For the hundredth time that day, Brian Epstein's shaking hands found his temples, his nimble fingers desperate to alleviate the tension building behind them. This day was sure to be the death of him if things didn't change their set course of destructive action. Lennon in particular, would have him six feet under at his own will. Not once had the rhythm guitarist put down his heavy-duty shovel. Since the start of the day, he'd been digging and digging and digging, and needless to say, the creation of a proper Epstein-sized grave complete with a tombstone was well underway. Strangely enough, the demented idea sounded favorable for the time being despite its morbidity. What could the Beatles' manager gain from his own burial site? Perhaps a little peace of mind? Solitude? Brian frantically shook away the thought. Unlikely. John would find a way to disrupt that as well. It wasn't so much that he despised dealing with Lennon and those unpredictable, often virulent mood swings of his. It was more that... he was hurt. He was actually hurt that the rhythm guitarist would rather carry on with his ridiculous, callous charades rather than take the time to talk to him as Brian had earlier prodded him, more like begged him to do. It was blatant something was bothering him. Yet, the stubborn musician had somehow managed to look him square in the eye and lie about it.

Initially, the manager had felt slightly relieved that John was willing to look past his own issues and carry on with the day as though nothing was wrong. He hadn't felt equipped, in the least bit; to deal with the alternative which would in turn, unleash a petulant John Lennon set on bringing everyone about him down to his level of misery with that sharp tongue of his. Unfortunately, as the day wore on and John's fretful attitude continued to unfold itself, Brian found himself reeling in a bit of that relief like a disappointed fisherman that had lost his only catch. While John had managed to keep his sharp tongue in check for the most part, he'd failed on his mood altogether. Not only was he was still managing to bring down everyone around him, but he was inadvertently contributing to unneeded distractions within the mind of his manager. And to make matters worse, now that his 'supposed' point had been made and his lies crafted, he would no longer make eye contact with him or even Paul for that matter. Whenever either of their eyes would begin to sweep in his direction, Lennon's would unmistakably skirt away.

'What's going on with you, John?' he'd find himself wondering of Lennon at the least convenient of times. 'And why won't you talk to me? Don't you trust me? Your manager? Your friend?'

Epstein knew of one thing. It wasn't like John to lie in regards to his feelings. If something was bothering him, everyone was bound to hear about it regardless of whether or not they asked for it. He was as brutally honest as he was sharp-witted.

"Shouldn't John be back by now?" Ringo presently whined, his words drawing Brian from his endless reveries, "He's holding up the remainder of the day!"

George nodded his agreement. "I'm right knackered... and hungry!"

Paul rolled his eyes, equally troubled. "Once again, your stomach obtains priority over the rest of us, Havva! What else is new?"

"Those birds are new, y'know!" George cheekily affirmed, his eyes widening in instant captivation as they locked on and began following a slew of models in bathing suits.

"Behave yerself, Georgie. They're much too sophisticated fer ye'!" Ringo teased.

"What's that say fer ye', Starr?" George tossed back, "Y'must be a caveman in their eyes! Yer primitive enough!"

"What does it matter?" Paul chimed in, "Stick y'both next t'me and I'm pretty sure we know who the captivator is!"

"Piss off, McCartney!" both George and Ringo sharply chorused, fixating him with twin glares.

Paul chuckled.

Tuning them all out, Brian glanced at his watch. How long had it been since Lennon had requested a break? A minute? Two minutes? His eyes widened as the truth sprung from the face of his watch. Ten minutes?! He'd only been cleared for five! Their subsequent interview loomed dangerously close, an hour and a half away to be exact, and they still had a handful of photographs to be taken. There was no way they could get from point A to point B in a timely fashion without shaving the minutes off from somewhere! Or eliminating something entirely. Lunch! They'd potentially be forced to postpone lunch till after the interview where they'd simply have to find the time. The Beatles would not be happy.

"I'm gonna go introduce meself!" George presently asserted.

"I'm sure they know who ye' are," Ringo stated knowingly, "And if they wanted to meet ye', they'd be over 'ere doing so already. Don't flatter yerself!" He added the last part as playful banter but it was blatantly lost on the overly hungry, overly tired, uncontrollably irritated lead guitarist.

"What do you know?" he half snapped, half whined.

"He's right," Paul sing-songed, playing along, "I think they're rather Paul fans, anyroad." He waved at one in particular. She caught his eye, giggled, and waved back. "See?" he confirmed, "Or y'could go see fer yerself!"

"Neither of y'sods know anything!" George grumbled. Still, he didn't budge from his spot. Instead, he remained seated like a child in the throes of a temper tantrum.

Paul laughed, "Relax, Geo, I'm jus' having ye' on, y'know! A bit of harmless fun, really."

