May 1960

The morning of her eighteenth birthday, Connie woke up with the worst headache in her life. She'd drank before, but never to the point of a hangover, and the splitting pain across her head that made it agony to even open her eyes fully made her decide she never wanted to drink again. It was a self-inflicted rule she would soon break, but at the time she had every intention to live up to it.

She'd woken up on the sofa downstairs with the curtains wide open, letting in the bright sunlight right over where she was sleeping, though as she pulled herself up with a grimace, stretching her legs out, she realised she wasn't the only one who'd passed out on the sofa. George had curled up against the arm of the sofa, his arms wraped around a pillow and his hair ruffled in his sleep. Trying her best not to wake him, she swung her legs down from the seat, only for them to hit something rather solid, something that let out a pained grunt. Glancing down at the floor she noticed John had spread out on the floor in front of the coffee table, his glasses askew on his face.

"Alright, Johnny?" she asked quietly in an attempt not to wake George, her voice hoarse. He let out a small groan, rolling onto his back as he straightened his glasses, holding his forehead in a way that told her he had a hangover to rival hers.

"Make us a cup of tea, would ya', Con?" he sighed in exhaustion, and as she heaved herself up onto her feet, she kicked him gently before padding off into the kitchen. "Bloody hell, what happened last night?"

"I don't know," Connie admitted with a shrug as she leant against the kitchen doorway, admiring the state the house was in. "I can't remember past my third pint if I'm honest,"

The night before had been a blur, but she could remember the basics. To celebrate her impending birthday she'd met the lads at the pub with Florence and Cilla, before the group headed back to a small house party. Well, it was intended to be small, but it soon escalated. Paul and John both insisted that their girlfriends come along too, not that Connie minded considering she liked both Dot and Cynthia and was certain that 'the more the merrier', a mantra that seemed to kick in more as the night went on. Soon, Pete and Stuart, the newer members of the band, ended up meeting them back at the house, shortly followed by Ringo and Rory Storm, who dropped by bringing the gift of cheap alcohol. Connie's father had been there too, for a while, though Connie's memory of the night seemed to falter after her father left for work.

She knew that after a while the group began to reduce in numbers. Pete was one of the first to leave, only really appearing in the first place to be polite because as much as Connie thought he was a nice guy, she only really tried to be his friend for the sake of the other lads. Cilla, Florence and Cynthia all left around a similar time, all needing to get home before the last bus or the last train, though not before John had taken his girlfriend off upstairs for a while. Ringo and Rory left together too, though part of Connie could recall seeing Rory Storm flirting with Florence before he left, not that she cared considering there'd never been a second date and her best friend had confessed to her she was quite smitten with the singer. Dot and Paul kept disappearing throughout the night, until they never came back, and Connie just assumed the two of them must have gone next door. As for where Stuart had gotten to, she wasn't sure, and she wasn't sure about how she, George and John ended up falling asleep in the living room either.

All she could really remember was drinking... a lot. She'd drank before, but never that much. There was empty bottles and cans strewn across the front room, half drunk pint glasses sat atop the mantel next to her father's old war medals, an empty bottle of whisky laid by John's head from where they had all taken a swig out of it. She was surprised she hadn't been sick from it all, but as soon as that thought crossed her mind the memory of Paul running out to her garden to throw up came to the surface, and she found it hard to stop herself from laughing.

She could remember laughing too. Whenever she was drunk she seemed to find everything funny, but the occasion had put her in an especially good mood. She couldn't recall any of the jokes that had been told but that didn't matter. All she knew was that she'd had a good time, and she was paying for it with the headache.

Moving into the kitchen, Connie went to the kettle, filling it up enough to make a pot's worth of tea before putting it on the hob, only to turn around and see Stuart sat at the table his head resting on his fist as he flicked through the morning paper, looking rather neat despite the fact that he must have slept over and had consumed a fair amount of alcohol. Seeing him made her jump slightly, hissing out a quiet curse and upon hearing her Stuart glanced up at her with a small, dry smirk.

