Just the daytimes. Your evenings will be your own.

That was the deal. That's what Brian had promised when he'd asked Della to come to New York on this insane trip. She agreed only on that condition, and because they'd had such a lovely time in November when she and Brian had visited along with Billy J Kramer, when Della had still been nursing her broken heart.

But here she was, only the first day, and it was already half past six and she was still running around after the ungrateful little sods. None of them had said more than three words to her. George was ignoring her, hardly speaking to her, even when they shared a car from the airport. John was, if anything, on his best behaviour, but maybe only because his wife was accompanying him. Ringo had been cordial, but Della thought he was probably worried about what George or Paul would say if he was overly friendly to her, and Paul... Well, Paul had been in with Brian for the last twenty minutes, trying to get Della sacked and sent home.

That's what she imagined, anyway. She couldn't hear through the door, but what else would he be doing in there. A cheek, because wasn't it Paul who had dumped her? Paul who had wanted rid of Della, yet he's the one pouting and sulking and making a point of letting her know she shouldn't be here, switching cars so he doesn't even have to breathe the same air as her.

Della was dying to press her ear against the door to see if she could listen in. In fact, she was dying to barge in there and give that bastard a piece of her mind, but instead she sat very still on the chaise lounge in the wide corridor outside Brian's hotel suite and waited.

This was the sixth floor. Della's single room was next door to Brian's suite. It was a lot smaller than the Beatles suite up on the twelfth floor, but just as elaborately decorated and luxurious. Her own room was cosy. A single bed with a deep mattress with plump feather eiderdown and pillows. Elegant floor length curtains. A view of Central Park, if she squinted. If only she could get the chance to enjoy it.

The door to Brian's suite opened. Della stood as Paul stepped out. He took a quick glance at her, scowled and then stode off down the corridor without a word. Brian came to the doorway and they both watched him walk away until he reached the corner by the lifts where he disappeared from view. Paul probably shouldn't be walking around the hotel on his own, but neither Della nor Brian were volunteering to run after him.

'He's a lot more upset than I would have thought,' Brian said.

'Upset about what?'

Brian flicked his eyes to her and raised an eyebrow. 

'Oh,' she sighed. 'Why? What was he saying?'

Brian twisted his mouth. 'Never mind about that, but in retrospect I think we probably should have informed them you were coming.'

'Are you going to send me home then?'

'Hmm? What? No, Della, don't be silly. I need you here.'

Brian went back inside, leaving the door open for her and Della smiled at his retreating back. She could imagine the conversation they'd just had. Paul would have wanted her to leave. She was cramping his style. He didn't want an ex-girlfriend hanging around, but Brian wasn't a pushover. The boys didn't always get what they wanted. Usually, but not always.

Her smile faded as she remembered the actual reason why she was waiting to speak to Brian. 

'Um, Brian,' Della said and gingerly took a step inside his room. Or rooms. It was like a mini apartment within the hotel with a lounge, bedroom, bathroom and hall all in separate rooms. Brian was over by the windows, putting his overcoat on.

'I think it went rather well today, don't you?' he asked, trying to insert a large white envelope into his inside coat pocket. 'Absolute madness at the the airport, but I don't think we need to worry about ticket sales for Washington.'

'Brian, I need to talk to you...'

'Yes. Maybe over dinner? Would you like to join Geoff and I? The Four Seasons sent an invitation over for the boys but they're going to a club instead so Geoff and I were going to take them up on it.'

'Um, well, I might just eat here tonight.'

Brian walked towards her. 'It's as much as we want up to the value of a hundred dollars. There will be enough for the three of us. You're more than welcome to join us, Della.'

'Perhaps later in the week.'

He smiled and put his arm out, shepherding her towards the door. 'Very well. I must go. Geoff is waiting downstairs. You know, I was thinking of offering him a position at NEMS. What do you think to that? We could use his legal training.'

'Yes, I'm sure,' Della said, turning around with him as he tried to push her out of the door. 'Brian--'

'Della, whatever it is, won't it keep until morning?'

'Um, no, not really. It's George...'

Brian sighed, wearily. 'What's he done?'

Nearly passed out in the room upstairs...

'Uh, well... Don't panic, but George isn't feeling very well.'

'Jet lag?'

'It's a bit more than that. The doctor's examining him at the moment--'

'My God, what's wrong with him?'

'Well, he's complaining that his throat hurts and...' She steeled herself and forced herself to just say it. 'The doctor's ordered him to bed. He thinks he has streptococcal pharyngitis.'

'Strepto-- What is that?'

'A sore throat, but um... a bad one. He's got a headache and he feels sick and it's making him dizzy so he can't stand up.'

Brian stared at her then slapped his palm to his forehead. 'Well, this is just terrible! This is a disaster! What are we going to do?!'

This was exactly what Della had been afraid of. 'Well, there's not much we can do...'

Brian started pacing the carpet between Della and the door. 'Della, the show is on Sunday!'

'Yes, I know--'

'That's less than two days away, and there are rehearsals tomorrow! And-- Oh, my Lord, this is a catastrophe! What about the show in Washington?'

