The Certainty Of Chance (Beatles Fan Fiction)

29

May listened to George’s retreating footsteps fade and then burst into tears. A moment later when she had gained a little control, she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and with it the old dog-eared picture of George, which she had taken to carrying around with her. Jack wouldn’t allow her to put it on the wall anymore.

Teardrops fell on the page. She imagined she wouldn’t see George again now, except on the TV and in the papers of course. It’s for the best, she tried to convince herself. She had doubted whether he would come looking for her, but if he did she had decided days ago, then she would lie to him. Be as horrible as she could to him. Make sure that he would never want to see her or talk to her again. Naturally she would love to have left for London with him. Be with him and the others. But it just wasn’t viable. Not with Jack.

When she had found Jack at Holly’s, he had been lovely. She had ended up breaking down and telling him everything, how she had met George, and the filming and the meal at Oxford, but, she had said, they had argued and she had run away. Jack had been sympathetic, understanding even. He had said he loved her, something he hadn’t told her since before they were married, and May had fallen into thinking that perhaps her leaving had been the jolt he needed to realise how he really felt.

As soon as they returned to Wales he switched back, overnight to his old ways. In fact, if anything he was worse. He had spelt out very clearly how things were to be from now on. And that didn’t include anything to do with The Beatles. No records, nothing. He had also told her in sadistic detail what would happen should he happen to find one of them, or one in particular, here. The only way May could think of to make George leave was to be as uncaring and horrid as she could be, then George would walk out, unseen by Jack, or anyone who might tell Jack. So that was what she had done. Or at least she thought she had.

She knew George was too stubborn and too kind-hearted to leave her if she had simply asked him too. She had had to make him angry, make him hate her. But that didn’t lend May any comfort.

The door burst open, slamming into the adjacent wall and threatening to break off its hinges. Jack stood in the doorway. He looked at May, red-eyed, sitting on the bed clutching her picture of George. She stared at him, startled. On the floor were two tea mugs.

“You little tart,” Jack breathed.