Junk and Other Stories

My Beautiful Mistake

Hello, dear readers. I'm Michelle Edwards, and I wrote an autobiography about my time in Hamburg with The Beatles, but I omitted certain details; one of which was quite relevant to the story. So here is that one crucial event that could have potential saved my career with the band... and my relationship with George.

* * * *

During my two years with The Beatles (when they knew my real identity), I stayed close to all of the lads. I even stayed friends with Pete after he left the band. My real friends were George, my boyfriend and lover, and John. John and I had started off on the wrong foot on several occasions, but we made up for it by becoming really close. After a while, I trusted John almost as much as my own boyfriend.

In fact, I trusted him with a lot of secrets.

Some were very, very private secrets.

One morning, I woke up early. Oh God, there was that terrible, sickly feeling in my stomach. I sat up in bed, gingerly placing a hand to my forehead. It didn't feel hot, just a bit sweaty. I felt another awful pang deep within my stomach. It was churning atrociously. I began to sweat even more, terrified of what was inevitably about to happen. I suddenly lurched, clapped a hand over my mouth, and rushed to the bathroom. I tried to be as quiet and discreet as possible so I wouldn't wake anyone up.

"Fucking hell," I murmured, wiping my dribbly mouth. "What was that all about?"

I didn't have time to even think about a possible answer. I felt my stomach rising to my mouth and was violently sick a second time. (I couldn't help peering into the toilet bowl out of morbid curiosity. I saw the sloppy remains of last night's dinner - fish and chips with mushy peas.)

"Oh, God," I said softly. "I haven't got food poisoning, have I?"

I knew very well that it wasn't food poisoning. I was just too frightened to even consider the real reason. I spent most of the morning locked in the bathroom, hanging onto the toilet with one hand and clutching my poor, aching stomach with the other. Tears were streaming down my face and falling onto my silky nightdress. Plop... Plop... Plop...

Then I had to stagger to my feet and act like nothing was wrong because the other lads were banging on the bathroom door, shouting to be let in. I pulled my tattered silk dressing gown tightly around myself and had good long stare at myself in the mirror. I was shivering in my thin nightie and my hair was sticking up all over the place. Dark circles outlined my eyes, making me look like a panda. I didn't look like young, vibrant Michelle anymore; I looked more like a sixty-something year old grandma.

I sighed heavily and bit my lip.

"Michelle! Hurry up in there!"

"Are you using up all the hot water? Honestly, typical girl!"

"I'm bursting to use the loo, Michelle!"

I had to give in. What else could I do? If I refused to come out, they would immediately suspect that something was up and give me the third degree. I couldn't risk it. So I reached for the knob and slowly opened the door, peering out cautiously. 

I saw four rather cross faces staring at me. John's face was covered in morning stubble and he smelled awful - like rumpled bedclothes and unwashed boy. He had a razor in his left hand and a can of shaving cream in his right. Paul was wearing nothing but a fluffy toweling dressing gown, a bath towel slung over his shoulder and an impatient look on his face. Ringo - the new guy - was doing a weird little dance in his bare feet and clutching himself. (He was obviously the one who was 'bursting to use the loo'.) George was there too, also in a dressing gown and bare feet.