There weren't many people who could remember a time before the McCartneys had been one of the most prominent families in the north of England, especially around the city of Liverpool. The impact they had had on the city and its people was astounding, the family having ties with many of the most influential persons in and outside of the city, like lawyers, judges, officers, bankers, doctors, clergymen, merchants, and successful entrepreneurs, as well as other landowners. Not a day went by when the McCartney family was not at least mentioned in passing, leaving few with the ability to imagine a time the family had not been or would not be around, their influence and power reaching far beyond their own land.

Their large estate, that stood some miles off from the city, doomed up high upon the hill onto which the fast-growing city had been built, giving the impression of an ever watchful eye overlooking the city with a scrutinising gaze. It was a gorgeous manor house. A fine piece of Carolean architecture, built around the 1690s in a H-shaped floor plan, and faced with gorgeous, smooth sandstone, that coloured golden in the evening light of the autumn sun. The outside was completely symmetrical, decorated with false windows that were just so placed as to provide perfect symmetry. The building as a whole was large with two floors, a grand attic, and a basement, all housed under one dark grey tiled roof, with a copula in the centre.

The estate was surrounded by hundreds of acres of land, both private and for rent. The former was divided up into different gardens, filled with oak trees, ash trees, silver birch trees, elm trees, willow trees, and even fruit trees, from which hung not only apples and pears, but also oranges, lemons, plums, and even cherries, which dangled down at just the right height for someone to reach up and pick some if they found themselves feeling peckish. There was a large pond in the middle of the land, where ducks swam around between the lily pads and willow trees lined the edge, their branches hanging low in the water. A narrow gravel pathway lead to and from the manor, along which benches were placed every couple of hundred meters. A few minutes' walk from the manor stood a coach house, some stables and a orangery, which were surrounded by a large meadow where the horses could stand and graze at their own leisure.

The family itself consisted of the master of the manor, James McCartney, and his two sons, Paul, who was the eldest at 22, and Michael, who was two years younger than his brother. Their mother had passed away from illness when they had been young, and although there had been women eager to marry the widower, James McCartney had remained unmarried since his wife's death, and did not show any intent on changing that soon. Although the older women had been dismayed by this particular choice, the young ladies had not considered this much of a set-back, the two sons still being very much unmarried.

Although one might think such young men would have no trouble finding themselves a suitable bride - after all, both were exceptionally handsome, especially the eldest with his cherubic face, his doe eyes, and ruby lips - this couldn't be further from the truth. The youngest, Michael McCartney, although well-mannered and polite, was often away in London, leaving the women with little time to make sure they caught his eye. The same, however, could not be said about his older brother, who to most could only be described as arrogant, haughty, and insincere, qualities that put most young women off on them first meeting him, despite the promise of the incredible fortune he would come to inherent. His father wasn't much better; being proud, opportunistic, and strict, he ruled both his sons and his servants with a firm hand, not to mention the tenants on his land. All in all, the McCartney family was not as well-liked under the people of Liverpool as they could have been, and inspired more disgust than reverence in them. Most preferred to stay out of their way as much as possible because of it.

The same was true for the young artist by the name of John Lennon. Thus far he had even succeeded, pretending the McCartneys were nothing more than a legend he wasn't meant to talk about and thus never did. Not once in the twenty-four years he had been alive, had he come in contact with any of the men who resided in that impressive manor house that loomed over the city, but of course this couldn't remain true.

John Lennon was an apprentice of Mr Frank Edwards, a renowned artist and portraitist, whose clientele for the large part consisted of the most respected families in the north of England, who would sometimes send for him personally if they lived too far away. He was forty-five years of age, unmarried, and dedicated to his work and name, having made his career when he was only young at the age of twenty-six. He came from a well-off family, his father having been a lawyer, and although it had been expected he would follow into his father's footsteps like his brother had, he had taken a different course and had rapidly made quite the name for himself in the art world. He was short, rather stout-looking, but always stood upright with his stomach tucked in, and held his head up high whenever he spoke to someone, making him look not only taller and slimmer, but also more dignified and domineering. But despite this, he was still friendly and polite, being well-aware of his position in society, which had earned him the respect of many high-standing persons.

