'Now, all you cave dwellers! Welcome to the best of cellars! And welcome to a very special guest in The Cavern today... Mr Brian Epstein of NEMS music store! Please make Mr Epstein welcome...'

Bob Wooler made the announcement just as George stepped back onto the stage, ducking his head under the low archway, guitar carried on his hip. He looked round at Bob and raised his eyebrows at him, then looked for John and Paul. They were over the other side of the small Cavern Club stage, chatting to the girls at the front. Whether either of them had noticed that quick exchange was hard to say.

George had clocked him as soon as he'd stepped through the narrow doorway that led up to the street. He was ushered through by the Cavern's doorman, Paddy, missing out the usually obligatory signing in process, going straight over to meet Ray McFall, the owner.

He looked out of place in his dark suit and crisply starched shirt. Ray and Bob always wore suits, but Brian Epstein's was a cut above; obviously tailor made, expensive, top quality. Another man in a long length raincoat, a woolly scarf and glasses, followed him inside and stood beside him as Brian spoke to Ray. George recognised him from the record shop too - he took the record orders, writing them in a huge book. He was tall-ish and wirey, his mac seemed to hang straight down from his shoulders. He looked around the club and its inhabitants with a certain wild-eyed wonderment that bordered on fear, and pulled the front of his scarf up to his chin, just in case any of these maniacal teenagers went for his jugular.

George perched on the ledge next to Bob Wooler's DJ table, his guitar on his lap, rethreading his E string. It had snapped when he was playing and an impromptu break had been called, but the running order in the Cavern Shows were never rigid. The sets were always quite casual.

Brian Epstein spoke to Ray for a couple of minutes and then he brought him over towards the DJ table. Curiosity piqued, George stood up. 'What brings Mr Epstein in here, then?' he asked and Brian looked at him strangely.

'You've been in the shop,' he said and George nodded. Of course he had. Everyone had.

Brian Epstein was something of a local celebrity and he was treated as such. Everyone knew who he was, even if they'd never spoken to him. He owned NEMS, the music store that was at the top of Mathew Street and he'd written a column in the new Merseybeat newspaper. He'd never come into the low, dingy depths of the Cavern before though. It must have been arranged specially. George doubted he'd queued up with the girls outside in the fog and rain.

'You're in, uh... The Beatles, then?' Brian asked.

'Yeah.' George lifted his guitar to show him.

'I came to listen to your record. My Bonnie? We've had a few orders for it.'

It struck George rather ironic that the owner of a record shop would have to come here to listen to a record, but he smiled and looked round. 'Bob will have it. He'll play it for you.'

Bob pulled out the record and put it on, announcing Brian's presence to the club as George stepped back onto the stage. A couple of people looked, but other than that, no one reacted. Brian listened to the record all the way through, with an unfathomable expression on his face, then he nodded, thanked Bob Wooler and disappeared into the crowd. George saw him a moment later come to stand at the back of the central Cavern Club tunnel, directly facing the stage, dipping his head occasionally to talk to his assistant and hear his replies.

'George!' said a girl in the front row. He stooped down, holding his guitar on his hip so he could hear her. 'Will you sing "She's Got The Devil In Her Heart" for Pam, Jean and Pat please?' she said in his ear.

George smiled and straightened up. 'Sure, love.'

'Oh, you ready now, la?' John said to him and looked round for Pete.

'Brian Epstein's back there,' George told him. 'From NEMS.'

John wasn't listening. He'd already stepped up to the microphone. 'The best things in life are free, but you can keep them for the birds and bees, I want money--'

George and Paul shared the other microphone for the echoing chorus - That's what I want - but George was still watching Brian Epstein side on, trying to deduce what expression he had on his face from this distance. If it was odd that he'd come here to listen to the Bonnie record, it was even more odd that he was hanging around to watch the rest of the show.

It was because he was looking at Mr Epstein that he saw her. Della. Pushing her way through the crowd at the back, pushing through Epstein and his assistant and having to apologise. George's heart sunk. He knew why she'd be here. Della didn't come in the Cavern at this time normally. There was only one reason she'd come here on a Thursday lunchtime.  