'He might be okay by--'

'He can't stand up?! How can he play if he can't stand up?!' Brian stopped and looked at her pointedly, seeming to expect an answer.

'Well, I suppose he can't...'

'My God, Della. This is just dreadful. The worst that could happen. We need to fetch a doctor immediately.'

'A doctor's already there. The hotel actually has a resident one.' She smiled weakly. 'Isn't that... something?'

'I must speak to this doctor. This is... This is unacceptable. George simply cannot miss the show.'

With that he spun round and stormed out of the door, leaving Della wondering if she should follow him. She did, pulling the door to the hotel suite closed behind her. Della jogged to catch up with him, drawing level with him. Brian was striding quickly, his coat flapping behind him, as he continued muttering unacceptable and disaster and Lord, why did this have to happen now?!

A small group had gathered outside George's bedroom. They were hidden slightly, huddled in an alcove by the heavy wooden door, an effort to keep the news of George's illness from the press who were still congregating in the halls and milling around the lounge and corridors.

The hotel doctor, now wearing only a tweed blazer jacket instead of the white coat he arrived in, spoke in hushed tones to George's sister and Neil. As they approached, Neil was shaking his head. Louise, standing in the corner, looked sombre and pale.

'What's going on here?' Brian asked, reaching them. 'Where is George? How is he?'

'Are you responsible for the boy?' the doctor asked, grave and serious.

There was a slight pause of shock before Brian nodded. 'Yes, I'm Brian Epstein. George's manager.'

Della had planned to deliver Brian here and then leave to avoid drawing more attention to them, but instead she lingered on the edge of the group.

'Doctor Gordon,' the doctor introduced himself. 'I've examined George and I'm afraid I have to inform you he is suffering from severe streptococcus pharyngitis, a fever and dehydration. He's a very sick boy. As I was saying to--'

'He wants to take him to hospital,' Neil blurted.

'Hospital?' Brian repeated. 'No. No, out of the question.'

'He has a temperature of a hundred and four, Sir. He needs medical attention.'

Della felt her heart beating in her chest. She glanced towards George's bedroom door, closed firmly. George was often poorly with coughs and colds and chest infections. He'd been ill in bed in Bournemouth last year. She hadn't considered that this would be any more serious than that, but if they wanted to admit him to hospital...

She hadn't been there when George had nearly passed out. Neil had come to find her and told her they'd called a doctor and she'd better inform Brian of the situation. No one wanted that job. Brian was apt to shoot the messenger.

Brian didn't say anything for a beat and then shook his head. 'I expect you have seen the fans outside the hotel? The pictures of the boys arriving at the airport on the news? I can't send George to a hospital, it would be chaos.'

The doctor sighed. 'Well... Then he must have absolute bed rest. And he'll need to have peace and quiet.' He glanced further down the corridor, the press still making a ruckus in the lounge.

'He's performing on the Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday,' Brian said. 'Will he recover in time?'

The doctor twisted his mouth. 'He's young and he's strong, so there's a chance, but... As I say, absolute bed rest and plenty of liquids and... if you won't allow him to go to hospital, then I think we will need to bring in a nurse. If she could administer the medication at regular intervals, then it's possible he will be-- not fully better, but maybe well enough to go on the TV show.'

'We can't hire a nurse,' Brian said. 'We can't have outsiders knowing George is ill.'

'Where are we going to get a nurse, anyway?' Neil said. 'Every girl in New York is going just... swoon all over him.'

Brian blinked at Neil and then he took a tiny step back, bringing Della into the circle. Both of them turned to look at her. Brian raised his eyebrows.

'Oh, no,' Della said, backing away from them. 'Don't look at me. No, I can't. I don't have any medical training. I can barely look after myself when I have flu, never mind anyone else.'

'Della...' Brian started, in that soft, charming voice he turned on whenever he wanted something. 'You would be the perfect choice to--' 

'No, Brian. I can't. Please don't make me. Why can't Neil do it?'

'Don't be daft,' Neil scoffed. 'I have the other three idiots to look after.'

'Louise, then,' Della said, her voice rising with an uncontrollable wobble. 'She's George's sister. Who else would be better to nurse him than his own sister?'

They all turned to Louise and it was her turn to cower away, the corner of the alcove trapping her. 'I don't have medical training either,' she said, putting her hands up to them. 'Honestly, I'm no nurse.'

'But you are his sister,' Brian said.

'That doesn't mean I can look after him any better than anyone else. I can't give him... shots and--'

'It wouldn't be that many shots,' the doctor said. 'And you're probably just about the only woman in New York who won't faint at the sight of a Beatle.'

'But I... No, I think Della would be the better choice. Her mother is a nurse.'

Brian turned back to Della again. 'Is she?'

'Well, she was, a long time ago, but that doesn't mean that I know how to nurse someone. It's not passed down genetically. Louise has children.'

'If my children were as sick as George is, I would take them to the hospital,' Louise countered.

