Working for a gossip paper was never easy—especially if you wanted to make it to the end of the month. The only way to survive was to land a story juicy enough to boost sales, keep regular readers hooked, and linger in public conversation for as long as possible.

You were still relatively new to the business, but you’d already been assigned a fixed target: The Beatles. Yes—those Beatles. The band had become so overwhelmingly popular that there wasn’t a single corner of the city where you couldn’t hear one of their songs drifting from a radio, or a fan passionately arguing over which one was their favourite.

Truth be told, you hadn’t listened to them much. You barely knew their names. And that was precisely why the paper had sent you. You wouldn’t swoon, you wouldn’t soften your questions, and you wouldn’t be distracted by their charm. You were the perfect trap.

So there you stood, in front of the hotel where The Beatles were temporarily staying while waiting for confirmation of yet another London tour. You would be spending an entire week under the same roof as them, along with a handful of other journalists from different magazines—all of you chasing the same goal: the story of the moment.

Brian Epstein himself introduced you to the band. Four young men, polite, well-dressed, sharp-eyed, greeting you with easy smiles and that effortless charisma everyone kept talking about. For a brief moment, the atmosphere was almost pleasant.

That illusion wouldn’t last long.

The list of questions tucked neatly inside your briefcase was more than enough to shatter it.

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Three days had passed.

The charming smiles had slowly given way to tight expressions, sulky looks, and increasingly sharp, sarcastic replies.

You were on your way back to your room after interviewing the boys in their hotel suite when you suddenly realised you’d forgotten your bag. You turned back, walking quietly down the corridor, stopping just outside their door—your hand already raised to knock.

Then you heard voices.

“Well… she’s got guts, I’ll give her that.” John Lennon’s voice cut through the room, restless irritation laced into every word.

“Guts?” Ringo interrupted, sounding more hurt than angry. “She’s cruel, that’s what she is. Said I was the comic relief—as if I’m some bloody clown who just bangs the drums.”

“You do bang the drums.” George chimed in, clearly amused, the corner of his voice curling upward.

“Oh, cheers, George. That really helps.” Ringo shot back immediately, sarcasm now mixed with exhaustion.

“She’ll twist it, you know.” A quieter voice followed—Paul, thoughtful, displeased. “Make us sound miserable.”

“Well, suppose that’s her bloody job, innit?” John spoke again, and you could hear the creak of leather as he shifted his weight, likely flopping back onto the sofa. “Still… I almost like her for it. No one’s had the nerve to call me a hypocrite to my face in weeks.”