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George and Maureen

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George

Somewhere deep down George wondered whether Maureen was doing this just to regain Ringo's attention. To make a statement of her own in response to whatever infidelity she suspected he was engaging in these days. But, frankly, that mattered very little to George. He was living only in this moment now, in this room in his home, originally meant as a space for meditation - though he had let it slip over the past year - with his face buried in the crook of Mo's neck, his hand on her breast, the other stubbing out the not even depleted joint on the floor. 

Even if Maureen was using him, it was still him she had chosen. And that, to George, held a kind of inevitable pride. Women liked him, that was glaringly apparent. The youngest Beatle, and yet his wife had been the most beautiful, and now he could even have Ringo's too. He tried to ignore the words from Maureen that every so often interrupted his actions. He knew they were about other things; Pattie and Ringo, even John a few moments ago. But George was determined not to listen. He raised onto his palms above her, and then rose up from the mattress studded with beads and sequins on an Indian cover. His knees still digging in on either side of Maureen's waist, he took his shirt off and let his necklace dangle between them as he leaned down to kiss her neck again. They hadn't kissed very much on the mouth in all this time they'd been 'lying down' together. George wondered why he didn't want to.

 

Mo

Maureen looked up at George. She always thought he was handsome and now that he was older he was very sexy. He wasn't the old George always joking and laughing. This George was touchy and prickly and intense. She loved Ritchie, though, and always would, but she couldn't go on only having had one man and George was always such a flirt and she suspected Ritchie liked Pattie’s friend, Chris.

One night about a month ago, when George and Ritchie were up late recording, Ritchie left her to go off with Terry Doran and Pattie was out of town. Maureen found herself alone with George and as usual he was droning on about something she didn't understand but she just smiled and pretended to listen intently when all she really wanted was to feel his lips on hers. She stared at his mouth while he chatted on and on about some chord change. Then he got another bottle of wine and they sat out on the terrace and drank. She was more than shocked when he leaned over and kissed her. All these years and all their flirting and finally!

George was a good lover. He knew the right things to do and say. He wasn't as cuddly and sweet as Ritchie. Which was good. What they were doing was wrong. Pattie hated her and Ritchie was so upset, but she couldn't stop. Since that night on the terrace she'd been possessed. All she thought about was George and his hands and his fingers and his cock. Which is what had gotten her here in the first place. Pattie was always bragging and Maureen just had to know. Well, for the record, Ritchie was bigger but George knew how to use it.

Now when she and George got together it was all about sex. It seemed George couldn't get enough. Maureen could tell he wasn't really listening to her he was kissing her neck and pushing her shirt up and ignoring the fact that Pattie was banging on the door.

Maureen pushed George off. "Can you send her away or let her in? I don't care what you do but it's giving me a headache."

Maureen reached over and pick the joint off the floor and lit it. Inside she was furious, but she had to keep it hidden. Just one of the rules. No fighting. All fun and games.

George

George relented abruptly as Maureen spoke, and in total silence got to his feet and went to the door to appease her. Maureen was right; Pattie had been out there long enough to have heard what George had been waiting, somehow, for her to for the last two weeks. The one question which he had been itching to know the answer to all this time; would Pattie fight him at all? Or was she just trembling in fear that her marriage was collapsing, or did she care so little for George anymore that she didn't care who he slept with? There seemed to be no other way to make his wife admit it than to confirm her suspicions unequivocally in front of her and see what she had to say... She had more pride than George in some matters. And better manners, too, friends kept saying infernally at dinner parties and gatherings.

He went calmly out into the hallway, and found Pattie waiting. He told her when she demanded to know, that they were just meditating. - 'Is that all?' - And talking. Talking about what, Pattie asked scornfully, but George became firm and ended the conversation, taking Pattie's elbow to lead her downstairs, but she tugged herself away almost humiliatingly quickly. Unbothered by this- or at least that's what he told himself for now, George let her go. That was the line: he didn't care. He had upset her, as he had for so long wanted to, and he ignored the prickle of discomfort somewhere in his chest as he went back and closed the door of the meditation room behind he and Mo.