'George and I are barely talking,' Della said. 'How can I look after him? You heard what he said earlier. We're not friends anymore.'

That brought about an awkward silence and everyone avoided looking Della in the eye but Brian promised. He promised that if Della came to New York with them, it was to assist him and she wouldn't have to do anything for the boys, especially not George and Paul. They haven't even been here a full day yet and he's asking her to be George's nursemaid.

Brian pursed his lips, unhappy. 'I would be very grateful, Mrs Caldwell,' he said, his soft, dulcet tones back again. 'If you would agree to take care of George for us. I'm sure that there couldn't be anyone better for the job.'

Louise crinkled her forehead. She sighed. 'Alright,' she agreed, reluctantly and looked at the doctor. 'You'll have to teach me what to do.'

'Of course, Ma'am.'

'Della, I will be at the Four Seasons,' Brian said, displeased with her. She could tell by his tone. 'If there are any developments or further problems, you are to telephone me there immediately.'

Peace.

Finally.

It'd been a long day. So long it was hard to believe it had only been a single day. It felt like this one had had many more than it's allotted twenty-four hours.

It was nice here though. A refuge on the sixth floor, away from the reigning chaos upstairs and far enough away from the Beatles side of the hotel to not be bothered by the fans incessant screaming and singing.

Brian had gone out to dinner with his friend. The others were going out shortly too, if they hadn't left already, and Della could finally relax. There would only be George and his sister six floors above her, but she didn't have to do anything for them.

The hotel was quite lovely when the Beatles weren't around. They played soft classical music in the lobby and the lifts. Della had ordered a cheese sandwich from room service for her dinner, which would be delivered shortly. She kicked her shoes off, her toes complaining about how they pinched, and curled up on the sofa inside the lounge in Brian's suite. He was using it as an office while they stayed, but right now it was empty and all Della's. Bliss.

She was sorting through some of Brian's papers and letters. Mostly requests for meetings and  business proposals. Someone wants to cut up the bedsheets the Beatles use and sell the small squares of cotton. Someone else wants the band to endorse a new brand of cola they're marketing. She was only doing this until the cheese butty arrived and then she was spending the rest of the evening reading her book.

Maybe she'd go for a soak in that enormous bathtub in the bathroom of Brian's suite. Della didn't think he would mind. He wouldn't be back until late.

Although, she might skip the bath and slip straight into that gorgeous hotel bed. She could sleep for a week. Well, at least until six the next morning when she'd have to get up and start making preparations for another day of Beatle chaos. Beatlemania. That's what they kept calling it. Never had there been a more appropriate term.

There was a knock at the door. Della went to answer it, expecting it to be the room service porter with her sandwich, but when she opened it, Louise was standing on the other side. She was wrapped in her fluffy white coat, holding a little black handbag in front of her in both hands, and had a worryingly frozen smile on her face.

'Oh, hi, Louise,' Della said, already with a sense of foreboding. 'Is everything okay? Brian's gone out, but--'

'No, not really okay,' Louise said and bustled past Della into the suite, threading her bag onto her arm.

Hesitating, Della closed the door behind her. 'Is George worse?'

'Well, he's no better,' she said. 'The doctor said he needs rest, peace and quiet, but the poor mite can't get to sleep with all that noise going on.'

'Um, well, I could see if the hotel could move him to a room away from the front so the fans won't bother him as much...'

'Oh, no, we can't move him. He's settled now. They have all his medicine and things up there. It's not so much the fans - well, it is - but it's the press and the radio people. They're camped right outside his room and they keep waking him up.'

'I see. Well, the others are going out soon, so I imagine most of them will go away then--'

'I've had a wonderful idea!' Louise clapped her hands together and it echoed in the empty lounge. 'I was asking the radio fellows if they wouldn't mind shutting up, but trying not to tell them why, because Brian doesn't want it getting around that George is sick, and one of them was telling me that they had over forty thousand entries for a competition to win two tickets to the Ed Sullivan Show. Isn't that amazing?'

'Um, yes, I suppose...'

'They want to me to come and see all the postcards.'

'The postcards?'

'Yes, the competition entries. At the radio station. I thought if I went with them, then it would lead them away from George's door and he can get some sleep.'

'Oh. Right.' Della frowned. 'Are you sure that's wise? Going off with men to a radio station?'

'Oh, I'll be fine. I can look after myself. I've managed this far.'

'Do you want me to come with you?'

'No, no, honey. I want you to sit with George while I'm gone.'

'Oh. Right. Umm... Let me ask Mal if he can--'

'No, they've all going out with the other boys. It has to be you, Della.'

Okay, now she got it. 'I would, but I don't think George would want me. You heard what he said earlier. We're not really... We're not on speaking terms nowadays.'

'Yes, he did kind of blurt that out earlier, didn't he? Why is that?'

'I think you should ask George about that.'

'Oh, I've tried, but he won't say. I suppose he has got a sore throat.' She laughed, then smiled, expectantly.

