It wasn't as if he could say he was just nipping out, so instead George waited for the rehearsals to finish and slipped out when no one was looking. The record company was taking them to dinner shortly, but he'd only be a few minutes. It was raining outside. He paused to light a cigarette in the porch doorway of EMI studios reception, then half-walked, half-jogged through the carpark, over the zebra crossing and down the long road to the cafe that stood opposite the tube station.

They'd flown to London this morning from Liverpool. A small luxury and extra insurance after the travel problems they'd had at the start of the year when the country was covered in all that snow. They'd arrived at just after lunchtime, checked into the hotel and then headed straight over to EMI for a supervised rehearsal ahead of tonight's recording.

It was their second recording session, but the first that felt real. The first with Ringo on drums, the first with all of them together, and it was going to produce their first single. Hopefully not their last. Hopefully one of their own compositions too, although, not if the record company got their way.

They'd given them an acetate of a song they wanted them to record the last time they were here. Some bouncy, sugary pop song. They'd hated it immediately, but had obediently learned it and attempted to rearrange it to appease their new producer. Still, they didn't want to go back to Liverpool with someone else's song and not that song. It would feel like a failure. A defeat.

Della was early, like he knew she would be. She would have come here straight after work, even though she wasn't meeting him until six. She stood outside the cafe, head turned away and nervously shifting her weight from one foot to another as she twirled a large black umbrella on her shoulder. As he crossed the road towards her, she turned her back without seeing him, passing the umbrella from one shoulder to the other.

'Hi,' he said behind her and Della swung round, making him duck out of the path of the large, brutal spike on the top of her umbrella. 'Hey, watch what you're doing with that brolly,' he warned. 'You'll have my other eye.'

Della stared at him. 'What are you doing here?'

'Nice to see you too,' George replied, sardonically, grinning anyway.

She shook herself slightly, as if to wake herself. 'Sorry, I wasn't expecting...' Della stopped, smiled at him and raised herself on to her tiptoes to give him a one armed hug around his neck. 'Good God, look at you. What the hell have you done to your eye?'

George pulled out of her hold and grinned, sheepishly. 'Me? Nothing. It was some meathead of a bloke in the Cavern that did this.' He pointed to his left eye, knowing there was a black-purple bruise there, the remnants of an injury inflicted a few days previously and although it still looked bad, it was nothing to how it'd looked the morning after it had happened.

'Fighting?'

'Well, he was. I was just sort of... there.'

Della smiled, crinkling her forehead sympathetically, as she reached to touch the side of his face. 'Your cheek is swollen.'

George's first reflex was to flinch away from her, but he didn't. He stayed still and let her lightly brush her fingertips over the tender skin below his eye.

'Yeah, and it was a good few days ago now.'

'Gosh, George, he must have really walloped you one. What did you do?'

'Said something I probably shouldn't have. It wasn't really a punch.'

Della frowned. 'Did he hit you with a billy club or something?'

'It was more of a...' George mimed a headbutt. '...kiss.'

'Well, he kissed you good and proper.'

She was still stroking his cheek with her thumb. It felt nice. This close and with the dampness in the air from the rain, he could inhale her perfume easily. He didn't know what it was. Something she'd started wearing in London. Something uniquely Della.

'Poor Georgie,' she cooed. 'You and your big gob, eh?'

He shrugged, valiant. 'They were mouthing off about Ringo replacing Pete. It gets on your nerves so I told them to fuck off. I'd say it again in the same situation.'

'You would,' she laughed. 'You never learn your lesson, do you?'

He smiled. 'I suppose I don't.'

Della seemed to notice she was still touching him and withdrew her hand sharply, taking a small step back from him and doffing his ear with the side of the umbrella.

'Give me that. You're lethal with it.' George took the umbrella from her and held it over both of them.

Della smiled thinly and stuck her hands in her raincoat pockets. 'So you must be here to tell me he's not coming.'

George shook his head. 'No, he's on his way. I thought I'd nip down here first, say hello and give you a couple of interview tips.'

'Tips?' she echoed with more than a smidgen of disbelief. 'When have you ever had a job interview?'

'Hey, I have! For Blacklers, for one.'

'That wasn't a proper interview. You went in for the window dressers job and came out an apprentice electrician.'

George laughed. 'The butcher's delivery lad then. I had an interview for that.'

Della frowned. 'What did they ask you?'

'If I could ride a bike.'

'Well, great. If Brian Epstein asks me if I can ride a bike, then I've got it in the bag.'

George smiled.

'So, come on. What are your expert interview tips, then?'