"Sod off!"

Again, Paul laughed.

Eppy sighed as he looked on. McCartney's release of joviality seemed hollow. Today, it often was. Lark about as he might, his mind was always elsewhere and it wasn't on food. The manager confirmed his earlier conclusion based on the revelation. John was distracting everyone with his mood. Ringo, George... Paul in particular. Perhaps he'd wait to reveal such information as suddenly irrelevant as a suspended lunch. For the time being, he'd focus on something else entirely. The whereabouts of Lennon. He'd be right damned if these repeated mysteries weren't becoming the common theme for the day.

__________________________________________________________________________

The bathroom hadn't been particularly kind. Not in the least bit. Mirrors. Mirrors had been everywhere, each reflective facade a reminder of how lackluster the so-called glamorous world of John Lennon had become. He'd turn away from one only to be faced with another, his stupid reflection taunting his every move. His every thought. His sole existence.

Christ, and if to add fuel to the fire, he'd recently begun seeing his father every time he'd glimpse his face. At first, he'd thought maybe he'd gone mad and was simply seeing things. But as he attempted to blink away the image, it would remain. His father's eyes were his eyes. His father's nose was his nose. While he'd always heard how much he resembled good ol' Freddy Lennon, he'd refused to let himself see it, always opting to seek out his mum's features instead. But now, something different was taking place and he hardly saw his mum anymore despite her strong presence in his features. She'd faded out, his father had faded in. All the way in. Now, it was his father's head sitting atop his stupid body and if that wasn't enough to fuel his unyielding hate of himself, he didn't know what was. But the mirror didn't last long. None of them did. In an instant, their remains were scattered across the bathroom's tile floor, the only evidence of their demise surfacing within the raw and bloodied knuckles of a tormented guitarist's right hand. And without a second thought, he turned in his tracks and evacuated the bathroom, leaving behind the mess to whatever poor sap happened upon it next.

"You're John Lennon!"

Caught off guard, Lennon shoved his wounded hand in his pocket, out of sight and out of mind and fixed the bird who dared to address him outside the men's loo with a look of fleeting surprise. Driven by instinct, he automatically erased his expression, quickly replacing it with a look of cynical disinterest. "So they say," he answered lazily, a bored tone undermining his voice.

The scantily clad bird smiled anyway. Her green eyes, set off by thick brunette bangs and long accompanying tresses, sparkled genuinely with the action. "Genevieve LePierre. Gigi the Glamorous to the world! Gigi for short."

When John didn't immediately respond, she kept talking animatedly, "I'm modeling on the set of the beach photo shoot taking place after yours."

The added information was unnecessary. Lennon had already made the connection in his head. Not only was she a rising starlet known to half or even all of Europe but she certainly looked the part as well. In truth, she was a bit of all right. More than all right, really. Still, he impatiently rolled his eyes in no mood for small talk. "What a coincidence! I'm a Beatle posing on the set of the photo shoot that's taking place before yours," he sardonically retaliated, outwardly mocking her excitement. If she wanted to state the obvious, he could do that just as well.

"I know..." Gigi responded, unfazed by his darkening mood. The girl began rambling on about the Beatles and their music and how she supposedly favored him, John Lennon. John only listened with half a mind, his frenzied brain unable to process a whole lot stemming from the model's mouth. She was young, he concluded. 19 or so. And mentally, she seemed even younger, not to mention a bit naïve. The way she had greeted him was proof of that. She'd fallen prey in an instant to Beatlemania, surrounding herself with a projected air of star-struck enthrallment. Much too naïve, she was far from jaded. Much too airborne to be grounded by the trials and tribulations that was fame. Blatantly, she was in the honeymoon stage of it all. And Lennon couldn't possibly envy her anymore than he already did. He remembered his honeymoon stage all too well despite the fact that it seemed like ages ago. He'd been somewhat happier then. Much slimmer. Known then for his wit rather than his weight... The rhythm guitarist frowned at the unpermitted resurfacing of his current predicament, his thoughts abruptly trailing off as a result. Without entirely knowing why, his eyes began to wander and he found himself taking in Gigi's full appearance with ample scrutiny, noticing something for the first time that local magazine exposure hadn't even elucidated. Her ribs. She was much thinner in person than the media portrayed. All photographs he'd seen of her had to have been touched up before being shipped off for the world to see. Was there such a thing as being too thin? No matter what, the world was never satisfied. They'd do anything in their power to shape those in the limelight to accepted perfection. Even if it meant slinging about hurtful words. It was unnatural. From what he could see, there was a single weight standard. A set one for females and a set one for males. If one was above that standard, he or she was fat. If one was below, he or she was at the brink of starvation. Either way, people would talk. Either way, they'd find a way to make one feel like absolute shite. However, if he had a choice, he'd rather be at the opposite end of the spectrum from where he currently resided. Maybe then, what truly mattered about him would shine once more. Oddly enough, he couldn't seem to recall what that even was. His wit? His charisma? His talent? None of it seemed remotely extraordinary. Not anymore.