Della coughed and shook her head. 'There's no big scandal or anything. It's just... how things are. We had a falling out a few months ago. We're not like we were when we were children. George is different. Very different. I'm different now too... We've just outgrown each other, I think...'

'I bet you can't even remember what you fell out about.' Louise eyes sparkled with a kind of glee. This whole thing had been to engineer this conversation. She was as sly as George could be when he wanted something.

'I can, actually,' Della said, bluntly, her blood rising. 'And I'm sure George can too. But it's done now. It's past. It's a shame we're not friends anymore, but that's just how life goes sometimes.'

'Oh, poppycock.' She sounded a lot more Scouse when she said that. Louise's Liverpulian accent had softened in the years she'd been away from the city, but every so often, in the odd word or phrase, it came out.

'Sorry?'

'The way you and George were close as kids. That's for life.'

Della blinked. 'No, I don't think it is, and that was a long time ago. You haven't even seen me in years. Everything is different now.'

Louise pinched her lips. 'The last time I saw you was just before I left England. George was ill then, too. Do you remember? He was in the children's hospital. We all went to visit him together one Sunday afternoon.'

Della cast her eyes down. There was a very intricately patterned red and yellow carpet in the Plaza Hotel. It ran through everywhere, almost every room. She concentrated on it, tracing the lines in the pattern with her eyes, working out how it all fit together.

'Don't you remember it? He was very ill for a while. You and he would have been around thirteen, I think. You must remember--'

'Yes, I do. I remember it,' Della snapped.

She didn't want to think about that. She hated hospitals. She hated medicine and doctors and all the paraphernalia that went along with it. When they suggested taking George to the hospital earlier tonight, she'd been transported back to that hateful place. She had only been to visit him once, but she remembered every minute of it vividly. The boiled cabbage and disinfectant smell, the yellow painted walls with the brown skirting boards, the small windows with bars across them like a prison.

Louise tipped her head to one side and smiled sympathetically. 'You had tears in your eyes when you saw him all poorly, sitting up in his pyjamas in his little hospital bed. He held your hand and told you not to cry. It was very sweet.'

'I didn't have tears in my eyes,' Della said sharply, annoyed but unable to say why. 'He was almost better by then. He came home a week later.'

'Why don't you go and see him, Della?'

'I couldn't. They wouldn't let me until then--'

'I mean now, hun. Go and see him now. I think he'd be happy to see you. And I need someone to keep an eye on him for me.'

Della pressed her lips together very hard and shook her head.

'You'd be doing me a favour. I feel like I need to get out of this hotel for a while or I'll go mad! I won't be very long. George needs his next dose at nine, so I'll be back by then. Don't tell him where I'm going, he'll only worry.' She swept past Della, hitching her bag onto her shoulder. 'Don't be long, honey. I don't like him being on his own.'

'Louise...'

'Look, he'll probably be asleep. If you don't want to talk to him, you don't have to. Just sit there and make sure he's alright. That's all you have to do.'

Della spread her hands to her. 'Louise, please, I can't...'

Louise opened the door on a surprised waiter in a white jacket, holding a plate with a cheese sandwich on it. 

'Thank you, Della!' she trilled, stepping out, past the waiter. 'I won't be long, I promise! No time at all!' 

The room was illuminated with only a single table lamp next to a flickering TV. It was showing some sort of cop drama, left playing low in the corner of the room. George lay on his side, facing away from the door. Della closed it behind herself quietly. It made a soft click but George didn't stir.

Della studied him. She could see him breathing, deep and rhythmic. The blankets on the bed were tangled and twisted, kicked up and untucked from the bottom, but pushed to around his waist.

He couldn't be that sick, could he? He seemed alright on the plane. And earlier, when he was shouting that they weren't friends anymore.

George wasn't one to take to his bed unless he felt truly awful, though. Especially at the cost of missing New York. The British Invasion the media were calling it. The others were out painting the town red and taking full advantage of their fame and fortune. Meanwhile, George was quarantined in his bedroom again, just in case he gave whatever he had to his bandmates.

Della crossed and sat in the hardback armchair next to the lamp and TV, laying the book she'd brought with her on her lap. On Her Majesty's Secret Service. Ian Fleming's latest - just about. It'd been published last year but she'd resisted reading it until now. Spy novels weren't what Della would normally choose to read. It was George who'd introduced her to James Bond. When Dr No came out at the cinema a couple of years ago, he'd been to see it three times and badgered Della into going with him. His enthusiasm had been infectious, as with all things George was passionate about. She'd devoured all of the James Bond novels in the space of a few months, but she hadn't read the latest one. She had bought it but hadn't started to read it when she fell out with George last Autumn.

She'd brought it with her for the plane ride. Nine hours, London to New York. She thought she would need a good book to see her through that, but things had been so hectic on the journey over she hadn't time to read more than a couple of pages.

She opened the book and leaned forward to twist the knob on the small black and white TV, turning the volume to mute so she could concentrate.

'Don't turn it off,' George said, drowsily, his voice scratchy and hoarse. 'I'm listening to it.'

Della hesitated. 'Sorry,' she said after a beat, and turned the volume up again.