'Don't lose your temper,' George said, quickly, his speech well rehearsed. 'Don't ramble on, going off at a tangent. Think about what you're saying, be polite and if there's something said that you don't agree with, close your bloody mouth and think before you answer. Don't say something that you'll regret later.'

'I don't do that,' Della said, offended. 'And I'm always polite to everyone!'

George tipped his head to one side. 'Of course. You're always level headed and keep your cool, don't you?'

Della opened her mouth to argue, but hesitated. 'Well, gee, thanks, George,' she said, sulkily. 'As if I wasn't nervous enough already, you've just made a special journey down here to tell me I'm rude, I jabber on like an idiot and I can't control my temper.'

He laughed. 'Don't be nervous. Brian's alright, he's just a bit... proper. You know.'

She shook her head, vaguely. 'What if I bugger it all up, George?'

'You won't.'

'What if I do?'

'Della.'

'I don't want to let Paul down. Not when he's gone to all this trouble.'

George blinked and fixed his smile. 'You'll be alright.'

She sighed, unconvinced. 'Do I look okay?' Della wore a knee length raincoat, cinched to her waist with a tie belt. She unfastened it and held her coat open for George to look at her and he felt an odd sort of twinge in his abdomen.

'Yeah,' he said, and coughed, giving her a quick glance. 'You look... fine.' He cast his eyes upwards, to the roof of the umbrella and the grey clouded sky beyond it.

'I don't look too tarty, do I?'

'No.'

'But am I tarty enough?'

'What?' That caught him off guard. He looked down at her again.

Della was dressed in a pale yellow shirt, top button undone, tucked into a matching navy A-line skirt. The necklace he'd given her a couple of years ago was around her neck. She put her hand to her shirt and tugged two of the buttons open, revealing the fleshy top of her breasts, the hint of lace, edging her bra. 'Is that better?'

'What are you doing?' George said, alarmed, and forced his eyes from her chest, gripping the umbrella in both hands. Fucking hell, Della, you don't make it easy, do you?

'Two or three buttons undone? Which looks better?'

'Two,' George said, firmly. 'In fact, one. Or none. What do you mean?'

She huffed and fastened a button again. 'Look, I know it's not supposed to go like that, but I've been through enough job interviews now to know if you show a little leg and flash a bit of cleavage, it can... oil the wheels, so to speak.'

George stared at her and then burst out laughing.

'Shut up, idiot. It's true. You don't know what it's like for women in the workplace. Men are all the same, and--'

'No,' George said, waving his hand at her. 'Not this one. Not Brian Epstein, believe me.'

'"Proper" or not, Georgie, I'm telling you, it's how the world just is and...'

'Del, you're not his type. Honestly, you won't have that kind of problem with Brian.'

Della studied him, confused.

'I'm more likely to have that kind of problem. Or maybe John, some say, but don't tell him I told you that.' George grinned and waggled his eyebrows and Della finally caught onto his meaning.

'Oh. Oh, well, damn it,' Della said, turning her head away and fastening her raincoat again.

'What? Wouldn't it be better? What with your current boss being such a slimy bastard?'

'No, no, I mean, now I'm going to have to be good, aren't I? He's only going to employ me based on my... bloody merits. Urgh, this isn't going to work.'

George put his hand on her arm. 'Della, you will be good. You are good.'

'How can you say that? I don't even know what the job is. What's he want me to do?'

'Well, it's... Just a sort of assistant and secretary...'

'Doesn't he have a secretary already?'

'Um, not one in London...'

Della frowned. 'I don't understand... George, why does Paul want me to do this?'

That was a good point. In truth, Paul didn't, or at least he didn't seem bothered either way. Brian had agreed to give Della a job, on the stipulation they tell Paul and ask for his approval. He didn't seem to care, so George was going to write and tell Della some kind of story about how Brian needed someone based in London to help him now the Beatles would be recording there. He didn't think Della would go for it if she knew George had set it up for her. But before he had chance to, Paul had run off and told her on the phone. Told her what, exactly, he wasn't sure, but Della was plainly under the impression it was all Paul's idea and George wasn't going to contradict her. It'd look... odd.

He gave a half hearted shrug. 'Well, we're employing a few people we know from back home. Like Neil. He's driving for us full time now, to gigs and that.'

'But...'

'And it'll be fun, won't it? Working with us. We can see a bit more of each other perhaps.'

'I'm not going back to Liverpool,' Della said, warily.

'No. I know that.'

'If that's what you and Paul think, then...'

'It's not. Don't be paranoid. Not everything is a... trick.' He coughed and cleared his throat. 'I better be getting back. Here.' He passed the umbrella back to her and stepped out. The rain was falling heavier now, peppering dark spots on his white shirt. 'See you after, eh?'

'Yeah, okay.'

'Good luck.'