'George,' his mother hissed at him, as he reached for his leather jacket off the peg in the hall. She came to his side, putting her hand on his arm. At eighteen George was taller than both his parents, but particularly his mother. She seemed a lot smaller than she used to be. Adults had always been impossibly tall when he was a boy.

She leaned to speak to him in a whisper. 'Take Della with you.'

George sighed. 'She won't want to go.'

'Have you asked her?'

'Well...' No, was the answer, but he didn't need to. Della didn't want to go anywhere at the moment - not with George, anyway. She spent most of her time sitting in the kitchen of 25, Upton Green, because it was at the back of the house, hidden and out of sight of number 7, Upton Green. She was in there now. George could hear the radio on the windowsill playing from here.

'Go and ask her,' Louise said. 'It's not good to be cooped up inside like this. And she needs to put things right with her mother.'

George rolled his eyes. 'One thing at once, Mam.'

'She's depressed.'

'She's not depressed. She's fine.'

'Oh, you think so, do you? Do you know what they've fallen out over? Her and her mother?'

George ran his tongue over his bottom lip. 'Not... really,' he said, and felt a twist in his stomach for lying to his mother, but Della wouldn't forgive him if he told her.

'Evelyn doesn't want to say, Della won't say.' Louise shook her head. 'Della turned up here one night in floods of tears when you were in Germany. Poor girl looked heartbroken, I was sure it was going to be over some boy, but when she said she'd had an argument with her mother... It's been months, Geo. You need to help her.'

George hung his coat back on the peg. 'I'm trying,' he said, quietly.

'Can't you talk her out of this London nonsense?'

'I'm trying to do that as well.' 

'What's she going to do down there? An eighteen year old girl, on her own. I know you think you know the ways of the world when you're that age, but you don't. She's still wet behind the ears, that girl.'

George smiled. 'Alright. I'll get her to come out with me.'

'Where are you going, anyway?'

'Uh, to see a bloke...'

Louise furrowed her eyebrows. 'What "bloke"?'

'Just about a... um, guitar.'

'"A-um-guitar,"' she repeated, suspiciously. 'It's always guitars with you.'

'Del, come 'ed,' George said, pushing the kitchen door open.

Della was seated behind the large kitchen table. Papers, envelopes, pens and a phone book nicked from the local library were spread out in front of her. She lifted her head from the letter she was writing. 'Where to?'

'I, uhh, need your help with something.'

'Now?'

'What?'

'Does it have to be now? I'm busy, George.' She gestured to the small pile of envelopes to the side of her. She'd been writing letters every day for the last couple of weeks. 'I've still got a few more to do before I take this batch off the to the post office.'

'Have you had any replies yet?' George asked, coming into the room, letting the door swing closed behind him.

'Mmm, lots,' she said, chirpily and tapped a small pile of letters of different colours and sizes in the corner of the table. She hadn't said she'd had responses. Surprised, George picked up one.

Thank you for your letter. We do not currently have any vacancies...

Dear Miss Milton, Thank you for your letter of 27th July. We regret to inform you...

George flicked through the others. 'These are rejections.'

'Yes, of course they are,' Della said, lifting her head again. 'But at least those have replied. There's more who haven't.'

'No interviews then?'

'No, but... it's early yet. I've only been trying for a fortnight.'

'Who are you applying to?'

'Anyone and everyone. I just need a job. I don't care what sort of business it is. I'm writing to everyone I can get an address for. That's what the phone book is for.' She pursed her lips in a pout. 'It would be better if I had a typewriter though. It's hard to convince people of my typing skills when I have to hand write the application letter.' She smiled, ruefully.

'Right, well, take a break and come with me. I need your help.'

'What with?'

George hesitated, unable to think up a suitable excuse.

Della shook her head at him. 'Georgie, I'm busy. Stop trying to distract me.'

George crossed to the kitchen door, checked the hall outside and then gently pressed it shut until it clicked. Taking his wallet from his trouser pocket, he took the notes from it and fanned them out on the table under Della's nose, blue fivers and pinky-orange tenners.