George lifted his head, twisting around to see her. He squinted, as if the light was hurting his eyes. 'Della?'

'Louise had to pop out for a minute. She'll be back soon.'

He frowned as if he didn't understand.

'She asked me to sit with you while she was gone.'

'I need a babysitter now, aye?'

'She didn't want you left on your own, just in case you needed anything.'

George huffed and rolled onto his back. Della lifted her book and pretended to read, aware he was still watching her.

'Water,' he said, a command. 

'What?'

'I need water.' He nodded his head to a waiters cart draped with a white tablecloth, left at the end of his bed. There was a glass jug of water with ice, as well as what must be the remnants of George's dinner. He hadn't eaten a lot of it.

Della stood and dropped her book on the chair. She took the empty glass from the nightstand beside George's bed, crossed and filled it without much care, losing drops of liquid onto the linen tablecloth. She brought it back to George.

'Sit up to drink it or you'll spill it.'

George stared at her then pushed himself up into a sitting position. He took it from her, had a few sips not taking his eyes from her and gave it back to her. Della put it on the nightstand - easily within his own reach - beside the bed.

'Need anything else?' she asked, tersely.

'Pillows need plumping.'

He leaned forward. Della reached and pulled his pillows up for him, without much care, and gave them a couple of cursory doffs. She stepped back and George settled back against them.

'Better?'

'Much.'

'Does your throat hurt?'

George nodded.

'Shut the hell up then.'

She returned to her chair and sat down with her book, making a show of flicking through the pages and tutting when she couldn't find her place. 

'Your bedside manner needs work,' he said, eyebrow cocked, and Della hid her smile with the covers of James Bond.

'What are you reading?'

'A book.'

'I can see that.'

She huffed, annoyed. 'On Her Majesty's Secret Service.'

'Any good?'

'Haven't you read it?'

'No.'

'Well, neither have I, so I don't know. I haven't read enough yet.'

'Borrow it me after you've done.'

Della didn't respond. She was being unnecessarily brisk with him, but she couldn't help herself. In truth, the anger she had with him had faded and now she didn't know how to behave around him. It was unsettling to be like that with George. He'd always been the one constant, the one person she thought she could rely on.

She stole a look at him but he had his eyes closed now.

Della tried to read. She looked at the words, scanning her eyes over each line and noisily turning the pages, but not a single piece of information sank in.

'Where's Lou gone?' George asked.

Della sighed as if he was annoying her and lowered the book. 'She went out for a while. She needed a break.'

George gave a short nod. Della raised the book again.

'Why didn't you go out with the others?'

'Why didn't you?' she shot back, defensively, dropping the book closed onto her lap.

'I'm ill.'

'You seem fine to me.'

George shook his head.

'I think you're just playing for sympathy,' Della said, unsure if she was joking or if she meant it, but George smiled wryly.

'What's your excuse? I thought everyone had gone except me and my sister.'

'I...'

She glanced around the room. Whatever medicines they were administering to George had been laid out on the dressing table beside the door. There were three brown bottles of pills, white printed labels on the front, a black clip fasten box and a disturbingly large, chrome injection needle.

'I didn't fancy it. I'm tired from the plane.'

George nodded. 'Paul.'

She turned her head back to him.  'What?'

'Paul's an arse.'

'Yeah, he is, but how is that any different from normal?'

George laughed, but it turned into a cough and the cough turned into a hack, wracking and shaking his body in an alarmingly violent way, and then just as Della got to her feet, worried that she might have to fetch the doctor, it subsided. George moaned with the exertion, swore under his breath and slumped back against his pillows.

Now she looked at him properly, he did look quite ill. His face was pale, black rings under his bloodshot, sore looking eyes. His lips, usually a deep red colour, looked thin and grey even in the dim light.

She went closer. 'Are you alright?'

George shook his head and reached for something on his nightstand; an ice pack, partially melted. It left a puddle behind. He held it against his neck.

'Should I get someone?'

He shook his head again.

'Have a drink then.'

George ignored her, closing his eyes. Della got the water glass for him, pushing it under his nose until he took it from her and drank.

'Why are you here?' he croaked in between sips, his voice suddenly reduced to a whisper.

'I've told you. Louise had to--'

He shook his head. 'America. Why d'you come? You've not done anything for us since... last year.'

Della blinked. 'Because Wendy's ill and Brian asked me to cover for her.'

George exhaled and nodded. 'I didn't know she was ill.'

'Maybe she has whatever you have.' She smiled, weakly. 'Brian needed an assistant and I didn't want to let him down. He's been very kind to me.'

George twisted to try and put the water glass on the side and hold his ice pack at the same time. It seemed to be a gargantuan effort for him. Della took the glass and put it on the nightstand.

'I know it was you who got me the job with Brian. Not Paul.'

George lifted his eyes to her, questioning, then gave another solitary nod.

'Brian told me it was you, and... um, I never thanked you for it so... thank you.'

George closed his eyes again, not reacting to the comment. Della took a step back from him, but seemed unable to turn away. 'Are you going to miss the show?'