'You too,' she said, adding, 'With the recording,' when he raised an eyebrow.

He smiled at her one last time, then turned on his heel to jog back to the studio. They'd probably have noticed he'd gone by now. He didn't know why particularly, he could just tell the truth, but he already knew he was going to lie and say he'd been out to buy some fags or something like that.

About half way up the road, he met Brian, walking in the opposite direction.

'How do,' George said, cheerily, head down, marching past him.

'George, shouldn't you be--'

'On my way back now!' he called over his shoulder and wished he'd thought to put his jacket on before he'd left.

He had been reading it for probably only a few minutes, but it felt like an eternity.

On all the occasions Della had given this to any of her prospective employers, not one single person had actually read it. Some had flicked through the pages idly while she'd talked. The polite ones had put it to one side and said they would look at it later. More didn't bother to pretend they would.

Della's curriculum vitae was not long by any means, but so far Brian Epstein was the only one to really read it. To study it. Cover to cover. He appeared to even be reading the samples of her typing she'd included. Every so often, he stopped and made a note of something in pencil on a small reporters pad. If she'd known he was going to do this, she would have made more of an effort with it. She should have put it in a nice leather file or had it bound professionally. Not handed it to him like that, loose scraps of mismatched paper in a plain manilla buff coloured folder.

It was excruciating waiting for him to finish. Della didn't know where to look. It felt uncomfortable to sit there and stare at him, but she worried he might think she was bored if she gazed out of the window. Or rude. Was she rude? What had George meant by that?

Della had drunk her cup of coffee within two minutes of receiving it, but Brian had barely touched his. Not so much as a nibble on the two little biscuits that sat in the saucer. Della had munched through hers in seconds. She tried to sit still and not fidget, or drum her fingers on the table, or bite her nails, or do anything else to annoy Mr Epstein. It was kind of Paul to arrange this, but it wasn't going to work, was it? What would Brian Epstein want with a typist based in London?

'Could you travel?' he asked, as if he'd heard her thoughts.

'Yes, Mr Epstein.'

He lowered the top of the cardboard file so he could see her.

'But I live in London. I have no plans to move back to Liverpool.'

'So I understand. How about visits? You could return to Liverpool for, say, a couple of days at a time?'

'Yes, I could do that.'

'Mmm-hmm.' He jotted down a note and returned to his reading.

Della gave in and looked out of the window. The rain was coming down quite heavily now and the road was busy outside with the evening rush hour traffic. She wondered how the boys were getting along. In her nervousness, she hadn't even asked George how things were going at the studios. Maybe that's what he meant when he said she rambled on. Maybe it was what he meant when he said she was rude.

'Very impressive,' Brian said and finally closed the folder, sliding it back over the table top to her. 'It appears you are a competent and skilled typist.'

'Thank you,' Della said and nothing else. She didn't "ramble on", did she? She could be quiet and hold her tongue when it was appropriate.

Brian took a sip of his coffee. He was dressed in a suit. George had been wearing a shirt and tie with tailored trousers - unusual for him - but Brian was a cut above.

George had looked nice. Very nice and smart. Della probably should have told him that too. They were recording their first single. It was make or break time for the band. He was probably full of nerves and apprehension like she was, although you'd never know it from cool and collected George. Still, she should have asked him. He'll think she doesn't care.

Brian's suit was clearly tailor made. Expensive navy blue mohair, flatteringly cut with slim lapels and a two button fasten. He had a pale blue shirt below with a navy and white polka dot pocket square in the breast pocket of his blazer, matching his tie. On the chair next to him was a camel coloured overcoat. His slightly wavy brown hair was cut short and neat, even his fingernails were manicured. He was from Liverpool, but he didn't sound like it. His accent smacked of public school and oxbridge and he spoke in a calm and considered manner. Della had seen him in the NEMS record shop a few times, but she wasn't sure she'd heard him speak before today.

Oh. There was the time she barged in on his meeting with the Beatles backstage in the Cavern Club. He spoke to her then. She wasn't sure if Brian remembered that, or realised she was the same girl.

Brian put his hands together and steepled his index fingers, tapping them against his lips as if in thought. 'There are certain conditions of working for us that you would be required to adhere to,' he said, carefully. 'The boys tell me that you are aware of John's... situation?'

'John's situation? You mean that he's married and there's a baby on the way?'

Brian visibly prickled and sat up straight to glance around the cafe, as if he was checking if anyone had heard her.

There was an old lady bundled up in a man's overcoat, a young girl with a toddler she was trying to coax into eating slices of apple and a grey-haired waitress, laboriously wiping tables and looking like she was about five years past retirement age. None of them would have heard of John Lennon or the Beatles. Even if they had, they wouldn't care if he was married or not.