As if sensing his troubles and reading a bit of his mind, Gigi stopped abruptly mid-sentence and mirroring Lennon's initial actions, looked him up and down, "You know, for the one they call fat, you do not seem to fit the façade much in person."

Lennon tensed, his self-consciousness increasing even more. "Right..." he mumbled, more to himself than to her. Abruptly reminded of his crude mirror war in the loo; his hand, still concealed from view within his pocket, began throbbing harshly in a stop and start rhythm. His head ached. Strangely enough, it made him feel sick all over again. Not that he'd felt particularly good to begin with. The hunger-induced shakes had been attacking him on and off since his fainting spell but as of an hour ago, they seemed permanently keen on sticking around. Faintness had become almost residual. Apprehension clawed at him from the inside out. Suddenly he didn't feel he could hide anything. There was no proper amount of Lennon wit and charm that could construct the mask strong enough to wave off how messed up he was becoming. How messed up he already was.

"I-I have t'get back," he muttered quickly, his eyes averting his unsought out companion. It was a truth. Eppy and the others were probably ready to eat his soul for breakfast, lunch, and dinner... Or at least dinner. Dinner... Even better lunch... How brilliant it sounded! Perhaps, he'd take Ringo up on his command and actually partake in lunch... Maybe there'd be jam butties... or even better, bacon butties! 'Stop right there, Lennon!' the familiar voice that was his mind snarled. 'Have you no self-control?' John frowned at the unfortunate realization. He'd done so well for himself thus far! There was no way he could give in and throw it all away so soon! He'd have to remain strong... Even if it killed him.

"John?" At some point, Gigi had gotten into his face and was irritatingly snapping a finger an inch from his nose in attempt to capture his attention.

"Bloody 'ell, what is it?!" the frazzled rhythm guitarist growled at her in utter unmasked aggravation. He flushed immediately, remorse overtaking him. A quiet apology slipped from his lips.

"I was trying to say how you are quite..." She faltered, her slight language barrier putting her at a loss for words, "tres beau..." she finished solemnly.

Feeling an additional blush beginning to eat at his cheeks, John turned away, unsure as to what was fueling his behavior now. Modesty wasn't entirely like him. Not where a model was involved anyroad. Maybe it was humiliation. Shame. He really was a right mess.

"You do not understand..." Gigi stated, cringing immediately at the wrong word that punctuated her statement. She shook her head frantically, struggling to recall the right one, "You do not believe," she concluded knowingly, successfully fixing her faux pas, "You're tres mal, mon ami. Not happy."

John rubbed at his forehead with his left hand, momentarily closing his eyes. For a brief instance, he felt a bit light in the head. Dizzy. He shook away the disabling feeling and reopened his eyes with a glare for the model that thought she knew everything. She couldn't be any more clueless. Clueless like that tart of a reporter he'd dealt with however many days ago. "Tread softly, love," he found himself snarling menacingly, much warning present in his voice. "Yer tramplin' on uncharted territory." Before worse could be said at the hand of his rapidly growing anger directed not quite at her but at himself, he turned, breaking eye contact and made the decision to dismiss himself.

Hurriedly choosing to ignore his unveiled threats, Gigi was already more than halfway into another unauthorized statement. "I have way to help!" she announced at his back, broken English working overtime, "Top model secret!"

John stopped in his tracks but didn't turn to face her.

"It's a constant struggle, my body. I had to lose 30 pounds just to get to where I am today. My secret? I purge." She talked excitedly at his back, her unseen hands working overtime to emphasize her message, "It is why I am still able to enjoy what I love. It is safer because I'm not depriving myself of what I need to survive. I take it in and then... I uh..." she fizzled out again, English words thwarting her, "What is it? Thr... throw... throw up!" she finished proudly, "Tres simple."

And John took in the absurd advice without letting on that he was doing so. And without a word other than, "Ta," he walked off. He doubted that she understood the meaning of the word. He couldn't care less.

"You are still my favorite, John Lennon!" she called after him, "Tres beau!"

Pretending to be out of earshot, John didn't respond. He didn't need her bloody approval to make him feel better about himself. Nor did she need his acknowledgment. From what he'd seen prior to his encounter, she was well on her way to the top of her kind. And she'd get there no matter what. Regardless, he couldn't help but briefly smile. Nice bird, really. It was a shame she hadn't caught him on a better day. It was a shame she hadn't caught his better side.