He opened his eyes again.

'Someone said... that if you're still this poorly by tomorrow night, you might miss Ed Sullivan.'

George tried to swallow and grimaced with it. He shuffled sideways a few inches and patted the mattress, inviting Della to sit down on the bed. She hesitated, then perched uncomfortably on the edge, tucking her hands in between her thighs.

'Are you still angry with me?' George asked, adding needlessly, 'For Paul?'

Della looked at the floor. 'Yes...  No... I don't know, George.'

'I'm sorry.'

She gave a half-shrug. 'It doesn't matter now.'

'I never told him to leave you. I didn't want him to do that. He was cheating on you. I told him to stop. That's all.'

'I know you were... trying to look out for me, but it wasn't your place to interfere between me and Paul.' She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, unable to look at George. 'I... I knew what he was like. It wasn't unnoticeable. If we went out anywhere together girls would be flirting and pawing at him, and he wasn't exactly beating them back with a stick. But what you did... It made him do something about it...' She paused. 'And that something was to get rid of me.'

'I didn't mean for...'

'I know. I know you didn't, but that's what happened, isn't it?' She sighed. 'It's all in the past now. It's water under the bridge. There's no point in fighting about it forever.' Della swallowed, surprised to find tears pricking her eyes.

Neither of them spoke. When the phone on the other side of the bed rang a moment later, they both jumped and turned to stare at it like they didn't know what it was.

'Who's that?' Della asked.

'Won't know unless you answer it.'

George leaned over to reach it, but Della jumped up. 'I'll get it. You stay where you are,' she told him as she walked around the bed and snatched the receiver up.

'Hello?'

'Della, hun? It's Louise.'

'Oh, Louise. Is everything okay?'

'Yeah, yeah. Listen, it's time for George's medication. Do you think you could give it to him?'

'That's Lou? Where is she?' George asked. Della waved at him to shut up.

'I can't. I don't know what I'm doing.'

'It's easy. I've written it down. There's a note by the--'

'Aren't you coming back? You said you'd be back.'

'What?' George said, and coughed on the word. 'Give me the phone...' he croaked. 'Where is she?'

'I told you, she's gone out. Shut up, I can't hear for you.'

On the phone, Louise sighed. 'Well, at least you're talking to each other again. You'd better let me speak to him.'

Della passed the receiver to George and went to the end of the bed.

'Lou? Where are you?.... What are you doing there?!'

Della loitered at the foot of the bed for a couple of minutes, trying not to listen to his conversation. She waved to attract his attention and pointed to the door, indicating she was leaving to give George some privacy.

George beckoned her back. 'Wait,' he said, covering the mouthpiece, then back into the phone, 'Just someone. I was telling her not to go... Um, yeah, she's called Della...  I don't know. Years. Since we were kids...'

At that point, Della realised George wasn't speaking to his sister anymore. And she realised his sister had gone to a radio station. And Brian had made exclusive deals with other radio stations...

'George,' she hissed. 'George, hang up!'

He waved her away and started talking about guitars with whoever was on the other end of the phone.

'Get off the phone!' Della said, coming round to the side of the bed. 'Now, George. Hang up!'

'Yeah, they're gear. I usually play a Gretsch but Rickenbacker's fab too. I picked up a 425 when I was over here visiting Lou last year...'

Della put her finger on the pips, cutting the phone call off abruptly. George looked up at her, questionly. 'That was rude. I was talking to a fella.'

'What fella?'

'I don't know. One of the radio guys with Lou.'

'Brian's promised an exclusive deals to WINS. He'll go up the wall.'

'We were only talking about guitars.' George scowled at her and dropped the receiver back into its cradle. 'You didn't say Lou had gone to some radio station.'

'She promised me she'd be back before you needed your next dose of... whatever you're taking.'

'On the dresser.'

'What?'

'The medicine.'

Della glanced at it. 'Can't you get it yourself?'

'I'm the patient.'

'A sore throat doesn't affect your legs, does it?'

George huffed and pushed his covers down, lifting his legs over the side of the bed, slowly, pained. He paused and looked up at Della, doing his best to look pathetic.

She rolled her eyes at him. 'Alright, fine. Wait there.'

George grinned and got back under the bedcovers a lot quicker than he got out. Della went to the dressing table by the door. She picked up one of the bottles. The label might as well be written in latin for all she understood it. 'I don't know what to give you, George. I don't know what's what.'

'There's a note,' George said. 'Lou wrote it down.'

There was a piece of paper held down with the injection needle, like a paperweight. Della picked it up with her fingertips and dropped it to the side of it. If he needed an injection of something, he'd just have to miss Ed Sullivan. There was no chance she was giving it to him.

The paper was filled with dense, swirly handwriting Della could barely decipher. She took it closer the lamp and read it, then again, then a third time to make sure she understood what she was looking for. Then she took it back to the table and counted out the pills he needed to swallow, checking and double checking them. By the time she took them back to George he had drifted into sleep.

