(no subject)
This is all set in the movie theatre towards the beginning of the story. There are a few gaps. [...] means either I'll cut to Jack and Monday at this point or I'll find a way to bridge the gap without jumping time periods.
"Cyn?"
A hand grasped her arm and she recognised her husband's voice but she willed herself not to turn around. He hadn't really seen her. She told herself that as she allowed herself to be lead onwards by the mysterious man. John called her name again and her hand was released before the grip returned to her arm. He was shaking her just that little bit too vigorously as he demanded to know what the hell she thought she was playing at.
Memories of the time he'd seen her dancing in a perfectly friendly way with one of their friends at an art college party. He'd dragged her out to the deserted corridor by the toilets and got even more worked up then this. She hadn't realised until after it had happened that all this anger would need to be vented in some way other than the verbal tirade he was already giving her. That's when it happened. He struck out and, after one terrified look, fled the scene.
[...]
He hadn't followed her. He'd seen she was upset and he hadn't even bothered to find out what the matter was. Knowing John, he might not even suspect that it was his over eager methods of questioning that had been the penultimate straw that had broken this long suffering camel's back. The final straw was, of course, this refusal to even make sure she wasn't going to throw herself out of a window in a desperate bid for his attention.
Somebody had joined her on her step. She knew exactly who it would be if it wasn't John and those boots certainly didn't belong to her husband. He put a tentative yet comforting arm about her shoulders and didn't complain when she pressed her dripping face into his jacket and dropped all pretences of remaining dignified by sobbing into a stranger's shoulder.
"I should never have let go of your hand," he was saying. "He didn't hurt you?"
Cyn shook her head. "No. No, he didn't. That was my husband."
"Shit," he said. "Seriously?"
That voice seemed so familiar, even with the little he was actually saying. It had to be him. She needed to look, needed to check. Cyn raised her head and was met with two startlingly blue eyes. She was immediately taken aback. She'd had no idea his eyes were that colour and, yet, they were all that was needed to tell her it was definitely him. Cynthia wanted to look away then but couldn't quite bring herself to twist her face away from his. This desire and inability to fulfill it made her want to tear her eyes from his all the more and that made it all the more difficult to actually do so.
They were too close. That was the thought that rushed insessently through her head. Not that he seemed to mind at all. When he did look away, at long last, it was to glance over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. She had the chance, then, to take in his clothes. He should by rights have stood out like a sore thumb in this world of tuxedos and posh ties and how on earth he'd found his way in without being stopped for being informal or being recognised by some fan or journalist, she couldn't even begin to guess.
The kiss, when it came,
[...]
Brian Epstein had witnessed enough of this scene to know he had trouble on his hand. John Lennon's wife kissing another man at such a public event as her husband's film premiere was not something the papers were likely to miss. A lot of string pulling would be involved with this. The paper's were willing to protect the boys' reputation up to a point, but, as much as that fact pained him, Brian knew that there generosity would not stretch to poor Cynthia.
He was debating with himself about whether now was the right moment to step in, when the two figures on the stairs pulled apart. Brian was not at the right angle to see Cynthia's tear streaked face but what he did see forced him into action. The man who had been kissing John's wife, the man who still had his arms around her and was caressing her bare shoulder was not just some man who could be bought off for some reasonable price. This was Bob Dylan.
"Cyn?"
A hand grasped her arm and she recognised her husband's voice but she willed herself not to turn around. He hadn't really seen her. She told herself that as she allowed herself to be lead onwards by the mysterious man. John called her name again and her hand was released before the grip returned to her arm. He was shaking her just that little bit too vigorously as he demanded to know what the hell she thought she was playing at.
Memories of the time he'd seen her dancing in a perfectly friendly way with one of their friends at an art college party. He'd dragged her out to the deserted corridor by the toilets and got even more worked up then this. She hadn't realised until after it had happened that all this anger would need to be vented in some way other than the verbal tirade he was already giving her. That's when it happened. He struck out and, after one terrified look, fled the scene.
[...]
He hadn't followed her. He'd seen she was upset and he hadn't even bothered to find out what the matter was. Knowing John, he might not even suspect that it was his over eager methods of questioning that had been the penultimate straw that had broken this long suffering camel's back. The final straw was, of course, this refusal to even make sure she wasn't going to throw herself out of a window in a desperate bid for his attention.
Somebody had joined her on her step. She knew exactly who it would be if it wasn't John and those boots certainly didn't belong to her husband. He put a tentative yet comforting arm about her shoulders and didn't complain when she pressed her dripping face into his jacket and dropped all pretences of remaining dignified by sobbing into a stranger's shoulder.
"I should never have let go of your hand," he was saying. "He didn't hurt you?"
Cyn shook her head. "No. No, he didn't. That was my husband."
"Shit," he said. "Seriously?"
That voice seemed so familiar, even with the little he was actually saying. It had to be him. She needed to look, needed to check. Cyn raised her head and was met with two startlingly blue eyes. She was immediately taken aback. She'd had no idea his eyes were that colour and, yet, they were all that was needed to tell her it was definitely him. Cynthia wanted to look away then but couldn't quite bring herself to twist her face away from his. This desire and inability to fulfill it made her want to tear her eyes from his all the more and that made it all the more difficult to actually do so.
They were too close. That was the thought that rushed insessently through her head. Not that he seemed to mind at all. When he did look away, at long last, it was to glance over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone. She had the chance, then, to take in his clothes. He should by rights have stood out like a sore thumb in this world of tuxedos and posh ties and how on earth he'd found his way in without being stopped for being informal or being recognised by some fan or journalist, she couldn't even begin to guess.
The kiss, when it came,
[...]
Brian Epstein had witnessed enough of this scene to know he had trouble on his hand. John Lennon's wife kissing another man at such a public event as her husband's film premiere was not something the papers were likely to miss. A lot of string pulling would be involved with this. The paper's were willing to protect the boys' reputation up to a point, but, as much as that fact pained him, Brian knew that there generosity would not stretch to poor Cynthia.
He was debating with himself about whether now was the right moment to step in, when the two figures on the stairs pulled apart. Brian was not at the right angle to see Cynthia's tear streaked face but what he did see forced him into action. The man who had been kissing John's wife, the man who still had his arms around her and was caressing her bare shoulder was not just some man who could be bought off for some reasonable price. This was Bob Dylan.