'Precisely,' Brian said, turning back to Della. 'For the time being, it has been decided that...' He lowered his voice to a whisper, leaning over the table towards Della. '...Cynthia and the baby will be kept out of the public eye.'

'They'll be kept secret, you mean.'

'It's been agreed that it would be preferable if the fans viewed John as still available. The fact he's married may potentially damage the bands popularity.'

'Agreed by who? Not by Cynthia, I bet.'

Brian frowned at her and Della chastised herself inwardly. That was what George had meant.

'Mrs Lennon is in total support of her husband and his career as a musician.'

'Yes, I... I understand that. Sorry.'

Brian cleared his throat. 'I'm told-- I was told by the boys that we could trust you with sensitive matters such as this--'

'You can, Mr Epstein, I assure you.'

Brian pressed his lips together. Don't interrupt him when he's speaking, Della scolded herself.

'I wonder if your relationship with Paul would be cause for concern?'

Della frowned. 'In what way?'

'I understand he's been your boyfriend for more than a year?'

'Yes,' Della said, stoically, resisting the urge to qualify that with a well, not really.

'In the same manner that John's marriage may be damaging to the bands image, Paul having a "steady" girlfriend at this crucial point in their career may also... Hmm, put the fans off...'

'Put them off?' Della echoed.

'As I said, the fans, the girls, they like to think the boys are all single. That there is a possibility that they could be their girlfriend. It's a harmless fantasy.'

'Harmless. I see.'

What was he saying? Was Brian Epstein breaking up with her on behalf of Paul? Maybe this wasn't a job interview. Maybe it was all a ruse to tell her to keep away from Paul McCartney. Della blinked, more upset by this notion than she would have expected.

'So you want me to... stop seeing Paul?' she asked, weakly.

Brian smiled as if this was amusing. 'No, of course not. All I'm saying is, it would probably be advisable if the fact wasn't overly publicised.'

'Oh,' Della said. 'Well, there won't be any problem with that. It's not exactly "overly publicised" at the moment anyway.'

Brian nodded. 'Very good.' He tapped Della's file. 'I see you've worked for E Rex Makin Solicitors?'

Della cast her eyes down on the folder. 'Yes. For a short time.'

'Rex Makin is a family friend of ours. I've known him since I was a boy. He lives near to my parents home in Childwall.'

'Oh. Oh right.'

'I could ask Rex for a reference for you then.'

Della's heart sunk. 'Yes, I... suppose you could.'

Brian sat up. 'I'll do that then. Thank you for attending today, Miss Milton. I will be in touch when--'

'Actually, Mr Epstein. You probably shouldn't bother asking him for a reference. I can tell you what he'd say.'

Brian paused, eyebrow slightly raised. 'Oh?'

'He would...' Della hesitated and took a deep breath. 'I think, in all likelihood, he would tell you not to employ me. I worked for Mr Makin for a few months but I had to leave rather abruptly for personal reasons. In fact, I didn't tell him I had to go, I just left a note and never went back, so I don't believe he will recommend me.'

Brian didn't say anything for a moment, then he nodded. 'I see. Well, I appreciate your honesty.'

Della picked up her file. She didn't think Brian would want to keep it now. She stood up, clutching it to her chest and lifted her coat from the back of her chair. 'Thank you for the, um... opportunity, Mr Epstein. I told Paul I would meet him after the recording, but would you mind telling him that I had to go home?'

'You're not waiting for them to finish?'

'Uh, no. I don't think so. I don't feel... well.'

Brian raised himself up. 'I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?'

Della shook her head. 'No. Thank you, though.'

'Another cup of coffee perhaps? I find it settles the stomach.' Brian checked his watch. 'I think they'll be in there quite a while yet.' He gestured to Della's chair. 'Please, Miss Milton. Do sit down.'

Then she realised. This interview was a farce. It was purely ceremonial because she already had the job. Brian Epstein was obliged to give it to her, because he'd been requested to. Of course he doesn't have any need for a bloody typist. There's hundreds of girls in Liverpool with the same skill set as Della. Probably a lot better and more experienced at it too. Why would he employ someone in London and have her travel up and down the country when he could get someone better locally? Paul had asked Brian Epstein to give her a job and he'd already agreed.

For some reason, this knowledge made her angry. She sat down heavily, holding her coat on her lap, creasing her file beneath it. Stupid bloody file. She wished she hadn't brought it. She felt a fool for showing him that now. She felt a fool for falling for this in the first place. Brian Epstein must be laughing at her. They were all laughing at her.

'I... like your necklace,' Brian said, gesturing to his own neck to demonstrate.

