ramshackle old building that should have been bulldozed to the ground ages before! But he loved it, or at least really enjoyed living that sort of bohemian lifestyle that we’d only read about!”

The reporter shook her head in what I assumed to be good-natured amusement. I found myself relaxing as I decided to let an old lady have a thrill by recounting this reporter with old stories about a life that she’d lived long ago. I think George would have taken the piss at me for still feeling a little nervous about this, and would have dropped a kiss on the top of my head for doing it regardless.

For the first time in a few days, I felt my heart clench as I thought about my husband. It had been over seven years, and blimey, I missed him still.

“So how did that visit go?”

I had more tea before I continued. “It was good I think.” I laughed as I remembered the day I’d arrived that first time and how surprised George had looked when he’d opened the door to the craphole they were living in, and had seen me looking up at him with dismay.

I’d known George since he and Paul had become mates a few years before and had found him to be an observant fellow with a very sweet and sly smile. One of the things that he and Paul had connected over had been their mutual adoration for all things rock and roll, and had very quickly started having mini jam sessions at our house whenever Dad had gone to work. Even though I’d only messed around with the guitar at that point, still being a staunch admirer of my beloved cello, I’d thought that his playing was brilliant and had loved to hear him play.

I remember thinking to myself when George had swung open that door, after yelling out, “Keep your hair on! I’m coming!” that he had the deepest, darkest brown eyes I’d ever seen. It hadn’t been love at first sight, or any of that nonsense (it was too late for that, I think), but I remember how taken aback I’d been about seeing him again.

His hair had been sticking out in all sorts of directions and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that he was recovering from one hell of a hangover. “Alright, George?” I’d asked as I had wrapped my fingers around the handle of my suitcase and walked past him. The first thing I’d noticed was all the empty bottles of booze and cigarette butts littered all over the filthy rug.

“Liz what are you doing here?!” He’d asked, his eyes round with surprise.

“I came for a visit, what does it look like I’m doing? Oi, Paul!” I had called out. Fifteen seconds later I’d heard a slew of bloody fucking hells before my brother had made an appearance, zipping up his jeans on the way. He had looked like hell I remembered; his eyes had been bloodshot and like George, his hair was standing in all directions.

“What’s your game, Liz?” Paul had asked while I had set my suitcase next by the wall.

“Just came for a wee visit,” I had replied with what I’d known to be a shit-eating grin.

“Fucking hell, Liz, does Dad know you’re here?” He had rubbed his eyes sleepily.

“Aye, ‘course he does,” I had handed my coat to a flustered looking George and had given him what I hoped was a reassuring grin. “Paulie, get your knickers out of a twist! You’re frightening George! Speaking of which your Mum sent along some scones for you, Georgie. They were delicious!” I had laughed up at my brother just as I had leaned over to give him a one-armed hug.

Having heard whatever commotion had been going on, John and Pete had come out from that back hallway, and were followed by two thoroughly disheveled looking birds who were messing with their hair.

Not that I would have expected him to, but John had not held back his, “Bloody hell, Paul, what’s she doing here?” as both girls had walked around me without so much a look, still adjusting their skirts when they opened the door and left. Even though I’d been seventeen at the time, I hadn’t been a fool and had known what they’d been about. I had been curious whether Cyn knew what her man was up to.

“Sod off, John, I came for a visit.”

I remember how John had looked at me through narrowed lids before replying, “Youse up the duff or something?”

“Wait a fuckin'–“ Paul had begun before I’d cut in.

“I’d watch my gob if I was you, John Lennon. Paulie isn’t the only one in the family with a sneaky upper cut – who do you think taught it to him, mate? Now give us a hug, lovie.” I had continued with a grin, and to my amusement, he’d done just that, even giving me a leer as he had pulled back. “What a nice bit of crumpet you’ve become, young Liz.” I had told him off and asked him to put the kettle on, which he had done surprisingly. John had been a sucker for battle-axes in training! So even though I had been an uninvited guest in their flat, the fact that I was only staying for a week, didn’t raise a fuss about sleeping on their sofa, and that I offered to visit the shop down the road for proper food, made them all more kindly disposed towards me.

That night, dressed in their black leather and cowboy boots, they’d headed out to the Kaiserkeller and I remember my momentary sense of shock when I saw them pass around pills which John had affectionately called Prellies, before heading on stage to perform their multiple hour set. I wasn’t a babe in the woods by any means, so I knew that the surge of energy they received within minutes was totally artificial, but I’d decided to not ask about it.

It would be the first of many, many times that I’d see them experience the euphoria that came about from free-spirited drug use.