He gazed at her with a slightly altered expression now. One of more strengthened determination, which let her know, even if George himself was unaware of it, that neither of them were leaving that room until one, or both, of them had made their point to their respective spouse. However George's eyes flickered with disinterest as he sat down on the edge of the mattress next to Maureen again. He glanced at her, exposed in places, but not nearly enough, and then at his fingers locked together in his lap. He stared at them for a few long seconds, and found his brow creasing and his eyebrows lowering as if he was experiencing a short-temper. His shoulders were tense suddenly, his mind cluttered and opaque, and it was ironic; usually he would meditate.

Maureen

Maureen took a drag off of the reefer. "You know you love her. Why do you treat her like that?" She rolled over and stubbed the joint out in the ash tray. She laid on her back and stared at the ceiling.

The light from prisms hanging in the window made rainbows all over the walls.

For an enlightened guy, George was still a boy from Liverpool when it came to women.

"You really should tell her how you feel. You've been a dick to her. Pattie's always been good to you. I've never understood your need to fuck with her head."

Maureen thought about all the times Pattie had cried over George. At first George had been so in love. John and Paul would make such fun of him, but after they all got to know Pattie they loved her, too.

"Come on, babe." Mo pulled on George's arm. "We don't have to do anything. Let's just lie here and think how to get out of this mess."

She felt his reluctance, so she sat up behind him and started kneading his shoulders. "You're so tight." She used her thumbs to massage the knots of tension that had settled in his back.

"Joe, remember how much Rory's sister, Iris, loved you?" Maureen continued to rub George's shoulders moving down his arms until she reached his hands. She intertwined her fingers with his and rested her head on him. "I know you loved her, too, but you wouldn't tell her and after she started dating that kid from Walton, you acted just like this."

 

Maureen felt George start to relax. She pushed him down on the bed and laid beside him, propped up on one arm. She looked him up and down and ran a finger across his chest.

She had always been a little in love with George. He'd been someone she could talk to. Before he met Pattie, George would joke that if things didn't work out with Ritchie, he would marry Mo. Those boys were long gone and the two miserable men who replaced them were grating with their constant complaining and whining.

His eyes were closed and Maureen smoothed his mustache and eyebrows and the wrinkle across his forehead. Though it was wrong and against her better judgement, Maureen still wanted George. It didn't mean she loved Ritchie less or liked hurting Pattie, she just wanted to feel something. She was tired of feeling dead inside. She was convinced George was the key to whatever happiness might come her way.

She curled up next to him and breathed in the scent of sandalwood. After a while she felt his fingers in her hair.

George

George immediately tensed again when Maureen suggested to stop what they were doing and intellectualise the problem. Think? The last thing george wanted to do was think about this. He was doing it, that was the point. He reached up and took Mo’s hand firmly to stop its movement on his shoulder, and then twisted around to face her, ignoring the soothing things she was saying about the old days - not old. Gone. Dead - to give her that stony look of concentration again.

And then she was pushing him down into the mattress again, and he didn’t have time to debate whether he wanted to or not, so he simply allowed her to set it up how she wanted; he stared at the ceiling coldly whilst he felt her eyes on him. Then her finger trailing down his chest, and he shuddered involuntarily at the sensation, before reaching up an idle hand to thread his fingers through the her hair.

His eyes drifted from the ceiling to the far window, through which he could see the grounds of Friar Park, the tops of the trees and a bit of the wall closing them in, marking the perimeter of this strange private members’ club of a world which was one of four that made up those little islands in the universe which were still Beatle places. Where the people inside weren’t celebrities, weren’t saints, were real flawed people. Everything was real. George knew he had been damaged by Beatlemania, most drastically in his view of the world, his sense of right and wrong, and self, and ego. What he was doing now, inside this perimeter wall, was infidelity. Outside of it, it was simply the rockstar lifestyle. It wasn’t a sin, it was merely what was expected of George. What George was entitled to. All the boys had been treated that way. The press had allowed them to be spoilt, in a very serious way. And as a result, even now, George felt a twinge pulling him back towards that fantasy. He was a rock star. He had been a Beatle. He was special and famous enough to sleep with whoever he wanted; one wife, one girl, couldn’t possibly ever be enough for him.