Della put her hand over the pendant. It was the one from George. She'd worn it for good luck. She always wore it. 'Thanks,' she mumbled.

'Comedy and Tragedy,' Brian said. 'I always think that is a very good analogy for life, don't you?'

Della gave him a small smile, despite herself. 'Did you know they are actually named Sock and Buskin? Sock is comedy because in Greek theatre, comedy actors wore a thin sole, low shoe called a sock and Buskin was tragedy because the tragic actors wore an elevated shoe called a...' She suddenly realised she was probably boring him with this trivia. 'A buskin,' she finished, quietly.

He nodded, kindly. 'Do you like the theatre?'

'You might say it's in my blood. My father was an actor when he was younger. He's a director now.'

'Really?' Brian's eyebrows knit together. 'I can't think of any theatre directors from Liverpool, named Milton or otherwise.'

'Um, well, no, he wasn't from Liverpool. My mother is. I think my father was from Buckinghamshire originally. Milton is my mother's family name too. My father's name was Clarence. Jack Clarence.'

'Jack Clarence is your father?'

Della nodded, taken aback by the reverence in his voice.

'Well, I've seen several of his plays,' Brian clapped his hands together. 'I'm a great admirer of his work. I saw Pinter's The Birthday Party just last year. That was directed by him, wasn't it?'

'Yes...' she said in a small voice, regretting bringing him up. Why had she? She wouldn't mention his name to anyone normally for exactly this reason. If they'd heard of him, then Della would end up having to explain how she was his daughter in name only. She didn't know him, she hadn't seen or spoken to him since she was a child. She'd lost her nerve and never approached him at the theatre. Even when he was standing outside of it, closer to her than she was to the cafe door now, she'd looked him in the face, turned her back and walked away. Chickened out for reasons she could quite admit.

She'd lost track of him afterwards. She still read The Stage, the theatre industry weekly newspaper, but there hadn't been a mention of him since the play ended in January.

'He was at the Liverpool Playhouse, too,' Brian persisted, either not noticing or ignoring Della's reluctance.

'Yes, for a while. I think... I think he might have started directing there. I can't remember.'

'Mmm. Before my time, unfortunately, but people always spoke highly of him.'

Della nodded.

'Well, well. It is a small world. Jack Clarence's daughter.'

'Yeah, um...'

How could she phrase it? She had to say it before Brian asked for an autograph or something.

I haven't seen him since he abandoned my mother and me for another woman.

'I don't know him very well. I haven't seen him since... He and my mother are divorced.'

Brian paused. 'I'm sorry. I didn't realise he'd been married more than once.'

Della nodded, unable to look at him. 'I don't think it's something he talks about.'

'I apologise if I have upset you.'

She shook her head. 'No, of course you haven't. I'm... sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up. I don't know why I said it.'

Brian drew a deep breath. 'Well, let's get back to the subject at hand, shall we?' he said, businesslike again. He bowed his head over his notepad. 'I need to think about how you're going to fit into the NEMS organisation. I assume you'll have a notice period to work for your current employer?'

'A month, I think.'

'That should be just perfect,' he said, writing something. 'That will give me time to make the arrangements. My assistant is a fellow called Alistair Taylor. I was thinking of having you help him for a while, so you can learn how the--'

'Mr Epstein, you're very kind, but you don't need to do this.'

Brian lifted his head. 'Do what?'

'I'll, uh, I'll tell Paul it's not for me. It was unfair of him to ask.'

Brian sat up and rubbed his forehead. 'I'm not sure I follow, Miss Milton?'

'The job. I know he's probably asked you to give me a job, but you shouldn't feel obliged to do so. It's not fair. I'd rather... I'd rather get a job based on my own merits, not because of who I know.'

'Your... father?'

She still couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye. She concentrated on the end of his nose instead. 'My boyfriend.'

Brian nodded. 'Quite. Well, that is very noble of you.'

'I'm sorry to have wasted your time.'

'The truth is, Miss Milton-- If we're going to work together, I think we should be on a first name basis...' He consulted his notes. 'Adela? Adela Clarence, of course. The actress. She would be your paternal grandmother, then? You must be named after her.'

Della nodded shortly and cringed inside. He would be a bloody theatre fanatic, wouldn't he? A few people had heard of Jack Clarence. Hardly anyone knew her grandmother's name.

'Most people just call me Della.'

'Della,' Brian smiled. 'And I'm Brian.' He held his hand out to her.

Della shook it perfunctorily. 'Mr Brian.'

'Just Brian will be fine.'

'That's what they used to call you at NEMS. The staff. Mr Brian. I remember hearing them.'

'Ah, the shop. Yes. You must have spent some time in there to know that?'