“Did you ever see them perform during that visit?” I heard the reporter ask me and I was instantaneously brought almost fifty years later. I wondered how long I’d been quiet for.

“That very first night and every night I was there. The club they performed at was some rat hole, let me tell you.”

“Was any of the magic from their later performances present then?” She asked me, leaning forward with obvious interest. I didn’t know if I had the heart to disillusion the poor girl by telling her that they were all three sheets to the wind by the end of their performance and having gotten over whatever scruples they had with my being Paul’s younger sister, had taken up with a few of the strippers that hung around the club. They hadn’t been shit, but they had definitely been crap.

“Errr….it was a very exciting time for them,” was what I’d say about that, there were a few things that should remain Beatles lore rather than Beatles facts.

“So it was during that trip that Stuart Sutcliffe decided to leave the band?”

“It was around that time yes.” I didn’t want to talk about what had happened with Stu.

“Did you join the band when he decided to leave?”

I shook my head, “No, it was a while before that came about.” The reporter looked frustrated for a moment before masking it. I knew exactly what I was doing.

I didn’t want to tell her the extent to which the craziness had gone in Hamburg. I didn’t want to talk about how the lads spent their time pissed off their arses or chasing tarts when they weren’t playing almost never ending gigs at those clubs. I especially did not want to talk about why I didn’t tell Cyn or Paul’s then-girlfriend Dot about what the lads were getting up to in Germany when I returned to Liverpool.

“So while the guys were living lives of depravity in Hamburg, what did you get up to during your visit over?”

“Not too much, really. I was able to do a little sightseeing, but mind you, this was post WWII Germany, so there wasn’t anything too exciting to see. There were a lot of bands to see perform, so that was good fun for the most part.” There was no point in telling her about the German bloke I’d spent snogging all night snogging two nights after I arrived.

“Did George go sightseeing with you?”

I grinned, “He did actually. I don’t think he’d seen much outside of the Reeperbahm to be honest.” I was instantly taken back to that cold October morning when we’d headed off to explore Hamburg a bit. There had been an air of comfortable familiarity between us, and though he was only a month or so older than myself, I felt safe with him, had known that nothing bad could happen with me. In retrospect, he’d been such a slight lad that if a gang of hoodlums had descended on us to take the last of my Deutschmarks that I’d doubted he’d be able to fight them all off, but going around with this scruffy looking lad with mad dark hair, decked out in teddy boy gear, I felt safer than anywhere else in the world.

Until that morning, I had never spent any time alone with George, and actually, if Paul hadn’t been passed out on the sofa, I doubted I ever would have. He was my brother’s mate, not mine though we did take the mickey out of each other on occasion; he’d joined Paul in calling me mental for spending countless hours a week practicing the cello. That morning we had somehow become friends, and I am sure those old folks walking around the old part of the city had thought we were no more than a pair of hoodlums – he in his black leather jacket and me in the black sunglasses I’d sweet talked Stu into giving me the second day I was in Hamburg.

I saw the reporter’s eyes gleam with interest, and wasn’t surprised by it. “Did your romance with George Harrison start during that trip? Was it love at…re-sight?”

I laughed, “No, no! We were both young as babes then and wouldn’t have known what to do with ourselves if that had happened!” The thought of the George I’d gone sightseeing with that cold grey morning telling me he fancied me made me want to giggle like a loon. “It might have been that we liked each other as friends; that’s all we were then.”

“So there was no great love story between you and George from the very beginning?”

“Blimey, that would have been awful!”

“He didn’t confess any undying love for you before you went home?” There was as smile on her face.

I chuckled once again, “I think George was too interested in what they were doing in Hamburg to really consider anything like that, ‘sides, they were were a band of young lads set loose.”

“So that time, and the times that followed, it didn’t bother you to know that there were all those girls in Hamburg?”

I was silent for a minute as I thought about it, not too sure how I should go about answering this or whether I should give a very Paul-like answer and say, “I don’t talk about that.” But I wanted to be honest, or at least as honest as I could be. “I liked him a lot, but wasn’t in love with him then, so it didn’t bother me, no.”

“When did that change, Liz?” I knew we were probably going to delve into deeper waters than I’d anticipated. It was so quiet I could hear the tiny hum of the voice recorder. I cleared my throat.

“It wasn’t for years yet and even then it was swept under the carpet for a while.”

“How did it come about? How did he come out and tell you, ‘I like you as more than a friend’?”

“ ‘Cor, you want an old lady to give away all of her secrets, don’t you?!” She laughed in reply and I continued, “It came out a few years later…after I joined the band.”

To be continued.

I appreciate any and all feedback.
Tags: fanfiction, the interview
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