Thus, with both the McCartney sons being at the age of marriage, it shouldn't have come as a surprise when Mr McCartney sent his eldest to have his official portrait done, one that was worthy of an heir of such an estate. But it hadn't been the news that Mr Paul McCartney was waiting in their art studio that had shocked him, having expected that to happen for some time now, but his master's decision that he was going to be the one to make the man's acquaintance and paint his portrait.

"You want me to do this?" John asked, his jaw slack in surprise as he stared at his master, not believing what he was hearing. Mr Edwards, however, nodded as he let out a deep sigh.

"Believe me, John. If there was another way, I wouldn't have asked this of you, but Mr McCartney insisted that we'd start as soon as possible. For what reason, he wouldn't say, but he assured me it is important enough that he cannot wait two or three weeks longer until I've returned. Under normal circumstances, I would have postponed either one of the appointments, but I am afraid I cannot do that. I have no other choice."

"But, sir! I can't do this. Have you forgotten Mrs Davis's reaction when she came here for her portrait three days ago? She was about ready to cut my head off!" John objected, feeling his heart thump in his chest in fear, knowing that if the same were to happen with the McCartney portrait, he would not get off as easily as he had done with Mrs Davis. Mr Edwards shook his head.

"What Mrs Davis said to you isn't of the issue here, John. You are talented, you have a fine hand, and a good eye for detail - perhaps a little too good in Mrs Davis's case, but this is the young Mr Paul McCartney whose portrait you'll be painting! He is a fine, handsome young man, no matter what you might say about his personality. It will be a good exercise for you. You're my best student, John. I wouldn't ask this of you, if I thought you weren't ready. I would be digging my very own grave while engaging in small talk with the grim reaper himself, if I did that."

"I know, sir. I just don't think-" John started, but Mr Edwards wouldn't let him speak, interrupting him again.

"Please, John. I have no other choice. As long as you work diligently and with a steady hand, you will be fine. You only have to remember your place and his, answer politely to whatever questions he might have, not talk back at him, and remain the perfect image of the English gentleman, and you'll be fine, I am sure," he assured him, but John's worries were not in the least bit assuaged by his words.

"The perfect image of the English gentleman?! With all due respect, sir, but have you seen me? I am far from being "the perfect image of the English gentleman". A pig in a suit might do a better job than I!"

"John, I know your aunt, and I know she raised you to be a proper young man, so that is not an excuse, you hear? I promise, I will assist you once I return, but until then I need you to do this for me, and for that I beg of you to please be civil with the young Mr McCartney. You don't want either him or his father against you, understand? And if you mess this up, it won't be just your own name you will be spoiling, remember that," Mr Edwards said in a firm voice, making it more than clear to his student that he barely had any choice in the matter. This was the way it had to be if neither of them wanted to get into trouble. John gave in with a deep sigh and nodded as he muttered a "yes, sir", giving into his master's wishes with reluctance. Mr Edwards nodded in return, a relieved smile pulling at his lips.

"Thank you, John. I am sure you'll do well. Now, Mr McCartney is waiting for you in the studio. I thought it best for the two of you to get to know each other in private and make your own agreements on how the process will go. And please, John, remember to be civil. I know you like to push boundaries and challenge authority, but this is not the time to do that. You must make yourself agreeable to him." John swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat at those words, but nodded anyway, knowing he had no choice but to do as he was told, even if he didn't like it. If Mr Edwards said there was no other option, then there was no other option; he would never allow him to come anywhere near the McCartneys if he didn't have to, fearing that he would run his mouth by accident. And besides, how hard could it be? They were only people, even if they were fortunate, arrogant pricks, who had too much money to fit in all of their pockets combined and too much power to abuse.