'Fucking hell, George!' Della cried. 'What did you do? Rob the mail train?!'

'Shhh!' he said, laughing. 'Shut up, or me Mam will hear you.'

She reached out and touched it gingerly with her fingertips. 'Gosh, it's real...'

'What, did you think I'd printed them myself?'

'How much is there?'

'Eighty-five quid, and...' He stuck his hand in his pocket and drew out a fistful of coins, depositing them on top of the notes. 'That's Ninety. Exactly.'

'Bloody hell. Where did you get it? Seriously?'

'Shush, keep your voice down. I've been saving it. I haven't paid me Mam board this week yet. I don't want her to see it.'

Della raised her eyebrows at him. 'As if she'd make you give it to her. Her favourite son.'

'I'm not her-- That's not the point. I'd feel guilty for not giving it to her.'

'She won't take a penny from me, you know. I've offered.'

'Well, that's because you haven't got a job. You're not earning.'

'I'm trying!' she said, jovially, but her enthusiasm was starting to strain. Della exhaled and let her shoulders slumped. 'Actually, I don't know if I'm doing it properly. It's not working. I'm trying to brag about how amazing I am and how skilled and what an asset to the company I'd be... with my less than twelve months business school training and my glowing career history serving fish and chips. I'm getting nowhere with it.'

'You could try more locally,' George said.

Della frowned at him. 'No, I can't,' she said, flatly. 'What would be the point in that?'

'Why does it have to be London?'

'You know why.'

'Yeah, but Della, it's...'

'What's this money for, anyway?' she spoke over him, dropping her head and picking up her pen again.

George stifled a sigh. 'A guitar.'

'You've already got a guitar.'

'A better one, smart arse. A Gretsch. It's an American one. There's a fella across town selling it.'

'So, what do you need my help with?'

George blinked. He'd forgotten he'd said that. 'Oh, uh... Come with me and see it. He wants ninety quid for it. Tell me if you think it's worth it.'

Della pulled her face. 'Don't be daft, George. I don't know anything about guitars. Take Paul or John with you.'

'No, it has to be you.'

'Why?'

'I... need you to carry the money.'

'Sod off! Someone could mug us, walking around with that!'

'That's why I need you to carry it for me. No one would dare try anything then.' He grinned cheekily and Della laughed but she shook her head and leaned over her letter again.

'I'm sorry, George. I've got too much to do.'

George huffed. It would have to be a different tactic. He came round the side of the table, crouched down so her was the same height as her and said in a low voice, 'Del, me Mam wants her kitchen back for a while. You're getting under her feet, staying in here everyday.'

It was a little cruel to make her think she was in the way, but it worked. Della cleared her things away and went to fetch her jacket.

'George,' Della hissed from behind the porch door. He turned back to her and she shooed him away with her hand, directing him past the garden gate, into the street.

George sighed at her but obliged, stepping into the middle of the pavement and making a show of looking one way and then the other, hand held to his browline like a sailor looking for land. 'There's no one out here, Del,' he shouted back to her, dropping the act. 'Move your arse or we'll miss the bus.'

She pinched her mouth and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind her. 'I don't want to run into anyone,' she told him in a hushed voice, as she joined him on the pavement.

'So you're going to hide at my house for the rest of your life?'

She pursed her lips. 'No. I don't want to run into anyone I know while your wearing your leather suit.'

She set off and George looked down at his leather trousers. He zipped the leather bomber jacket half way up and grinned sardonically at her back. She took the piss out of the leather, but she liked it really. She'd told him.

George caught up with her and they walked towards the bus stop round the corner - taking the long way around so they didn't have to go through the jigger that ran past Della's home. Former home.

Della chattered on about her job prospects, her rejection letters and how her hand was cramping up from writing so much. George listened but didn't reply. He'd thought the moving to London thing was a pipedream. A fleeting fancy that she'd forget about as quickly as it had popped into her mind. But he'd also thought that once they got back to Liverpool from Hamburg, she'd sort things out with her mother and everything would go back to normal. That hadn't happened.

