I opened my fridge, and glanced in. I had a bit of milk, some fruit, and some leftovers my mother had given me, to tide me over. I sighed, pulled out a slice of pizza she'd left, and popped in my toaster oven. I turned on the tap, and got a glass of water. Lunch was nothing fancy today. I was trying to make my pink slip money last longer. Since my lay off, I'd called a few people to arrange job interviews, but no one had answered my calls yet, and I was getting antsy. But, as I set down my glass, the phone rang.

Quickly I dashed to the other side of my flat, and answered, "Hello?"

"Is this Lorelei Pratt?"

"Yes."

"This is Dave Greene. Remember, from the pub the other night?"

"Oh, yes! Hi, Dave!" I'd almost given up on him calling me back. It'd been four days since we'd met at the pub.

"Hey! Sorry it's taken me so long to call you up. I've been tied up in a lot of late night recording sessions. Any luck with the job hunting?"

"I'm not sure. None of my calls have been answered yet."

"Well, here you go. My friend would like to meet you. Are you still game?"

"Sure am!"

"Great! Umm, can you drop by Abbey Road Studios at two? I'm sure you know where it is. Just ask the receptionist for me."

"Cool, alright. Two, at Abbey Road. Ask for Dave Greene. Got it. Dave, thanks so much for this."

"Hey, no problem. See you then!" We hung up.

I turned around, closed my eyes, and said aloud, "Please, please, PLEASE let me get this job! Or let another one come by fast!" Then the bell of my toaster oven went off, and I retrieved my pizza.

I parked my car right in front of the big white sign that read "Abbey Road NW8." I quickly glanced at it. A number of people had written on it, with comments like "Mod Ireland," and "I was here 2.3.97!" Odd. The year, 1997, though only five years ago, seemed so far away.

I turned my attention back to the sidewalk, and slung my purse over my right shoulder, and continued to walk up to the famous studio. Being a Londoner, I knew about the Beatles and such, but I'd never really been into rock music. Not that I didn't like it, but my mother didn't, and that was the main contributing factor. I grew up listening to Bach, Mozart, and other classical composers. I played my cello in church, not a guitar in a garage band.

Finally I walked up the steps, and pushed the door open. A faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered in the lobby, and pictures of the Beatles, and other bands, covered the walls. "May I help you, miss?" a voice asked from my side. I turned to find the receptionist. A name plate said her name was Doris Valens.

"Uh, yeah," I answered. "I'm here to see Dave Greene?"

"Ah, yes, he said someone would be by. Are you Lorelei Pratt?"

"Yes."

"He's in Studio Three. Third on your right. Just knock on the door.

"Thank you." I gave her a smile, and followed her directions down the hall. Studio One, Studio Two...ah, Studio Three. I meekly knocked on the door.

A man answered the door. "Lorelei! You made it! Come on in, we're just finishing up here."

I grinned, and stepped in. "What are you doing?"

"This is an up-and-coming singer named Glenna Shields, and we're laying down a few tracks for her debut CD. Just another song, and we'll wrap up the session. This bloke here Sam Samuel. Sam, this is Lorelei Pratt."

Sam and I glanced at each other, and nodded politely. Dave gave me a chair, and I settles myself down. The brunette in the studio counted in, and began to sing a country-style piece about a man who broke her heart. I thought about Tim, the man I thought I'd loved, but who broke up with me. I thought I would start to cry so to take my mind off of him, I looked around the room at all the little gizmos and gadgets used to make a CD.

I tried to remain patient as Glenna had to start over twice. However, they got a good cut, eventually, and the session was over. Dave snubbed out his ciggie, finished his coffee, and put on his jacket before saying, "Okay, thanks for waiting, Lorelei. Let's go meet him."

"What's this guy's name, anyway?" I asked. "You haven't told me."

"Don't worry, you'll find out in a minute," he answered mysteriously, and then smiled. He led me up a flight of stairs, to an intimidating-looking dark oak door. He knocked. A voice from behind the door asked, "Who is it?"

"It's Dave, with Lorelei Pratt, the woman I told you about."

"Come in." Dave opened the door, and we walked into the office. A man in his late fifties, possibly early sixties, stood up from his desk, and met us half way. He was casually dressed, and didn't have the spare tire around his waist like many men his age. His hair was short, and he had a pleasant grin. There was also something very familiar about his face, but I couldn't place
it.

"Hello, George," Dave said. "This is Lorelei."

"Hello, Lorelei. I may call you that, right?" George asked. I nodded. He smiled, and said, "Hi, I'm George Harrison."

I stopped short. "George Harrison? As in the Beatle George Harrison?"

"I prefer 'ex-Beatle,' but yes, the one and only." He turned to Dave. "I take it you didn't tell her beforehand, did you?"

"No, I wanted to see her face when she found out!" They both turned to me, and I blushed. They laughed, and I cracked a smile. "Anyway, she's here about that job as your personal assistant."

"That's right. Won't you have a seat, Lorelei?" I cautiously sat down, and tried not to let out that my heart was pumping a mile a minute. I couldn't believe that I was in the presence of a music legend! Sure I wasn't into rock and such, but I knew the legends!