"John, do you promise you'll make yourself agreeable to him? I need to have your word on this one," Mr Edwards asked again, a nervous tremor in his voice that John had only ever heard before on maybe two or three occasions. He nodded in return.

"I promise, sir."

"Good. Good boy. Now, remember what you have to do and do not ruin this. One mistake and you're done for - no, we are done for. This is a one-time opportunity, John. Something like this won't happen a second time. This assignment, it isn't just for me. I know you want to become a great artist, and we both know the McCartneys have enough money and influence to make that happen for you, but you have to behave, however hard it might be."

"I promise, sir," John repeated and with one last nod, Mr Edwards guided him to the door that lead through to the art studio, where Mr Paul McCartney would be waiting for them. John couldn't help but feel excited. After all, not everyone had the privilege to make acquaintance with any of the McCartneys.

The art studio was a large room on the first floor of the townhouse they were situated at. It consisted of what had once been the living room and the dining room, stretching all the way from the front of the house to the back, allowing plenty of light to flood in through the windows at either side. There were two doors that lead into the room, one coming off from the hall, and the other leading to a small kitchen at the back. The scuffed paint-stained wooden flooring was largely covered by rugs or sheets of paper. Blank canvases stood along the walls, between worktables and shelves with all kinds of painting equipment on there, like brushes - both used and clean ones - bottles of paint in all colours, cups with dirty water for cleaning said brushes, palette knifes, pieces of coal for sketching, and scraping tools. Above them hung paintings, sketches, and portraits, that showed off the skills of the artists that worked there. A couple of easels were placed all around the room, most of them overlooking an empty chair or stool on which a model could sit. In the middle of the room, which was the darkest part of the studio, two sofas were placed along the walls opposite each other, a coffee table between them. On one of them sat a handsome young man, who John presumed was Mr Paul McCartney.

"Mr McCartney, allow me to introduce my best student, John Lennon. John, this is Paul McCartney," Mr Edwards said as they walked into the room and over to the young gentleman on the couch, who looked up at the sound of his voice and rose to stand. When they were near enough, he offered John his hand, which he shook as he looked him up and down, a fake smile on his lips. He was handsome, John had to admit, and he even had something pretty about him. Although he was a couple of years younger than him, he was slightly taller, forcing John to look up at him, if only a little. What struck him the most, were his eyes; he had large doe eyes with a gorgeous hazel colour that seemed to shift from green to brown right before his eyes as he looked into them. Above them, his eyebrows were perfectly shaped and arched. He had chubby cheeks and a small pouty mouth with full pink lips. Overall, he was slim and had good posture. He was well-dressed, although somewhat ostentatiously, in a dark blue three-piece suit, complete with a silver-coloured tie, which was perfectly tailored to his form, accentuating all the right bits and angles, and covering what needed to be covered. He had dark brown hair that stood off against his pale complexion. It was parted to the side, his locks curling ever so slightly, and for a brief moment John found himself struggling to look away. When the man started to speak, he found himself even more taken with this beauty of a man, his sing-song voice sending shivers down his spine, liking the hint of scouse in his otherwise perfect accent.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr Lennon. I've only heard positive things from your master, so I don't doubt this will go perfectly between us," Mr McCartney said, and although the words were friendly, the way he said them made it feel forced, as if it was only an act, learned and perfected over the many years he had been doing these things. John fought the urge to be provocative and smiled back at him instead.

"Likewise, sir," he said and he could almost feel how relieved Mr Edwards was with that reply.

"Well," he said, looking from Paul to John and back again, his eyes finally resting on Paul, "I shall leave you to it, then. I'm afraid I have some other business to attend to, but don't be afraid to call on the maid if you need anything. Although, I don't think that will be necessary. You'll be in good hands with my student here, I'm sure. Please, send your father my wishes." He shook the man's hand and wished them both goodbye, before turning and leaving the two young man alone in the studio. Once they were alone, John took a deep breath to calm himself, before turning back to his new client.

