On the way to America, 1964.

The Beatles were on the up-and-up. Of course they were, and that only meant that you — lover of the one and only lead guitarist George Harrison — were too! While that meant screaming girls and making movies for the boys, it meant caviar and champagne on five-hour flights across the Atlantic for you.

Five long hours of George unable to do so much as kiss you too hard, instead opting for the next safest option of putting a hand on your thigh. Your legs were working up a terrible ache, but every attempt you made to get up, he forced you back down. You knew he didn’t like flying (or parting with you, for that matter), but this was getting silly now.

You shot him a nasty look, explaining to him that you needed to stretch your legs — where else would you run off to? You were tens of thousands of miles up in the air!

“Don’t be long,” he pleaded, his hand drifting away from your thigh and allowing you to stand, only to then clutch the bottom of your shirt, “Please.” You didn’t know whether to laugh or to scoff.