'Why don't you just get a job here?' he mumbled. 'There's loads of typing jobs in Liverpool.'

Della narrowed her eyes at him. 'Thanks for your help and support, George. With friends like you, who needs enemies, eh?'

He spread his hands to her. 'I've never said that I thought you should go to London. I'm not going to say I do, just because you want me to. I think you should stay here, in Liverpool, where your friends and fam-- Where everyone you know is.'

Della snorted and they rounded the corner onto Little Heath Road.

'Where are you going to live, Del?' he asked, looking at his feet as he walked. 'Have you thought about that? What if--'

'Sshtt,' Della said, or something that sounded like it, and stopped.

Evelyn stood beside the bus stop, red coat buttoned up to her neck and a cigarette in her hand. She had her head deliberately turned away, as if she was looking down the road for the bus.

'We can get the next one,' he said, low.

Della glanced at George then raised her chin and strode towards the bus stop. George hid a smile. It was time she finally spoke to her. They needed to talk. Evelyn had been to the house a couple of times, but Della had refused to see her, hiding in George's room while they listened to George's mother apologising to Evelyn on the doorstep.

George hung back to allow Della some privacy to talk to her mother, but instead she stopped about four feet from the bus stop and turned to face the road, refusing to even look at Evelyn.

'What are you doing?' George whispered, coming to stand beside her.

'I'm waiting for the bus, what do you think?' Della replied, loudly.

'Go 'ed.' George jerked his head towards Evelyn, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows.

Della ignored him.

He nudged her with his elbow.

Della took a small side step out of his way.

'Della...'

'Have you got a fag?'

He sighed and took his cigarette packet from his pocket, offering it to her before he took one himself. As they stood there, smoking in awkward silence, Evelyn stole a glance at them. George saw, Della didn't because she had her nose stuck in the air, feigning indifference. He elbowed her again, just under her ribs. Della didn't react so he did it once more, harder, and nearly pushed her over.

'Will you stop nudging me?' she snapped. 'I'll be black and blue.'

'You're bloody... impossible,' he replied, annoyed with her.

A moment later the bus arrived. Della flicked the end of her cigarette away and stepped towards it, just as Evelyn did at the same time. They met at the door, both stopping dead. Della swept her hand towards it, gesturing for Evelyn to get on before her.

'Della,' Evelyn said, icily.

'Mother,' Della replied, matching her frostiness.

Evelyn flicked her eyes to George. 'You're still staying with the neighbours then.'

She nodded. 'As you already know.'

'Are you getting on?' the driver asked irritably, and Evelyn climbed on, followed by Della and finally George.

Evelyn sat two seats from the front, but Della swept past her, leaving George to pay their fare and going to sit one seat from the back.

George hesitated, gave Evelyn a small, apologetic smile and then followed Della to the back of the bus. It wasn't right, Evelyn not believing Della, but George thought it could only be because she didn't understand fully. Della was her daughter. Surely she knew that she wouldn't say such horrible things if they weren't true? If Della would only talk to Evelyn, or if she'd let George talk to her, they could make her see and then Evelyn would boot that Alan out and all would be well again. But Della wouldn't. She could be as stubborn as a donkey normally, but when she was hurt and defensive, there was no moving her. Still, they'd have to talk eventually, wouldn't they? Evelyn was Della's mother. You can't fall out with your mother. Not... forever.

The bus took them into town and Evelyn got off at Lime Street. Della didn't look as the bus flew past Evelyn, standing on the pavement, but George did. She was watching for them. The look on Evelyn's face troubled George for the rest of the journey.

The bus took them across town and up through Vauxhall, depositing them about half way up Scottie Road.

'Della,' George started as they she jumped down the step the back of the bus, ahead of him. 'You know, Evelyn's your mum and you've...'

'Oh my God, George! Look!' Della cried, pointing, and ran to the front of a pawn shop six feet in front of them.

George sighed shortly and followed.

Della had her face and palms pressed against the glass of the pawn shop window like a street urchin from a Dickens novel. 'That's what I need,' she told George as he joined her, pointing to a black typewriter in the centre of the window display. It looked old, a bit battered, with ivory coloured keys and Imperial printed on the front of it in gold lettering.