She smiled, tightly. 'We all did. It was the best record shop in town.'

Brian nodded. 'We built that business up to be one of - if not the - biggest record store in the region. Sales from NEMS directly influence the music charts.'

'Oh, do they?'

'Yes, and we didn't achieve that by employing the wrong people. I have always carefully selected the best people I could find for each role. Do you understand what I am telling you, Della?'

Della blinked and shook her head.

'I would be very happy to offer you a position with NEMS,' Brian clarified. 'Not because the boys asked me to, but because I think you would be an asset to the company. Now, will you accept?'

'For fucks sake,' John said for the third time, hands on his hips, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow and tie pulled not quite loose. 'Why's it always me? It's we, we, we until it comes to the dirty work and then it's, "oh, John, you do it."'

Paul and George exchanged a glance. Ringo said nothing. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet for the latter half of the night. Today had been their first recording session. They'd thought the one in June had been. They'd been wrong. That'd been another audition, an artists test, but today had been Ringo's audition.

Whether something had been lost in translation or miscommunicated was unclear, but obviously EMI had not been expecting Ringo to be with them. George Martin, their producer, hadn't been impressed with Pete. He'd listened to Ringo, and nothing negative had been spoken aloud, but Ringo seemed to think it hadn't gone all that well, and John, Paul and George weren't rushing to contradict him.

'We're here with you,' Paul said, moving closer to John. 'It'll be all of us together.'

'All of us together, but I'll have to say the actual words, eh?' John said.

'You're the oldest,' Paul said.

'And George is the youngest. What difference does that make?' John said. 'Besides, I'm not now. Ringo is.'

The three of them turned to the drummer and he smiled faintly.

'Whatcha reckon, son?' John said, stepping over to him. 'Fancy being the spokesman?'

'Uhh...' Ringo said. 'I... I mean, I could, if you wanted me to...'

'Don't panic,' John said, flatly, fixing George and Ringo with a glare. 'I'll do it. I'll always bloody do, don't I?'

'Sorry,' Ringo said and John tipped his head towards him before striding towards the steps to the recording room and their producer.

They wanted them to put How Do You Do It out as the A-Side. Their own song, Love Me Do, was to be the B-Side. That was something, but it felt like they were just tossing them a bone. They didn't care about the B-Side of the first single of an unknown band. It'd been an effort to placate and appease them, but it hadn't worked.

The romantic notions they'd had about recording previously hadn't quite panned out. George Martin wasn't impressed with any of their songs. He didn't want Ask Me Why or Tip Of My Tongue. He'd out and out rejected Please, Please Me. Told them they'd need to rework it completely - but not on EMI time. Ringo hadn't been on form, nerves getting to him, probably. John's guitar wasn't good enough, they'd borrowed a studio acoustic. They'd over run their studio time by an hour and a bit. And now it was this. The choice. Going back to Liverpool with that fluffy pop song or going back with no recording contract at all.

Paul nudged George. 'Come 'ed.'

George straightened up, taking his guitar with him, hugging it against his chest like it was a magic amulet to protect him. He glanced at Ringo and the drummer followed him, gripping his drumsticks in one hand in a similar fashion.

'What do you think happened with Della and Brian?' George asked as they started the stairs together.

'Della and Brian?' Paul said, incredulous. 'Don't you think we have more important things to worry about right now?'

'Yeah, but I was just wondering. I thought they'd be back by now. Do you think something is up?'

Paul sighed. 'He's going to give her the job whatever. What are you fretting about?'

'Nothin',' George said, as they reached the top. 'I was just... wondering. That's all.'

They squeezed into the recording booth that overlooked EMI studio two below, Ringo closing the door behind them. A big grey mixing desk took up most of the room, with reel to reel tape machines either side. John gave them both a sideways glance as they joined him in front of their producer, George Martin, for what may ultimately turn out to be a foolish confrontation.

George Martin was one of those proper Englishmen. The sort you see in David Lean films. Steel blue eyes and neatly slicked back hair. He wore a shirt and tie while all the other engineers and assistants wore long brown house coats, not dissimilar to the one George's mother wore for cleaning. He was the kind of person who read the news. The kind that got elected to parliament. The kind they made record producers at EMI. His cut glass accent made even Brian Epstein sound common.

'Yes?' he asked. 'Is there a problem?'

'The, um, the thing is...' John started, casting his eyes everywhere but at George Martin. 'We don't want to put that song out.'

'Song?'

'How Do You Do It,' John said, quickly. 'It's not... It's just not us.' He shrugged.

'Oh,' said George Martin, surprised and taken aback. 'Well, that's not really how things work.'