"Happy birthday, you look like shit," he told her bluntly, before looking back down to the  newspaper. "Will you make me a cup of tea, too?"

"Yeah, but only if you can get John up off the floor," she told him, not even bothering to threaten him for insulting her appearance because she was certain he was telling the truth.

"I'm up," John's voice called from the doorway before he moved to flop down onto the seat next to Stuart, his college friend and bandmate giving him a reproachful look, not that Connie blamed him considering how pale he looked. "Same can't be said for George, lazy git,"

"Don't wake him," Connie warned, shooting her cousin a glare as she got three mugs out of the cupboard, pouring the boiling water into the teapot and getting the teabags ready. Whilst her back was turned as she got the milk out of the fridge, Stuart and John exchanged a knowing look. "I can't remember much from last night but I know you dared him to down a full pint in less than eight seconds, so leave him,"

"He did the same to Paul as well, said he was getting them ready for their own eighteenths," Stuart recalled, glancing over to John with a roll of his eyes, all whilst John sat there grinning as if he was proud of his endeavours.

"I guess I should thank you," Connie shrugged as she brought their teas over to the table, taking a seat across from both boys. "You're probably the reason behind my headache, but a hangover is more of a birthday present than you've ever given me before,"

"Bugger off, Con, you're wearing one of my shirts right now, I give you plenty!" John exclaimed, though his own voice made him grimace from his headache. Connie shrugged, taking a sip of her tea.

That was when the back door opened and in walked Paul in a simple white t-shirt and jeans, still wearing his slippers. He looked rough, his hair a fluffy mess as if he hadn't quite gotten round to combing it yet, but he looked in better shape than John. He looked exhausted, but at least he'd been smart enough to go home and go to bed, something that the rest of them hadn't done. Offering the group a small wave as a greeting, he soon turned to Connie with an excited grin, pulling a messily wrapped present out from behind his back, handing it over to her as he took a seat next to her at the table.

"Happy birthday, Lennie, you old bint!" he practically cheered, and none of them in the kitchen could understand where his enthusiasm was coming from; surely he was just too tired and hungover to be that happy, like the rest of them were?

"Thanks, Paulie," Connie offered him a small smile as she took hold of the package, realising that it could only be one thing given the shape of it; a record. "You really didn't need to get me anything,"

"I know, you'd think my stellar friendship would be enough for you," Paul joked, watching as Connie carefully unwrapped the present, only to gasp excitedly as she realised it was the latest Elvis record.

"Shit, Paul, thank you, I love you!" she exclaimed in shock, leaning over and wrapping her arms around the slightly younger boy.

Paul laughed, shooting a smug smirk to John as he knew that no present Connie got for the rest of the day could live up to that one, not since she had been going on about how badly she wanted it and how she'd need to save her wages up for weeks to be able to afford it. Not even her father's present of a second hand typewriter could live up to it, and it was in that moment that Connie realised just how kind Paul was. It was so generous, especially since she knew how much he wanted the same record.

"'S'alright, just promise I can come over and listen to it," he told her with a smile, watching as she inspected it carefully before handing it over to John who looked rather impressed, though his eyes soon drifted off to the doorway into the living room where they all noticed George was leaning, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah, until you came round shouting," George glared over at Paul, though he looked back down to the pile of envelopes in his hands, making Connie realise that the post must have come.

There weren't any spare seats at the table, so given the fact that he looked as if he was still asleep, Connie got up from her own chair, nodding at it for George to sit down. On his way to the seat, he pulled her into a tight embrace, and despite the smell of sweat and alcohol, Connie sighed, squeezing his body against hers as she savoured the hug. She felt a small flicker in her stomach, something that she knew well enough as a side effect she felt from hanging around George, but she forced her attention off it. Nothing good would ever come from her minor infatuation, especially on her birthday when she just wanted to enjoy the day and not focus on unnecessary feelings.