'That's just like the one I used at business school. I wish we knew someone who had one that I could borrow.' She eyed George sideways. 'Or someone who had, say, a pocket full of pound notes. That person could lend me the money then, couldn't he?'

'I've got enough money for the guitar and that's it,' George said. 'And besides, I'm not going to help you make a mistake like running off to London.'

Della walked around the side of the shop, trailing her hand across the glass. 'I'm eighteen, George. I'll be fine, I just need a job and that machine will help me get one. Imperial Good Companion. See? He'll be my good companion and assist me--' She stopped abruptly. 'Oh.'

'What?'

'Nothing. Never mind. It's much too expensive.'

George felt the money heavy in his trouser pocket. He'd kept his hand wrapped around it almost the entire way here, terrified it might fall out or someone would pick pocket him. 'How much?'

'It doesn't matter,' Della said, losing interest. 'Which way is this fella's house then?'

George pointed down the road and Della set off. Before he followed her, he stole a look at the typewriters price tag.

Imperial Good Companion. Excellent condition. Includes 2 colour ribbon. £20-

She was beautiful.

There was no word for her other than beautiful. George always thought she would be, but now he could see her in the flesh, now he could touch her and feel the weight of her in his lap, she took his breath away. He'd fantasised about this since he was thirteen years old. It was almost unbelievable that he was holding her in his arms now.

He ran his fingers lightly over her body, then more boldly stroked her with his whole hand, tracing the contours of her curves with his palm. Pincering his index finger and thumb together he brushed over her and she hummed, as if in pleasure.

'Do you like it, George?' Della asked.

'Yes,' he sighed, with such reverence that she laughed and George looked up, embarrassed.

'It's smaller than I thought it would be,' Della said.

'No, it's... perfect,' George said, and straightened his back to strum a G chord.

The guitar was a dream. She felt good in his hands. Easier to play than his Futurama, he could already tell that from the few notes and chords he'd tried. It was an American made, 1957 Gretsch Duo Jet. It could do with a polish and new strings but other than that, she was flawless. Black mahogany body with rosewood fretboard and chrome plated switches and edging. Beautiful. 

He'd wanted a Gretsch guitar for almost as long as he'd wanted to be a guitar player. He'd never seen a real one before. This was probably the only Gretsch guitar in Liverpool. Maybe even in England. Duane Eddy played a Gretsch. So had Eddie Cochran, Chet Atkins, even Chuck Berry now and then. It wouldn't just be a step up from the Futurama, it would be a vertical leap. The sound it would give the band, they'd be unbeatable.

'Do you want it, then?' asked the man who was selling the guitar. He was a taxi driver called Ivan Hayward. He'd tried to flog the guitar to a mate of Stu's in The Delacardoes when he'd picked them up one night. The Delacardoes didn't want it, but they'd told Stu about it, who'd mentioned it to George and George had rushed round as soon as he could. They'd been here for twenty minutes, sitting on the sofa in Hayward's front room while George doodled around with the Duo Jet and Hayward hovered over him, eager but trying to act cool.

George raised his eyes to him. Yes, he wanted it. He wanted it perhaps more than he'd wanted anything before in his life... He turned to Della, next to him, and she smiled. ...Well, more than he'd wanted any other physical possession.

Hayward interpreted his silence as reluctance. 'It's a good guitar,' he said. 'Bought brand new in New York five years ago. Hardly been used. I wouldn't be selling it at all if I didn't have to.'

'It suits you,' Della said.

'Does it?' George asked, with a grin.

'Yeah, matches your leather jacket.'

George sat up and pulled the guitar closer to his chest, an exaggerated, daft pose. Della laughed and reached into her bag.

'You've got your own fags and you've been cadging them off me all day?' George asked.

'I've only got one or two left,' she replied, taking a crumpled packet out.

'Uh, if you're going to smoke, could you go outside?' Hayward asked. 'The missus doesn't like smoking in here. Makes the curtains smell or something.'