'We understand that, Mr Martin,' Paul said, in that posh voice he usually reserved for speaking to adults; school teachers, coppers, snotty-nosed shop keepers. 'But you see, it's a question of integrity.'

'Integrity?'

'We can't take a record like that back to Liverpool,' George said, quietly.

'They'd... Well, we'd be ridiculed for it,' John added. 'It's not our style.'

George Martin shift his weight and leaned one hand on the desk. 'How Do You Do It is a good record.'

'Yes, but it's not our record.'

'Have you spoken to your manager in regards to this?'

John shook his head. 'He's not here.'

'I'm afraid it doesn't work like that. How Do You Do It is the strongest record we have. It's catchy, upbeat and on trend. It'll make a good first release. This has already been decided upon.'

John looked round at the others. They were losing this argument. 'We'd still prefer to do one of our own.'

Mr Martin sighed. 'Well, when you have written a record as good as How Do You Do It, I will allow you to record it. Until then, I think we will have to stick with what we have.'

The door at the back opened and Brian Epstein stepped inside. 'Oh, excuse me,' he said, taking in the impromptu meeting with a wary look in his eyes. 'The red light wasn't on.'

'Perfectly fine, Mr Epstein,' George Martin said, stepping away from them. 'You can take the boys now. We're finished for the evening.'

'If you understood what it took to get us this far,' Brian said, as they made their way through the narrow corridors of EMI studios, back to the car park and perhaps back to obscurity. 'Then you wouldn't--'

'We do understand, Bri,' John said. 'We're the ones slogging it out on the stage every fucking night, aren't we? And that's how we know we can't take a poncey fucking queer record like that back to Liverpool. We'd be laughing stocks.'

Brian gave John a look. Slightly hurt, George thought, but Brian didn't say anything further.

'Just listen to it,' John said, softer, touching his arm where Brian carried the acetate of the fruits of their recording session. 'You'll see. It's not right. Not for us.'

'Even if that's the case,' Brian said. 'I can't do anything about it. It's the producer and the record company who have final say on the material.'

'Then we'll have to...' John looked around at his bandmates. 'No record is better than a crap record.'

Brian just sighed and they walked on in dejected silence.

'Did you like Della?' George asked, eventually.

'Della?' Brian said, glancing back at him over his shoulder, as if he didn't know who he meant. 'Oh, yes. She seems a very nice young lady. Um, Paul, actually she said to tell you she regrets she won't be able to meet you. She wasn't feeling well so she's gone home.'

'Oh,' Paul said. 'Okay.'

George looked at him. Everything was so unfair, wasn't it? They'd finally got a toe in the door at a record company and they wanted them to put out a non-starter that was going to ruin it all before it even began. And here was Paul, he had a girl like Della and he didn't give a fuck about her. If he didn't want her, why didn't he just let her go? Why keep her dangling on a string like this? Since that day Paul nearly found George's letter to Della, he'd been more conscious about not discussing Paul's girlfriend with him. Until today, he'd hardly even mentioned her, but on top of everything else that'd happened that night, George couldn't stop himself.

'Don't you care?' he asked him as they reached the building's reception area.

'Care about what?' Paul asked, innocently.

'About Della. Who do you think?'

'She's got the job, hasn't she, Brian?'

Brian sighed, other things on his mind. 'Yes. Yes, I said, didn't I? Just a few details to be ironed out.'

'There you are then,' Paul said. 'What are you so worried about?'

'No, not that. Don't you care that she's gone home? Don't you want to see her? Don't you want... her?'

Paul smiled, slyly. 'Oh, don't worry about that. She'll be there. She'll be at the hotel waiting for me.'

'You heard what Brian said.'

'Wait and see,' Paul said knowingly and walked outside.

George pulled his face at his back. Paul was always so bloody confident. So bloody cocksure. He didn't know Della like George did though. Della didn't say one thing and do another. She didn't play games like that. She'd put up with Paul so far, but she wouldn't forever. Surely, she couldn't.

Della lay on her back, in the dimly lit hotel bedroom and felt herself drifting into sleep. They were late. They were supposed to have finished at ten and it was already half past eleven. The room was so warm and the bed surprisingly comfortable for a hotel. She was tired. She'd been at work all day, and she had work again in the morning. It was only Tuesday.

She forced her eyes open and turned on to her side again, propping her head on her hand, crooking her knee and positioning the skirt of her satin nightdress just covering what it needed to. It was making her back ache, lying like this for so long. Paul had better bloody hurry up and get here. If he was coming. They wouldn't have gone on somewhere, would they? He said they were coming back here. They had a plane to catch in the morning. What if something had happened at the studio?

She could feel her eyelids closing again. Maybe she could just have a quick nap. Ten minutes. She'd hear them come in. She just needed to rest or else she wouldn't be much use to Paul anyway.