"Happy birthday, Connie," he told her as he pulled away from her, a small smile on his face as he handed her the post.

"Thanks, Georgie," she smiled back at him, ruffling his hair before she turned her attention to the post.

Sorting through the pile quickly, Connie noted how most of the envelopes were addressed to her, most likely birthday cards from friends and relatives. She recognised the handwriting on the odd few, even spotting one from John's Aunt Mimi, which was a surprise since the woman made her sour feelings about Connie well known, and one from her great Aunt who lived off in Yorkshire, the only family she and her father had left other than each other and John. She flicked through the pile, deciding she would open them all later when her father got home from work, until one caught her attention.

It wasn't a birthday card, that was for sure. It didn't feel thick enough and it was the wrong shape, appearing more like an official letter, like the sorts banks posted to her father occasionally. It was also addressed to her in her full name, 'Constance Emilia Jones-Lennon', rather than 'Connie Lennon', or 'Constance Lennon' . It was rare that her full first name was used, and no one ever used her middle name or the surname 'Jones' anymore. It wasn't from a friend or a relative, not if it was addressed like that, and as much as she knew she should wait until her father got home before she opened the post, curiosity got the better of her and she quickly but carefully began to tear the letter open.

Opening the letter out, her eyes darted over the sheet of paper in her hands before she felt her stomach turn, her hands immediately beginning to shake as she realised what it was. In fact, she felt tears prick at her eyes, something that almost never happened, but what also never happened to her was the sort of thing that the letter was saying, and she couldn't quite believe what it said. Surely it was a joke? Surely it wasn't serious?

"Lads..." she spoke softly, feeling her voice quiver as her hand clenched the paper nervously. None of the boys had heard her, all of them far too focused on the debate they'd gotten into about the band.

"Fuck off, we're not changing the name again!" Stuart called to a frustrated looking Paul and John, the two of them clearly not agreeing with his opposition.

"We can't still call ourselves Quarrymen, Stu, we left Quarry-bank ages ago!" John reasoned, Paul nodding along eagerly.

"Oi!" Connie interrupted, her face creased into a nervous frown, and the four lads turned to her cautiously.

"What is it?" George asked, getting up from his seat to stand beside her, sensing how she was feeling.

Connie simply shook her head, fighting back tears as she held the letter out to him. George hesitated to take it from her, until she thrust it at him once more with desperate enthusiasm. With a frown he took it and began to read aloud.

"'Dear Miss Jones-Lennon, thank you for your recent application for our position of apprentice writer'," George spoke, his frown slowly disappearing as he realised what he was actually reading. "'We very much enjoyed reading the article you sent us about one of your local night clubs. You conveyed a great sense of place and portrayed the emotions and energy of the night with great success whilst remaining unbiased-'"

"So someone's kissing up to Con's arse, what the point of this?" John interrupted boredly, though he soon regretted it as Connie slapped his shoulder, glaring at him to shut up.

"'We were very impressed with your work alongside your O-Level grades you obtained from your local grammar school'," George continued, a grin beginning to spread across his face. "'After much consideration we are pleased to confirm your application was successful and we are very interested in meeting with you soon to discuss you joining our team of apprentice writers. Please be in touch soon to discuss this further. Congratulations and kind regards, Mr Richard Hill, Chief Editor of the New Times Magazine'!"

"I got an apprenticeship!" Connie exclaimed, her eyes wide in joy as she threw her arms around George once more.

George hugged her tightly before Paul quickly shoved him off her so he could hug her, except he swept her off the ground, spinning her round the kitchen in excitement as the pair of them screamed. After two years of trying, she'd finally done it, she'd finally gotten one step closer to her dream of becoming a successful writer. All she had done since leaving school was work at the Cavern and practice writing. She'd sent off loads of mock articles and though she'd been published a couple of times in Merseybeat, it wasn't paid and didn't quite have the same feeling as being a real writer. But now, the New Times wanted her. She couldn't remember the last time she felt so proud of herself, joy overflowing within her, and the fact that her friends seemed so pleased too made it all better, with Stuart clapping her on the back and John hitting her arm enthusiastically.