'Sure,' Della said, standing up with her cigarette packet. 'I'll go for a walk. Hurry up and decide, Georgie. I've got to be somewhere this afternoon.' George watched as she left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.

He exhaled. 'Ninety quid?'

'Yeah. Ninety. And that's a steal, mate. I bought it for two hundred and ten dollars.'

He smoothed his hands over the guitar again, longingly, regretfully. When would he get the chance to hold one of these again? Maybe never. 'I can't afford ninety,' he said. 'Would you take seventy?'

'I can't let it go for less, sorry.'

George moved his eyes to the door. Hayward followed his eye line.

'Will she object?'

'What?'

'Your lass. If you spend that much on a guitar. Women are like that. It's half the reason I'm having to sell. The bloody missus.'

'Oh, no, we're not...'

'She's not your girlfriend?'

George strummed the guitar one last time and gave a small shake of his head.

'Oh, right. Your... sister then?'

'Uh, something like that,' George said, abruptly, and put the guitar down, leaning it against the side of the sofa. 'I've only got seventy,' he added. 'Sorry, I can't pay ninety.'

'You've got seventy on you? Now?'

George nodded.

'I really need to sell it.' The man twisted his mouth and sighed. 'How about I take your seventy and you owe me the other twenty? You can pay me when you have it.'

'Really?' George said, hopefully.

'Here, write me an IOU on that,' he handed him a bill of sale, the original bill of sale for the guitar, two hundred and ten dollars in faded blue ink. 'Sign on the back of it. Just make sure you pay it, won't you?'

It was heavier than it looked and cumbersome to carry. It bashed keenly against the calf of his left leg with every step. George wouldn't be surprised if he had a purple bruise there by the time he got home, but at least the typewriter came with a case. He was carrying the Gretsch by its neck in his other hand. Hayward had a case for it, but he said George could only have that when he paid him the last twenty he owed. It didn't matter. George would use the case he had for the Futurama when he got home. It was only a soft one, but it'd do. He just had to get it back there in one piece first.

Ahead of him, Della turned the corner at the top of the street, walking towards him. George hid the typewriter behind his back. As well as he could. It weighed a ton.

'You bought the guitar!' Della said, as she neared him.

George nodded.

'Where the hell did you go? I've just made a right fool of myself knocking on the door of that guy's house. He said, "Uh, he's already left, love. Didn't you see him?" I looked like a prize bloody--'

She stopped as George brought the typewriter round, careful not to knock his guitar with it. He held it out to Della, trying not to grin like an idiot, and failing.

'George,' she said, astonished. 'You haven't, have you? I thought you only had enough money for the guitar?'

'He took seventy for it. This is your Christmas present early. Take it from me, Del, or I'm gonna drop the guitar.'

She moved into him but she didn't take the typewriter from him. She threw her arms around his waist instead, hugging him tightly, resting her head on his chest. With the guitar and the typewriter in his hands, George couldn't hug her back.

'George, you are wonderful. I take back what I said earlier. You're the best friend anyone could wish for.'

He shouldn't, really. It only made it worse and he was trying to get past all that now, but he couldn't help closing his eyes to inhale the scent of her hair, the scent of her. She was rarely ever this close to him now.

Della lifted her head, still with her arms around him. 'I'm going to be driving you all crazy, tip-tapping away on the thing.'

'This doesn't change anything,' he said, sternly. 'Just because I've bought you the typewriter, it doesn't mean that I think you should go London or that I like what you're doing, but at least you'll stand a chance of getting something better now. A job in an office or something.'

She smiled and released him. As Della didn't seem in any rush to take the typewriter from him, he set it down on the pavement and brought the guitar into both of his hands. He only had to get it home, then he could polish it up, find it a case, give it a new home. He couldn't wait to try some of the songs out on it.

'Georgie,' Della said, smoothing her voice. 'Could you do me a favour?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Haven't I just done you a favour?'

'Would you take the typewriter home for me? I have to go and meet Paul.'

George crinkled his forehead. 'Now? Can't you help me first? I can't get this and the guitar on the bus on my own.'