"Please," he said as he motioned to the couch, "have a seat." Paul did as he was asked, and sat back down as he took his cup of tea from the coffee table, before sitting back with his legs crossed and taking a polite sip. John took a seat on the couch opposite him and pushed his glasses further up his nose, feeling rather nervous now they were alone. He watched the other man carefully as he searched for words, but Paul beat him to it and spoke first.

"I take it your master explained what is expected of you?" he asked as he finished his tea. He glanced up to look John directly in the eye, clearly trying to assert his dominance with that look. John forced himself not to look away and shook his head.

"Barely," he replied, "he told me it concerns a portrait, but that is rather obvious." He had expected the younger man to at least smile at that, but he didn't. Instead, he put his cup back down on the coffee table and licked his lips before he spoke again, explaining exactly what was expected of him in the finest details, from the size of the canvas - it had to fit in with the other family portraits, after all - to the colour palette, to certain details he liked the portrait to contain and what he wanted to be left out, to the exact moment when father and son expected it to be finished. The amount of information John was given in that moment without any previous warning, made him wish he had been able to take notes.

"Of course, this date is not fixed, but we would like it if you could get it done as close to that as possible. My father especially is very strict about that. Of course, this should give you enough time to do the work, so we expect the portrait to be of the highest quality, as you can image. Now, I suspect you would want me to sit for you, which is fine of course, but as I am rather busy, I'd like us to meet here in the evenings. If you don't mind, that is." John faked another smile in reply as he shook his head, knowing enough about the McCartneys to know that he did not have any real say in the matter without any viable objections, objections that he did not have.

"Not at all."

"Good. What would suit you best?" Paul asked and John pretended to think for a short moment before answering.

"We could start on Wednesday evening next week? I'd like to see how it goes before we make any more agreements on how often I'd like you to be here," he said, still fighting the urge to say something witty and rude to this clearly conceited man. It was a shame his personality was so rotten in comparison to his looks. He hadn't smiled a single time yet, nor had he made any attempt to lighten the mood with some small talk or a joke, focusing instead solely on the business side of things. He had barely even moved; he just sat there, with his legs crossed and his hands in his lap, one resting in the other. At times he could catch glimpses of that charm that everyone kept talking about, such as his polite tone of voice and his careful choice of words, but it was clear that he did not deem him worthy of the efforts it would take. Then again, why would he? He was only an employee, after all, hired for money to do a job no matter how friendly or rude he was to him. There was no need be charming.

"Yes, that could work just fine. How about after dinner? I take it you have no other engagements?"

"Oh no, after dinner would be fine," John replied, not surprised Paul would think he had no other engagements. After all, why would he, right? He was only an employee. Nobody important. The longer he sat with this man and talked to him, the more frustrated he got with him, his pretty face not even giving enough distraction anymore for him to put up with the man himself. In the end, he had to say something, just to see if he could get any kind of reaction out of this man.

"There is, however, one thing," he said, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from smirking and giving himself away. As he had expected, the young man before him looked up with quirked eyebrow, waiting for John to elaborate, not having expected him to say anything other than "yes, sir" and "certainly, sir".

"It is nothing too important, but if I am going to paint your portrait, I'd like to do that under my rules," John added, looking the older man directly in the eye as he waited for a response, eager to see his reaction. Paul remained silent for a moment to think about his words, before he replied.

"And what might these rules be, if I may ask?" he asked, still sounding cool and composed, which frustrated John a little, but he wasn't going to give up that easily.

"Firstly, while we work, you will have to do as I say. What pose to take on, how to look, where to look, how to sit, and when to move. I need to be able to create the perfect look to sketch from, or it won't be half as good. You can, of course, bring in your own views and ideas, but you will need to give me enough freedom to do as I see fit," John said and to his surprise Paul nodded.

