The next evening, the Beatles played another concert. Their minds weren’t really on it, though; they were on their quest to find new girlfriends.
After the concert, the Beatles ran out into the cool night air, pursued by their fans. “I love you, John!” “Kiss me, Paul!” “Marry me, Ringo!” “George! George! I need you!”
None of these girls were what the Beatles were looking for. They put on a burst of speed, leaving the disappointed crowd behind. “In there!” called Paul, pointing to a small, out-of-the-way pub in an alleyway just ahead.
The Beatles made their way to this pub at full speed. They thought they could get in there before their fans caught up enough to see where they’d gone. They neared the door just as a small group of women were approaching, and Ringo, in the lead at this point, stopped running to open the door and hold it for the women to go through first.
One of the women – there were four of them, the Beatles could see now – turned and looked at him appraisingly. “Thank you,” she said after a moment, her voice cool but pleasant. She didn’t scream or cry or do anything to indicate that she knew or cared that these were the Beatles. Neither did her companions.
And they were very pretty.
“Oh – it was nothing,” Ringo replied quickly, following the women into the pub.
“We can do even more for you, if you like,” added John with a wide grin.
“How about a drink?” charmed Paul, lowering his long lashes.
Another of the women tilted her head to one side, considering. “Fine.”
The Beatles and the women made their way to a table. The four women looked very similar to one another, all tall and medium-slender with matching short, flipped-up hairdos. They all wore matching skirt-and-jacket suits and little pillbox hats. The biggest difference between the four was in their colouring: the one who’d spoken to Ringo had bright red hair and was dressed all in yellow; the one who’d agreed to have a drink with the Beatles had brown hair and was dressed all in blue; the third woman had blonde hair and was dressed all in green; and the fourth woman had black hair and was dressed all in purple. The women all looked to be in their mid- twenties: young enough to still be attractive to someone the Beatles’ age, but old enough not to go crazy over them like a teenager would.
“Are you all sisters?” George asked them as they sat down – the women did look very alike.
The black-haired woman smiled at him but didn’t answer.
“What are your names?” Paul pressed, a bit thrown, but not discouraged, by this lack of response.
“I’m May,” the woman with brown hair and a blue outfit told Paul. “This is Emily” she indicated the blonde woman dressed in green, “Morag” she pointed to the black-haired woman in purple, “and Natalya” she indicated the redhead wearing yellow.
“Beautiful name,” murmured Ringo a little distractedly, staring at Natalya’s bright red hair and fine, almost haughty features.
The eight ordered drinks and chatted into the night, though there wasn’t too much talking done as the Beatles were constantly forgetting everything else around them and just staring at the women, and the women never seemed to have too much to say. “So we were running away from our fans tonight, like we usually are...” John was telling Emily.
“Stupid girls,” Emily remarked. John felt a small twinge of annoyance, as though he wanted to stick up for his fans, but then he reminded himself that this just proved Emily wasn’t one of them, didn’t it? He should be glad she was talking that way.
“You don’t like rock music at all?” Ringo was saying to Natalya with some surprise.
“Can’t stand it,” she replied. “It’s much too noisy. I only ever listen to classical.” She set her beer glass down on the table hard, as if to underline her point. “That’s the only way to do music. All rock records ought to be burned.”
Ringo felt disappointed to hear this, and started at that last remark, but, he told himself, Natalya was probably just exaggerating to make her point. Besides, that was only one thing they didn’t share, wasn’t it? They would probably find loads of other things in common.
“What does a pretty girl like you do for fun?” Paul said to May.
“Probably more than you get to do,” she shot back, sipping at her beer. Paul blinked, wondering where that had come from. Oh, well. Maybe that was just May’s way of flirting. She did seem to have a definite tough side.
“What do you girls do for a living?” George was asking Morag.
Morag just shook her head at him, once again not giving him an answer. “Oh, we get by. We even got ourselves a nice big place no one could find, outside the city. No annoying girls around; no one around at all. Would you like that, George?” Her big eyes searched George’s face, full of mystery and temptation.... George could feel himself getting lost. “I’d love it,” he replied breathlessly.
At the end of the night, the women looking twice as beautiful to the Beatles under the influence of alcohol, the boys offered to drive the women home. The women refused. “We’ve got our car,” Natalya said. “We don’t want to be bothered by any brainless girls on our way back.”
Not just John, but all the Beatles, felt little twinges of anger at this, but they were far more focused on the moonlight shining in the women's eyes. “All right,” Paul agreed, a little unsteadily. “But we’re taking you out tomorrow night.”
“Fine,” May said again. “Good night, Beatles.”
The women walked away single file, their steps almost perfectly in time with one another’s. The Beatles watched them go, their eyes transfixed by the swaying of their hips.
“What a girl,” sighed Ringo.
The other three nodded. Only their first night of looking, and already they had found their dream. Four wonderful, beautiful girls – who clearly weren’t Beatles fans.