'You got all the way back from Germany with that enormous amplifier and your guitar before. You managed then.'

'Della...'

She checked her watch. 'Well, I suppose I can be late for Paul...'

He sighed. 'No. Go. Go and meet him. You're bloody useless, Della. I don't know what I brought you along for.'

A huge smile spread across her face and her eyes lit up. That stung, a little bit. Every so often, he forgot that Paul and Della were going out together now. His two best friends. He should be happy for them. And he was. He supposed. But it still stung a little bit, if he was honest.

She raised herself up and kissed his cheek. 'Thank you, Georgie. You can come with me if you want to?'

George pressed his lips together and shook his head.

'Don't you want to make Paul jealous over your new guitar?'

'No, I'd better get this lot home. I don't want it getting damaged. I'll see you later.'

Besides, George wasn't sure if that would work anyway. He couldn't think of a single reason why Paul would be jealous of him.

'I didn't know,' Della said. 'I'm sorry.' 

She stood just in the doorway of the Top Ten club, holding her hand to her browline as she blinked in the evening sun. It was always dark inside the club, no matter what time of day it was. It was jarring to come outside and find it still light.

'Know what?' George asked, a little perturbed by the formality of this chat. She'd come up on the stage to him, whispered, Can I have a word with you? in his ear and then gone outside, George following with a sense of unease.

'I wouldn't have tried to...' She straightened herself and smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. 'You should have told me you have a girlfriend.'

George was taken aback. 'I don't have a--' Then the penny dropped. Ingrid. But he'd only been talking to her for a minute. Talking. Nothing else. Do girls have a sixth sense about this sort of thing?

'Well, whatever you want to call it. You have someone and... everything that's happened shouldn't have. Lets just chalk it up to too much fizzy pop and too many late nights, eh?'

'Della, it's...' He faulted, unsure what to say. There were some things - maybe many things - that had happened in Hamburg that George didn't want to tell Della about, much less explain the whats, the whys and the hows.

'I don't mean that it was wrong,' Della added, quickly, casting her eyes down. 'I don't want you to feel bad about it, and it... It was nice, George, but I think we should forget it happened.'

George's mouth dried. He and Della weren't together, they weren't an item, so why did it feel like she was dumping him?

'I'm sorry...' he said, his voice sounding a little strangled, and more than a little desperate.

'Oh, no, don't be,' Della said, stepping towards him. She put her hands in his and George tried not to react. 'You've nothing to be sorry for. It was all my fault. I'm sorry, Georgie.' She pulled him closer and wrapped her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly, putting her cheek against his chest. 'And I really do love you,' she added. 'I love you so much.'

He hugged her back, confused. Was she saying goodbye to him? Because she was talking rubbish about going to London? Or because of what he'd done? After that with her mother and Alan, and then George goes and...

'I don't want to... Della, I don't understand what you're saying. I don't want to lose you.'

'You won't,' she said, astounded, lifting her head to him. 'You won't ever lose me, Georgie. I promise. You're the most important person in my life. Besides, we're better than that, aren't we? It's me and you against the world, isn't it?'

She grinned and George tried hard to form something that might pass for a smile on his face. It was what they used to say when they were kids when they were playing, usually play fighting, wars, battling monsters or pirates or 'the Nazis' even though neither of them had the remotest idea what that was when they were seven or eight. Della almost always made sure she and George were on the same side. They'd hide under George's bed together, make dens in branches of misshapen trees when they sneaked into the woods of Speke Hall, or get filthy squeezing into the coal hole at the back of Della's house together and Della would tell him with wide eyes, 'This is our castle and no one else can come in! It's me and you against everyone else, George! Against the whole world!'

'They're shouting you,' Della said, pulling out of his arms and wiping at her eyes. 'They must want to start.'

George hadn't heard anything, but he followed her back inside, took up his guitar and tried not to watch Della watching him. He felt dazed. It was hard to concentrate on the music when there was so much else filling his head.

Maybe someone had told Della what had happened? George had assumed his thing with Ingrid would have been a one-night only deal. It wasn't like she'd stayed.