"Bloody hell, Con," John sighed after the excitement had died down slightly, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, a gesture of endearment that he didn't often show to her. "I always thought I'd be the Lennon to make it big but off you go, go join your fancy magazine press,"

"Yeah, congrats, Lennie," Paul told her before he looked at the letter once more, still in Connie's grip though it had gotten creased in the madness. "Except... Where is New Times?"

"Erm..." Connie bit her lip, trying to find the address on the letter, unsure as to where it was based considering how many places she'd sent her CV off to, but knowing she couldn't focus, George took the letter off her.

"Shit..." he muttered, looking up at the rest of the group before his gaze fell onto Connie, a sad look in his eyes. "It's based in London,"

***

"I can't believe you're actually going to London," George sighed, taking another drag from his cigarette as he lent back against the cherry tree in Connie's garden. Connie hummed back to him quietly as she lit up her own cigarette, unsure what to say.

It had been nearly two weeks since she'd gotten the acceptance letter, and less than an hour after it's arrival Connie had phoned the company to confirm it all. They'd told her that if she could come to London they would arrange accomodation for her to make an immediate start with the magazine. She had been thrilled, though they could all tell how anxious she actually was. She did a good job of hiding it, putting on a brave face as she knew she would have to deal with the emotions of everyone else as well as her own anxieties.

That was an understatement too, considering how Paul and John had acted ever since she told them both she was really moving to London. Paul had been devastated, practically crying and begging for her not to go, telling her he'd help her find a magazine company in Liverpool she could work for, though his efforts were fruitless. John, on the other hand, became silent and moody with her. He didn't speak to her for a while, and when he did it was short answers or just simple grunts, until he realised her own stubbornness matched his and that nothing he could do would stop her from going, which was when he changed his approach to match Paul's, though only when no one else was there.

Her father was supportive, often making jokes about how he was glad she'd be moving away and he'd finally be rid of her, except everyone knew he was silently crushed and George felt the same. He knew how big of an opportunity it all was for Connie and how amazing it wold be for her to work as an actual published writer, even if it was journalism and not fiction writing like she'd always wanted to do. It was a platform, as she kept insisting to Paul and John, and it was her chance of building a career.

That didn't stop him feeling lost inside, however. What would he do without her in Liverpool, when he couldn't remember not seeing her at least five times a week? She'd become such a huge part of his mental wallpaper in the four years since they met. It was more than the fact that she was the first girl he'd had a crush on, she was his best friend too.

Despite their resentment towards her decision, John, Paul, George and her father had helped Connie pack up the essentials she would need with her in London, and John had even agreed to go down on the coach and stop the first night with her to help her move in. The weeks had flown by until it was her last night in Liverpool and the group were all over at her house for a farewell party, though it was much more sombre than her last gathering, and part of Connie hated it. It was so strange to be in her home knowing that she wouldn't be living there for much longer, sat with her friends who she couldn't imagine going a day without seeing knowing that soon the only way to communicate would be over the telephone or through letters.

She didn't want the attention of a leaving party. The more that people made a big deal over it, the more anxious she got over it all. It was horrible handing her notice in at the Cavern, feeling as if there was no going back after that, and now that the lads were all sat round her living room looking at her as if she was about to disappear, it was all far too much for her to bare.

That was why she'd headed out to the garden to smoke, hoping a cigarette would calm her nerves. Usually she'd smoke out of her bedroom window, but seeing her bedroom all packed up would just be a cruel reminder of what the next day had in store, so instead she headed out to the cherry tree at the end of the tiny garden, where she spotted George. If she was honest, she hadn't even realised he'd gone missing from the house, far too absorbed in her own thoughts to enjoy the company of her friends like she usually would. Seeing him sat on one of the tree roots looking up at the stars reminded her of the night she'd gone out with Rory Storm, the night she realised her crush on him was something bigger than a silly teenager thing, and her heart panged in her chest, reminding her that the move would remove any possibility of her acting on the realisation.