"I'm off," Dave announced. "I'll catch you two later." He gave me a wink, as if to say, "good luck." I smiled nervously, wishing he wouldn't leave. The door closed shut, and I turned back to the ex-Beatle.

"That was a mean trick he played on you," he said, and shuffled a few paper. "You don't mind, too terribly, do you?"

"I guess not," I said. "I'm alright."

"Good," he said. "Where did you meet Dave, anyway?"

"At a pub, a few nights ago," I answered. "I'd just lost my job, and he and I got to talking, and when he found out I was a secretary, he said he had a friend who was looking for a personal assistant, and he'd fix up a meeting."

George Harrison smiled. "A sly fellow at that, but a very nice interior." Then he took out a pad of paper, and a pen. "Let's get things started - that is, if you're still willing to do through with this, now that you know who the 'friend' is."

"Sure, I can handle." I shifted in my seat, and realized that I was on the edge. I scooted back in the chair, and tried to at least look relaxed.

"Great. You said your name was Lorelei Pratt?"

"Yes, with two T's."

"Two T's...okay. How old are you?"

"Twenty-nine," I answered.

"Where have you been employed before?"

"I worked as a secretary at two law firms, O'Neill and Son, and Thompson and Hanks."

"What education do you have?"

"I got my high school diploma, and then went to a computer school for a few months. After that I started working."

"Are you into music, Lorelei?"

I knew where that question was coming from. "Well, I used to play the cello in a community orchestra, but I stopped that a few months ago. I'm also familiar with the classical composers. But if you're talking about pop music, I have my own copies of Saturday Night Fever, Thriller, and Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." George chuckled at that.

"That's about all you can ask for, right?" he said. "Are you willing to do odd jobs around here, and at my home?"

"Like what?"

He grinned. "Well, I'm using the term 'personal assistant' very liberally. Besides general office work, like filing, and answering calls, and typing, you might have to do some light cooking at my home, and act as emotional support. I'm working on a new album, and I can use as much of that as I can get!"

I smiled, and he smiled back. "Well, I think I'm fairly good in that area. Don't know much about rock music, but I'll do my best!"

George chuckled again. The he paused. "Just out of curiosity, why were you fired from your last job?"

I frowned. "It wasn't me, but someone stole supplies from the office, possibly money as well, and I was accused of it. I swear I didn't do it - all the evidence just pointed to me. The from knew I was a normally trustworthy person, so they didn't make a big deal out of it, and fired me quietly."

"I know you didn't do it," George said, catching me off-guard.

"How would you know?" I asked, almost laughing. "You don't know the whole story, first off, and secondly, we barely know each other!"

"I know, but I get gut feelings," he said, and patted his stomach. "It's a skill I've acquired while being in the music business. You gotta know the crooked from the straight, and I say you're straight."

I got my own gut feeling right then. I knew I was going to like this guy. "Thank you, Mr. Harrison."

"Please, George," he said. "I like for people to feel comfortable. Just George will be fine."

I nodded. "Okay...George."

"That's better!" he laughed. I was beginning to feel much more relaxed. The former Beatle certainly didn't act like a music legend - more like a really cool boss. The kind that encourages Casual Fridays everyday of the week. Then he continued, "So, on to the more personal - are you married?"

"No." I didn't think he needed to hear about my love life, like my recent break-up, so I didn't say anything else.

He nodded. He must have sensed what I was thinking, because he paused for a moment before asking the next question. "What kings of things do you do in your spare time?"

"Besides my cello, I write short stories. Little fairy tales for my two nieces. I also write poetry occasionally, and I sometimes go out clubbing."

"What family do you have?"

"My parents live here in London, and I have an older brother in Manchester, and my older sister, the one with two daughters, lives in Georgia, in America."

"So you're the baby of the family?" I nodded. "That's kind of funny. I'm the baby in me family, too, and I also have an older sister in America!" I smiled. "Now, lastly, when's your birthday?"

"November twenty-ninth."

He jotted that down. "I'll have to remember to give you the day off, then."

My eyes widened. "Does this mean I have the job?"

"It most certainly does!"

"But, why..."

"I like you," George explained. "You've a nice personality, and I feel like I know you from somewhere. Maybe not in this life, but..." He stopped and smiled. I knew that the Beatles had gone through a period when they were into Hinduism, and Eastern mysticism, but I'd never really known much about it. I guessed that George still had faith in it.

"Oh, thank you, so much! When do I start?"

"Tomorrow, if that's alright."

"Sure! Tomorrow!"

George smiled at my eagerness. "I'd like you to come by house at about nine tomorrow. You know, get you acquainted, plus I have a few things there I need you to do. Let me give you directions." He tore off a piece from his pad, and wrote down the directions to his house. "It's about a thirty to forty-five minute trip, just so you know, to Henley-on-Thames. Now, let me give you an advance." He pulled out his checkbook, and wrote down a figure. "I hope this is enough."

He handed it to me, and I was shocked, and my face didn't deceive me.

"What? Is it not enough?"

"No...no, it's actually more than what I expected!"

He grinned. "Well, good. I like to make people happy." We stood up, and shook hands. "Just give me your home address and phone number, and I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes, sir!" I said. I wrote my information on a piece of paper, and gave it to him. He showed me the door, and I walked out, feeling as happy as one could be.