There had been some sort of miscommunication. A lot of miscommunication. Ingrid wasn't his girlfriend or his... anything. He should have told Della that. He didn't, he realised with a nauseating stomach flip. He didn't think he'd actually said that when they were outside.

Ingrid was still in here somewhere. He looked round the room for her, finding her eventually with a group of people he didn't recognise at the barside. She couldn't think they were something they weren't, could she? It'd crossed his mind that she could have been put up to the whole thing by his "helpful" mates, but George didn't want to poke at that particular wasps nest. Still, maybe George should make sure everyone was on the same page, avoid any misunderstandings.

He wasn't ready to give up on Della. He should have been clearer outside, but the rejection, the "I think we should forget it" had hurt. This wasn't the best time to suggest to her they become something more than friends. Della's mind was all over the place, she didn't know what she wanted. She was suddenly hellbent on moving to London on her own and living with a man who - father or not - she hadn't seen in over ten years. It was probably the worst time George could pick to tell her what he truly felt for her, but he wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't at least try. Not when they'd come this close to being together.

What he had to do was put things straight. He'd tell Ingrid that he wasn't interested in carrying on with her. He didn't want to be cruel but it was more cruel to leave everyone in this no man's land of wondering and second guessing. And then when he'd done that, he'd tell Della that he wanted her to be his girlfriend.

Or words to that effect.

He'd work it out when he came to it.

They played their usual forty-five minute set, though not very well on George's part. He lost his place once or twice, dropped notes and made mistakes, eliciting dark looks from his bandmates. 'Get it together,' John ordered when they came to the break, and Stu offered him one of the pep pills. If only it was just tiredness causing this. George swallowed the pill anyway. 

Astrid was here now, Della was chatting to her again. Klaus and Jurgen on her other side. She looked comfortable and at home, not like yesterday when she was so... lost.

They only had fifteen minutes for a break. Fifteen minutes to rectify what a fuck up the last twenty-four hours had been. George found Ingrid and pulled her by her arm out to the front of the club. It was nearly nine o'clock now, but still a summer twilight outside. John was leaning on the wall there alone, smoking. He had hooded eyes surrounded by black circles and a sour look on his face, one of his come-down times, or at least, tonights pills hadn't kicked in yet. The more he took, the less they worked. John looked at the pair of them, but just spat on the floor and wandered off down the road a distance, out of earshot.

George told Ingrid he wasn't interested in her. Well, he tried to. She looked at him confused, not following what he was saying, so he ended up over explaining it and then Ingrid seemed to think he was suggesting something he wasn't. It was frustrating. He only had fifteen minutes, ticking away, then he'd have to wait another forty-five. Eventually, in desperation, he told her about Della, in as few words as he could manage. 'Della... uh, that girl in there, she's my... Well, the thing is she's my...'

'Yours?' Ingrid repeated. 'She is yours?'

'Yes,' George said, thankful that he finally seemed to be getting somewhere. 'Yes, she's mine. Do you understand me? It's me and her. She's the one I want.'

Ingrid slapped his face, said something in German which could have been a swear word, and stormed off, back inside the club.

George let her go, rubbing his cheek. The surprise of it had stung more than the actual slap.

To his side, John laughed, making George start. He hadn't noticed him come closer to him again. 'What did you say to her?'

'I... don't know,' George said and let his hand drop. There would be a red mark there now, which he'd rather not have when he spoke to Della, but he wasn't going to wait any longer.

'C'mon, you cruel little heartbreaker, you,' John said, wrapping and arm around George's neck in a half-hug, half-headlock and guiding him back into the club. 'I can see we're gonna have to watch you, now you're--' He stopped mid sentence and let go of George so abruptly, George stumbled.

'For fucks sake...' John muttered and George looked for what he'd seen.

Across the room, at the table by the left side of the stage, Paul was kissing Della.

Bonus photo of George with his Gretsch Duo Jet from around the time he bought it. (My favourite George Guitar!)

Happy Christmas everyone!
And congratulations to Ringo on his knighthood! Sir Ringo Starr!
Thank you all for reading this year. Have a fab Christmas. xx