"Of course. You are the artist. I trust your view and judgements on these type of things," he said, and John's lips twitched in annoyance, but again, he did not give in.

"Secondly, I say when we work and for how long and when we have our breaks. I need to keep my focus and not be interrupted when I am working," he said and again Paul nodded in agreement.

"As long as I can say when we call it a day, that should be no problem."

"I would also like us to use first names when we speak to each other," John said, hoping that would at least get him some kind of reaction that he was hoping for. Paul fell silent at that, his mouth hanging slightly open as he blinked at John, his mind trying to comprehend that sentence.

"That's..." he stuttered after a short while, his mind still struggling to process the information, "highly unusual. Not to mention inappropriate, Mr Lennon." He accentuated that last, but that only made it more entertaining for John, who was feeling rather proud about putting this man off like that.

"I work better that way, sir. By addressing my client by their first name, I feel I know them better and I can give the portrait a more personal touch. All great art has some kind of personal touch, wouldn't you agree? If you would like me to deliver my best work, I am afraid this is a requirement," he lied, and Paul sat up straight at that, taking on a rather defensive demeanour, and distancing himself from John even more than he already was.

"Is it, really?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"I suppose we shall see then, won't we, Mr Lennon?" he said and with that he rose up from the couch and took his coat, which he had hung from the armrest of the couch, and pulled it on. John watched him with a little grin as he moved, appreciating the elegant way he moved, even when he was looking rather annoyed. When he turned back to him, John got up as well and offered him his hand. Paul glanced at it, but refused to shake it, so John refused to take it back.

"I hope, Mr Lennon, that you are well aware that if there is one thing I, or my father for that matter, do not like about this arrangement, we will find someone else for the job. You are in no position to negotiate with me, let alone push any boundaries, you understand?"

"Don't worry, Paul. If there is anything you do not like about how things are going between us, you only have to say so and I'll see what I can do about it," John replied, and Paul narrowed his eyes at him, but didn't say anything about the use of his first name. Finally, he shook John's hand, and his lips even twitched up into a tiny fraction of a smile for a brief moment, something John hadn't seen before. It was then, that he decided he was going to try to make that happen more often now they would see each other probably a couple of days a week, hoping that one day he might see his full smile.

"I'll give you a chance, Mr Lennon. But one mistake, and I won't think twice about finding someone else for the job, and people will know just how Mr Edwards and his students treat their clients," he told him and John nodded with a polite smile, feeling up for the challenge.

"I am certain it will not come to that, Mr McCartney," he spoke and Paul looked at him in surprise at that, "it was good to meet you and I suppose I'll be seeing you next Wednesday, then?"

"Yes... till then, I suppose. I have already discussed the matter of payment with your master, so there will be no need for you to worry about that. All the money will go through him. I'll er... see you next Wednesday then, John," he said and turned around to walk away, not waiting for John to show him the way out, and John followed him with his eyes, a now constant grin on his lips. He only realised the man had called him "John" when he heard the front door fall shut, leaving him alone in the middle of the studio, where he stared at the door through which Paul had disappeared. It was only when the maid called out his name, that he snapped out of it.

"Are you feeling alright, Mr Lennon?" she asked and John hummed at that as he forced himself to look away from the door and back at the girl who stood at the other end of the room, a silver tray with a teapot and two teacups in her hands. She was young, about seventeen, with rather short blond hair. She had her head cocked questioningly to the side. "Did Mr McCartney leave already, sir? I thought he might like some tea," she added as she nodded at the tray in her hands, looking somewhat disappointed.

"Oh yes. He did. Er... you can leave that here. Thank you, Dot," he told her and the maid nodded at that, as she put the tray down on the coffee table and left again with Paul's old cup. When she pulled the door to the kitchen close behind her, John let himself fall back onto the couch with a deep sigh, the eldest of the McCartney sons still very much on his mind.