Lifting his torso up off the indian covers, he tightened his grip in Maureen’s hair and pulled her face in to his, kissing her dry lips and making his point very clear. His first kiss was too aggressive, and creased her brow with worry or concern, but his second was more assured, and she sighed gently, the sound humming in George’s ears. And with every kiss he felt as if he was kissing another part of Ringo’s soul that had once been all his - his and John’s and Paul’s - goodbye. Ringo had always given his friends anything he could give. His drumming, his patience, driving George home and passing messages between Paul and John when they weren’t on speaking terms, forgiving every cruel word they said to him. He would probably forgive George for this too, he thought…

Believing now he could do anything he wanted, George sat up and buried his face in Maureen’s hair, kissing deftly, ticklishly at the space behind her ear. ‘He’ll know it’s me,’ he said calmly, his lips moving against the increasingly heated skin. ‘He’ll smell me here on you.’

Maureen

Maureen let George kiss her behind her ear, her neck, her collarbone. She shivered when she realized George's intention was to hurt Ritchie, but she didn't stop him or push him away. This affair, which she had wanted, hoping it would stir up the stagnant atmosphere of their lives, wasn't what she had expected.

When she was here at Friar Park life was a dream. Nothing was real. Ritchie and Pattie were blurs she was not quite able to put into focus. She'd as soon forget them. It was all too painful. She couldn't make Ritchie happy anymore. Maybe though she could comfort George. Though it seemed all he wanted was to cause pain. He was angry at Ritchie or Pattie. It didn't matter who.

She tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, trying to put all the loving desire she possessed into it. Love to help them, love to heal them all.

She was determined to awaken the place in George that was all about love. Instinctively she realized if George was happy it would turn things around and in turn Ritchie would lose the despair that seemed to have taken over his life.

She knew if she put these thoughts into words and said them out loud, everyone would think she'd lost her mind, especially Ringo and Pattie. She was aware people thought she was cold and tough, and that if anyone besides Ritchie knew the real Maureen it would be George.

"Oh, George," the words were out before she could stop them.

She returned her attention to the man who was making love to her, and she lost herself in his caresses, giving herself to him in hopes of saving her life.

George

Maureen was always the one who understood the boys best, at an animal, at a real psychological level. Maybe later in life they’d become other things, mystic, popular, self-obsessed, but they’d all started off as tough, normal normal normal kids from inside Liverpool. And Maureen was one too. She knew exactly what George was doing, what he needed, he knew that, and that was another reason it was such a relief for him whenever he could be with her.

But her assumption that George was just out to hurt people wasn’t really true. He wasn’t angry with Pattie. He was angry with everything else. He was angry that their marriage was so distant now, that it wasn’t what it was before - he felt he had lost half of her, not to some other man but just to time and to Beatles… Beatlemania, Beatle gossip columns, Beatles interviews, Beatles life - it had drained all the life and all the fun out of them all; Richie, George-and-Pattie, even John. Whether it was true or not could be debated, but to George it seemed completely obvious that if it hadn’t been for the Beatles, everything would have worked out just fine. He and Richie would still be just as close and just as happy as they’d been at 17 and 20, and he and Pattie would be content with a moderate life filled with meditation and religion and peace; and John would have stayed with Cynthia, without a doubt. They all would have really made it if they hadn’t made it big. That was how it seemed to George, at least, right now…