'Hey,' Della said, nudging the side of the bed to wake him. 'Come on, take these.'

George opened his eyes. 'Fuckin' hell, Della. Any longer and it'd be time for the next lot.' He took the pills from her and Della passed him the water glass, watching him as he swallowed them with some difficulty.

'This stuff still gives you the heebie-jeebies, then?' George asked as she took the glass back from him.

'No,' Della said, abruptly.

'It's only pills, it's nothing squeamish.'

'I'm not squeamish.'

'Your mother was a nurse!'

'Was a nurse. Was. Not now. Not for years.'

George smiled, knowingly.

Della dithered beside the bed. 'I'll, um... let you go to sleep then.' She turned to go back to the chair and her book.

'He still likes you,' George said, behind her. 'Paul.'

Della turned around. 'Did he say that?'

George pressed his lips together and shook his head. 'You can tell by the way he behaved on the plane. Paul didn't know you were coming either.'

'So by behaving like I didn't exist, that's supposed to show me that he still cares?'

George smiled, weakly. 'By pretending he doesn't care, you can tell he does.'

Della exhaled. 'Well, don't worry, because I don't think Paul and me getting back together is on the cards anytime soon. He's too.... Well, he's too Paul, isn't he?'

'You could...' He had to pause to cough. '...talk to him.'

Della shook her head. 'We would have broken up eventually anyway. You probably did me a favour. Saved some time.' She straightened her back. 'Do you need anything, anyway? Anything to... drink or eat?'

George shook his head.

'You should try and sleep.'

'Can't. Even if they shut up outside for a while, I keep myself awake with coughing.'

'You won't miss the show, will you?'

He gave a half shrug. 'If I don't get any better, I will.'

Della moved closer and sat on the side of the bed again. 'George, you can't miss it.'

'I can't stand up without feeling dizzy and sick. I won't be able to play guitar.'

'What is it they're giving you?'

George glanced at the medicine table. 'I don't know. They've all got complicated names. I just swallow it or let them inject it in me.'

Della grimaced. 'What are they going to do if you're still sick? Go on with just the three of them?'

'I'm letting them all down, aren't I?'

'It's not your fault.'

'It's not anyone else's.'

'It's no one's fault, Georgie.'

The door to the room opened and Louise poked her head through. When she saw Della next to George she opened it properly, a smile spreading over her face. 'I'm back now, Della, so you can go. Thanks for that.'

Della stood. 'It's alright.'

'Did you give him the medication?

Della nodded.

'A radio station, Lou?' George said. 'What were you doing?'

'How are you feeling?' Louise replied, ignoring his question.

'Same as before.'

'You should try and get some rest,' Della told George. 'You never know, you might feel better after a good night's sleep.'

George stifled another cough, pressing his ice pack to his throat. 'Not much chance of that.'

'Brian won't let you miss the show. He'll find some doctor that can help you or... or something. I'm sure it'll be alright, Georgie.'

George nodded, although he didn't seem convinced.

'Goodnight, then.'

He nodded again and smiled wanly. Della retrieved her book from the chair and went to the door as Louise quizzed him on his medication and when he'd taken it.

'Della,' George said, as she reached for the handle. The loudest he'd spoken since she'd been in his room. She turned around to him. 'Hold on a minute.'

He moved his gaze back to his sister and it took a few seconds for her to realise it was her cue to leave them alone. 'Right, well, I think I'll turn in. If you need me George, get the switchboard to buzz my room. You go to sleep now.' She crossed to the door, patting Della on her arm as she passed. 'Don't keep him up all night, hun.'

Della shook her head. 'I'm going to bed soon, too.'

Louise give her another smile and left, letting the door drift shut behind her.

'It's been nice, talking to you,' George said, pulling his covers up to his neck.

'You too.' Della smiled.

'Thank you for... keeping me company.'

'It's okay.'

'Don't be worried about Paul.'

'I'm not.'

A pause. Him looking at her and her looking at him. He seemed to be asking her something. She thought she knew what it was.

'Go to sleep, George.'

He nodded and gave her a small, sad smile.

Della slipped out of the door, closing it quietly behind her and walked towards the lifts, holding the book to her chest, head down and deep in thought. The lights in the corridor outside George's room were dazzlingly bright compared to the dimness inside his bedroom.

She pressed the button for the lift, then changed her mind and took the stairs to the sixth floor. Her room wasn't as palatial as the Beatles' suite. Just a single bed in a small room with a sink. Nicely decorated but there wasn't a TV or en suite bathroom.

She got ready for bed as quickly as she could, washing her face and brushing her teeth, changing into the navy t-shirt she always slept in. It wasn't a particularly good quality t-shirt, it was only a plain cotton jersey and she'd worn and washed it so much that there were small holes coming in the hem and seams of the sleeves. It was the one thing she couldn't stop when she fell out with George. She still wore his t-shirts to bed.