"Sorry," she said simply, deciding she'd been quiet for too long, fiddling with her cigarette in her left hand. "I think I'm gonna quit when I get to London,"

Quitting smoking was a completely random topic, but it was one that wasn't entirely focused on how she was feeling about the move. Connie was sick of people asking her how she was feeling, it reminded her far too much of when her mother died and everyone was expecting her to have an overwhelming emotional response when, in reality, it hurt far more to think she was leaving Liverpool. Leaving Liverpool was breaking her heart, sending her anxiety through the roof and constantly preying in her every thought. Leaving Liverpool was like cutting off her arm considering she knew nothing else. God, she'd never even been to London before! The furthest she'd been was Blackpool for a short holiday with her parents and John years and years ago. Why she'd suddenly thought she could handle moving to the other side of the country, Connie wasn't sure. Whatever stupid idea she'd had was really screwing her over now it was actually happening.

"It'll be alright, y'know," George said quietly, nudging his knee against hers, glancing at her nervously and even in the dark he could see the stress in her eyes and how her forehead had creased together. "I'll write, and as soon as I can get the money together I'll come visit, and I'm sure the people will be alright, you never know, you might end up forgetting about us and become a proper London bird,"

"Fuck off that's never gonna happen, alright?" Connie sighed frustratedly, and George thought for a second that was was about to cry, until she let out a single bitter laugh, and with it a cloud of smoke. "It'll be you lot that forget about me. When you're all off as busy rockstars,"

"We're not gonna be rockstars," George scoffed. "I'd like the band to do well, but we're never gonna be Elvis or Chuck Berry or whatever, and we're never gonna forget you either, Connie,"

In that moment, as they glanced over at each other with a knowing look, it was as if they'd both settled each others worst fears. They weren't kids anymore and life was inevitably going to take them in different directions, but that didn't mean Connie was happy to let George fade out of her life. He'd been her best friend for so long, and she was scared to leave him, scared to go somewhere he couldn't follow, but with his promise she found herself feeling a little more reassured, though she was still no where near confident enough for the move the next day.

"Listen, I never got chance to give you your birthday present," he said after a while, stubbing his cigarette out onto the path, already marked by several cigarette butts from Connie's bad habit.

With a small frown, Connie watched as he reached into his inside pocket, pulling out a small white box, ever so slightly battered looking, wrapped up with a black ribbon, holding it out to her almost sheepishly, as if he was embarrassed by the whole thing, as sweet as it was. A small smile crawled up onto Connie's face as she flicked out her own cigarette, taking hold of the box and undoing the ribbon. As she opened it, she realised it was a necklace, a small silver chain with a dainty looking locket engraved with a floral pattern. It looked new, like the one Connie had pointed out to him in the jewellers shop window the last time they went down Penny Lane for chips, like the one she'd told him she loved but would never be able to buy for herself give the price tag. She wondered how he'd been able to afford it, how long he'd been saving up his wages from the clubs the band played for, but in the end it didn't matter, because she was just far too overjoyed to care about any of that. Instead, she let out a small squeal of joy, before leaning over and wrapping her arms around the boy, squeezing him tightly.

"Oh, George..." she breathed out, and unsure as to how best show her gratitude, she pulled out of their hug and pushed a kiss onto his cheek.

"'Ere," he said gently, glad that it was dark and she wouldn't be able to see how red he'd gone, taking the necklace out of the box and as she flicked her hair over to one shoulder he looped the chain around her neck. "Just wear it whenever you feel home sick or you miss me,"

Connie never took the necklace off.

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Word count: 4448
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