He lost himself in Maureen’s embrace, wishing he could have this with Pattie again, feeling his chest ache, really, physically, at the horror of the realisation that he couldn’t. He kissed Maureen as hungrily as she was kidding him. He returned the touches she gave him and soon his hands were on her breasts again, and after a few heavy moments where George felt he might just walk out and slam the door if he didn’t get some release soon, he managed to bring himself back and raised up off Mo so that he could find the button of his trousers, yanking the zip down bit by bit at the odd angle which made it keep stopping and catching on the denim until it was open enough that he wasn’t in so much discomfort anymore. He was aroused, at least; he needed this. And not with some stranger. Mo was a godsend, in reality. George would have been so much more frustrated - so much more cruel and awful to Pattie, if he didn’t have this. ‘You’ve got nothing to say?’ he asked gruffly, noticing how she didn’t respond at all when he provoked her about Ringo. All she said was George’s name. His. And though it was undoubtedly sexy, it wasn’t filling George with so much pride anymore.

Maureen

Maureen helped George out of his jeans and then let him undress her. It was unlike George to be rough and demanding when he made love. It reminded her of when the boys were teenagers, before they figured out how to please women, when sex was a release for whatever emotion needed soothing.

Maureen didn't mind. In fact she relished the feel of George's calloused fingertips as they skimmed across her body, arousing her in a way she hadn't felt in years.

He felt so different in her arms than Ringo did. Longer and leaner and strong. Too look at George you'd never think he was able to pull her up and on top of him as if she were as weightless as a feather.

Then they were sitting up. Maureen was in George's lap with her legs around his waist. George had his hands on her hips and she opened her eyes and stared into his. Their breathing was in sync and Maureen put her hands on his shoulders as George lifted her up and onto his cock. She gasped at how deep he was inside her. They stared into each others eyes not moving until Maureen made the move to kiss him. Then it was like fireworks going off as George lifted her up and down, thrusting his hips against hers.

His mouth left hers and found her breasts kissing first one and then the other. Her hands were in his long brown hair as she arched back so he could more easily suck and tease until she thought she was going to explode. And just as she thought she couldn't wait for him, George moaned her name which only meant one thing, and they came together.

She was breathless as he held her, their foreheads touching,as their breathing returned to normal. Slowly they untangled themselves and Mo laid down, her head on a pillow. She watched as George lit two ciggies, then he handed her one before lying beside her pulling her into him with his free arm around her shoulders.

At last the tension was broken. They smoked in silence, the ashtray on George's chest. Maureen stubbed out her cigarette and George took a last drag, putting the ashtray aside. Maureen curled up as close to George as she could get, and there he was, the old, familiar George who wrapped his arms and legs around her, holding her tight and breathing softly into her hair.

“I love you, Georgie.” She hoped he knew what she meant. Not in love, just the love between two people who understand each other. She sighed as he kissed her temple.

George

It was probably for the best that Maureen took the control this time during sex. George was in an increasingly common, yet still irregular mood of thinking that he was being deprived of things he wanted, and should be able to have. Really, cosmically, it was happiness, of course. But right now, at this moment in time it was whatever it was- faster, more, a possessiveness which he had to exert over Maureen, because she was Ringo's and that meant George couldn't have her. The spoilt Beatle in him raged inside, and had he been on top it would have come out in aggressive movements. He might have ruined it for both of them and only ended up even more frustrated than before. But this was pleasant. Maureen was perfect today. When he was with her, he didn't feel a thing he didn't want to. There was no lawyers lurking round every corner, no looming question of divorce, of when will this be the last time... or is it already over? How long has it been over? She was just a normal, albeit very attractive Liverpool girl, Mo. And that's all she was. She didn't want anything from him; she had been in his life since before he'd had anything to give!