She pulled back the covers to her bed, but hesitated. She'd left her book on the nightstand. On Her Majesty's Secret Service, read the cover with Ian Fleming's name in bold silver letters. There was a picture of a hand drawing a coat of arms with The World Is Not Enough beneath it on the slip cover and a sticker announcing, 'A James Bond Thriller - Another Daring Adventure with 007!'

Before she could talk herself out of it, Della slipped her long winter coat over her t-shirt and her feet back into her tennis shoes. She cracked the door and peeped out into the corridor. No one there. She stepped out, closing the door behind her and then as silently and as stealthily as possible, Della snook back up to stairs to the twelfth floor.

Without knocking, Della stole back inside George's room. He was lying on his side, back to her again and the ice pack on the nightstand. She shut the door behind her and hesitating only a moment, turned the handle to lock it.

Della unfastened her coat and dropped it onto the chair beside the TV, switching the set off as well. She slipped her shoes off and padded over to the bed, pulling the covers back and slipping into it before she gave herself a chance to chicken out.

George moved and twisted round to her, surprised by her sudden appearance, but not questioning what she was doing. He smiled at her in the shadowy light and an understanding passed between them unspoken.

'Just for tonight. Just because you're ill,' Della whispered, as George moved over to make room for her and lay down again with his back to her.

'I might still be ill tomorrow...'

'Don't push it, Georgie,' she warned him but as she said it, she wrapped her arm around his waist, pressed her forehead against his shoulder blade and closed her eyes to inhale him. She was filled with what could only be described as a sensation of relief, of warmth and ease. Of home.

George put his hand on top of her arm around him. 'Feels nice,' he murmured.

'Shhh. Go to sleep.'

They lay in silence. Even the fans in the street below had quietened. Della squeezed George tighter.

'Do you remember when you were thirteen and they took you into Alder Hey hospital?'

George didn't reply. She couldn't tell if he was listening or if he'd already fallen asleep.

'You were gone for six weeks. No one would tell me where you were or what was wrong with you. I wasn't allowed to visit. It was the longest you'd ever been away. I didn't think you were going to come back...'

There was a pause of a few seconds, then finally George said, 'I wasn't dying.'

'I didn't believe it. I didn't believe my mum when she said you were at the children's hospital. It was like when she lied to me about Mackie.'

George lifted his head. 'Mackie?'

'Yeah.'

'Mackie was a cat.'

'Mackie was run over and killed and she said he'd gone to live in the country. I cried for days because I thought Mackie didn't want to live with us anymore.'

'You must have only been about six. She wasn't going to tell you he'd been squashed under a truck.'

'My dad came back from London on the weekend and he told me what had happened to Mackie properly.'

'So did you think I'd gone to live in the country?'

'No, I knew you were ill. You'd been in bed for a week and then... you weren't there anymore.'

'I had nephritis then. I don't have that now.'

'I didn't like not knowing what was happening to you. I didn't like not... hearing from you. Talking to you every day. Not... knowing you anymore.'

'I was in hospital. I wasn't ignoring you.'

'I mean... now. These last few months. I don't like not knowing you now.'

George didn't say anything. A minute passed.

'Fuck, all that spinach. That's all they gave me to eat in Alder Hey. I still can't look at a Popeye comic book.'

Della smiled behind him.

'Spinach for breakfast, lunch and tea. It would have made you puke, Del.'

Another pause.

'You came to visit me once.'

Della nodded, even though George couldn't see her. 'The weekend before they let you home. There were tons of people there. I came with your parents and your sister and her husband, but there was all those spotty kids from your school there too. The nurses started bleating about there being too many people and your dad told them to bugger off.'

'I can't help it if I'm so popular.'

'I was so angry.'

'Because of the nurses?'

'Because your friends came too. Visiting was only an hour and I hadn't seen you in weeks. I could put up with your family, but those lads were goofing around and being pricks. I just wanted it to be us. Me and you.'

George laughed quietly. He sat up, taking the blankets up with him. 'Turn over,' he told her. 'I can't sleep like this. I have to be behind you.'

Della obliged, shuffling around to roll onto her other side. Although the bed was bigger than most they'd shared before, it still wasn't built for two.

'Would you rather sleep on your own?' Della asked.

'Of course not,' George said, settling behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist, searching out her hand and threading his fingers through hers.

It'd been horrible to visit George at the children's hospital. It was why the memory was so indelibly etched in her mind. He'd looked so pale and sick, with a yellow pallor to his skin still even though he was meant to be getting better by then. His school friends were there already when Della arrived, but George wasn't paying much attention to them. There was a dullness in his eyes when they first walked into the ward. A bored torpidity, an apathy and inertia which wasn't George at all. It was what had brought tears to Della's eyes, but when George saw them approaching, he sat up and smiled and life ignited in him again.

He said to her, what are you crying for? And Della had denied she was, wiping at her eyes so hard that it hurt. That's why he took her hand, to stop her and pulled her closer to him at the head of his bed. He carried on conversations with all his visitors, but kept holding her hand the whole time. The visiting hour flew by. Della didn't wanted to leave him there. They almost had to pull her away. It was hard to let go of his hand. It was hard to let go of George.