As he lowered his cigarette to rest on the edge of the ashtray he turned to look at Mo, lying in the crook of his arm. Her hair was dark again now; he liked it better that way. It had been blonde a few years ago- like Pattie - and he never thought it looked right. He reached over with his other  arm, cigarette slotted between his middle fingers, and brushed her slightly sweat-darkened fringe to the side with a gentleness he wouldn't have been capable of ten minutes ago. The tremor in his fingers had gone, too, and though his mind did wander briefly to the whereabouts of his wife, he was all too sure she had taken off in one of his cars and gone to stay with her friends in London. It was becoming a semi-predictable routine. George would cross a line, and she would be angry but then disappear. But this time, George remembered how shit he had felt once she was gone, alone in his big old house with no one to listen to him play his guitars, or to talk to, even to argue with, it only made him angry. He had an idea now, as he looked casually into Mo's eyes, a smile almost tweaking at the corner of his lips as his thumb hovered down to Maureen's, stroking her lower lip and noticing how soft it felt.

'I want you to stay,' he said, as if telling her of some dream or whim. 'Pattie'll be gone for a week or so. We can do this again.' He leaned over and kissed where he had been touching the moment before. It felt more like kissing someone as familiar as a wife than kissing Pattie did these days. Far more natural than kissing your best friend's wife should feel. He felt himself smirk against her skin. '-Can do it tonight. Stay, I'll tell Richie.' It seemed all too easy. And Ringo wouldn't mind. He wouldn't even notice, more likely, their marriage was that distant. George saying that he would tell Ringo was simply a way of lifting the problem off Maureen of having to call up and have that discussion with him. George would forget, and Ringo would either never notice, or he'd be angry at George for one second, one terse sentence perhaps, and then it'd be dropped. It was all slightly incestuous, yes. But far worse things could have happened, everybody knew that very well.

Maureen

When he asked her to stay, Maureen was stunned at the depth of feeling that overcame her. Ringo and Pattie were both away. Her mom was with the children. Maureen fit into Friar Park and George's life seamlessly and without effort. At last she again had a purpose.

While he worked in the studio she went home and got some clothes and make up. Then she went into Henley and bought food, wine, and cigarettes. Sure, George could have sent Terry or his brother Peter to get what was needed, but Maureen lived to take care of others. It had been the glue that kept her marriage to Ringo going. Now that he didn't seem to need her, and Pattie had given up on George, Maureen was delighted to pamper George.

That night, Maureen sat in the studio with George. When his tea cup was empty, she filled it. When he patted his pocket for a ciggie, she produced a fresh pack and a light. His smile of appreciation was thanks enough.

Around midnight, Ritchie called. "I'm staying with George for awhile," she told him and he just said ok and asked to talk to George.

She felt empty for a moment, but then when George turned to hang up the phone, she looked at his ass in his Levis and realized she'd made the right decision. She grabbed his flannel shirt and pulled him down into the chair with her. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. To her relief, he wasn't annoyed and kissed her back. His mouth was all over hers, urgently exploring. She marveled at the difference between his kisses and Ritchie's. The taste, the feeling was all new and exciting.

She took his hand and silently pulled him to the floor. She wanted to feel him on top of her. He was taller than her husband and she liked the sensation of him. She ran her hands down his back and pulled up his shirt, she smiled into their kiss as she realized he had on two tee shits under his shirt. He chest was warm against her hands. Then she wandered down and unbuttoned his fly and slipped her hand in and wrapped her hand around him. When he groaned she pushed her hips into him. She wanted to make love, but she also wanted to prolong the anticipation. She button up his jeans and slapped his hand away when he tried to stop her.

"Come on, darling. You know you have a deadline! Get to work!"

George kissed her again then got up and went back to the console. Maureen looked up at him from the floor. He was so intense, so focused on what he was doing. No wonder he and Pattie were falling apart. Pattie wished to be the center of attention and George had too much to do.

Maureen stood and made her way to the kitchen. George wasn't a big eater but he liked to graze. She cut up some carrots and celery, and mashed up some avocado for a dip. She grabbed a bottle of wine and two glasses. Then she went back to the studio. For once everyone was gone and it was serendipitous that she and George were all alone. When she set the tray down, she went and stood next to him and watched as he pushed buttons and twisted knobs mixing and over dubbing what would eventually go on his next album. "Maya Love is like the stream, Flowing through this cosmic dream." She listened to the words...truly this was a dream...and she wasn't sure she wanted to wake up.

George

George worked and talked to Mo intermittently every now and again for another three hours. It might have been more; he tended to lose track of time down there in the studio. Time wasn't so real, only the work was real. The music. He had no time for time, he used to say to Pattie and chuckle, but it always just made her exasperated with him. Perhaps she took it to mean 'I've got no time for you.'

He was enjoying today so much more than he usually would, the day after Pattie stormed out and disappeared like that. Normally he would be alone, because it took a few days for his friends if he invited them over to arrive. He had to get planes for them if he wanted them really quick. Or send a car over to London, and even then, most of them had schedules that wouldn't allow it for another day or two anyway. As it was, George already had guests arriving that night. Jim Keltner, Klaus, Gary Wright and some other folks. At some point Ronnie Wood and his wife had even prophesied a visit in the coming weeks to play electric guitar on a track. But for now Friar Park was an oasis. All this space; all this quiet. And just himself and Maureen there together. Not another body in the world.

But in the final half hour of George's session, after Mo had gone back up to the sitting room to read a magazine, a phone rang in the hallway. George got up heavily from his chair, starting to feel as if he and it were becoming a one being - he scratched his cheek and went out into the cool, dark mahogany hall, singing under his breath an unhurried 'coming, coming...' before plucking the thing off the receiver. 'Hello?' It was Ringo. George didn't feel there was anything out of the ordinary in this, and he wasn't panicked by the sound of his friend's voice. The conversation was easy and casual, and it soon turned to Maureen... 'I think she's sleeping with someone else now, you know... George, I mean you've got tons of people round there haven't you?' 'Yes... yeah, we've got.. lots of people, in and out right now because we're doin' the album y'see.' Not that you've offered to play on it yet. '...just do me a favour, keep an eye on 'em, y'know. If you see anything...' 'Yeah.' 'I mean has she said anything George?' George thought about it briefly; they hadn't really done much talking. He told Ringo so, not specifying what they had been doing, and the conversation ended amicably as ever. George grinned briefly as he hung the phone back up on its hook. Not a sadistic smile, but the sort of smile as any young boy has after making a joke phone call or some other childish foil. More instinctual. He couldn't help it.

After he'd turned off everything in the studio he went straight back through the dark, high-ceilinged labyrinth of the house, up stairs and across corridors where large Rajasthani tapestries were hung, the sunlight from an arched window making the sequins catch like tiny bright white flames. Mo was just getting up from the sofa, unfolding her legs elegantly and picking up her empty glass to go over to the drinks cabinet at the other end of the room. George's brown eyes took on a glint of mischievousness and he smiled as he came into the room silently, walking up to Mo just as she turned around to come back from the cabinet and wrapping his arms around her. He hardly cared what happened to the drink in her hand, if it spilled on the carpet or she dropped the glass. As it was he heard her place it quickly back on the cabinet before George placed his hands at her sides and pushed her back until they reached the wall, and he kissed her hungrily. She had been teasing him all day and he was ready to get some relief.

It completed the picture perfectly; the picture of a proper husband and wife, like her and Ringo had been. Only now the picture was all George's. Even if only for a day or a week: He had been working, and she had made food and listened to him play back parts of the songs, and made herself at home here. The bastard had had it this good all this time... and all this time George had silently envied him for it. When he came home from Abbey Road at four in the morning she would be at home waiting for him with a roast dinner, and wanting to talk to him about his day. She seemed to be devoted to him, and nothing and no one else. Pattie was never really there when George came home late after those sessions; perhaps on a shoot abroad, or perhaps at some friends' houses, or if she was she was in she was usually asleep - and she was never even angry at George... for not being there. For being home late. It sat uncomfortably with him that she didn't particularly care.

'It's all finished,' he said, kissing her lower lip and resisting an urge to bite gently at it. 'We've just gotta wait for the others now. Thanks for teasin' me earlier...'