'Aye, aye, love, you waiting for me?!' John Lennon was suddenly looming in front of her, leering grin, close enough to feel his breath on her face.

Della put her arms out and shoved him away as he howled with laughter. 'Fuck off, John.'

'Hey, have you met Ringo yet?' John said, perching next to her as she scrambled to sit up. He looped his arm around her neck as Della remembered she was wearing only in a thin nightdress. 'This is our Della. She's Paul's girl. Or should that be George's? We're never quite sure.'

Ringo, standing beside the bedroom door, smiled sheepishly. 'Uh, hello, love.'

'Get off me,' Della said, disentangling herself from John. 'Where's Paul?'

John got up and went over to Ringo, nudging him. 'Perhaps she's here for you, Ringo. Is that it, Della? You heard about our new drummer and couldn't wait to get acquainted?'

'What are you talking about, you bloody lunatic?' Della asked, looking for the clock beside the bed. It was after midnight. She must have fallen asleep.

'Well, you are sleeping in his bed, Goldilocks.'

Della blinked. 'No, this is Paul's. That's his suitcase.' She pointed to what she thought was Paul's brown suitcase, standing at the end of the bed, but now she noticed a parcel tag attached to it she hadn't seen before. R. Starkey, 10 Admiral Grove, Dingle, Liverpool.

'This is your bed?' she said, looking at Ringo, feeling her cheeks growing hot.

Ringo nodded, apologetically. 'Yeah. Um, sorry.'

John bellowed with laughter again and crossed to the bed opposite, sitting down on it to untie his shoelaces. 'Stay with us if you like, love. We don't mind, do we, Ritch?'

'I'm so sorry,' she said to Ringo, struggling to get off the bed and keep the skirt of her dress where it should be. 'I didn't realise. I thought--'

'It's alright, love,' Ringo said, kindly, as they circled around each other, exchanging positions. 'Easy mistake. Paul's room is across the hall. He's sharing with George.'

'Spoilsport,' John said to him.

'How's your wife?' Della asked, vindictively.

The laughter died on John's lips, replaced with an ersatz smile. 'She's grand, thanks.'

'Sorry,' Della said again to Ringo. 'It was, uh... nice to meet you.'

'Yeah, you too,' Ringo nodded, averting his eyes. John laughed again, a little more meanly this time.

'Tell Cynthia I said hi,' Della said, with a sarcastic smile, then tossed her hair and flounced out of the room as well as she could in a nightdress that barely covered her bottom.

Della found the room across the hall and went inside without pausing to knock, still hot and flustered. She closed the door and leaned against it, while George, sitting lengthways on one of the bed to smoke a cigarette widened his eyes in surprise at her.

'Hi,' she said.

'Uh, hi,' he replied and coughed. 'What are you doing-- Why are you dressed like--?'

'Give me a fag, George, before I die of embarrassment.' She crossed and sat next to him on the mattress as George reached for his packet of Player's on the nightstand. 'Have you ever wished the ground would just... open up and take you away?'

'Was that you causing all that commotion?' George asked, as he offered the pack to her.

'Yeah. Well, it was John shouting and laughing like a hyena.' Della took one and leaned to light it from the end of George's cigarette. 'I got in Ringo's bed.'

'Ringo's?' George giggled. 'Why did you do that?'

'Not on purpose. I thought it was your room.'

'My room?'

She nodded and exhaled a calming lungful of smoke. 'I fell asleep waiting for you. You were ages. I thought you finished at ten?'

'We, uh, we overran,' George said, suddenly distracted. His eyes drifted over her and seemed to settle on her bare legs. Self-conscious, she took the pillow from the head of the bed and put it over her lap.

George looked up at her. 'Brian said you'd gone home.'

'I was going to. I did. But then I came back.'

'Came back here?' George said, his voice taking on a weird dreamy tone. He was looking at her oddly, in that way he did sometimes.

'Yeah,' she said, aware suddenly that George was leaning towards her. 'I was waiting for you.'

'But you got the wrong room.'

'Yeah. Like I just told you. I thought it was your room.'

'This is my room...'

'Yours and Paul's,' Della said, and put her hands on George's chest, holding him back from her.

George blinked and sat back. 'Yeah. Mine and Paul's,' he repeated and took a long final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, rather aggressively.

'Do you mind?'

'What?'

'Me coming to meet Paul here?'

'Of course I don't. I don't care what you do, Della.'

'Oh. Okay then.'

He sighed and rolled his eyes. 'I didn't mean that how it sounded. I just meant... Of course I don't mind. Why would I?'

'Where is Paul?'

'In the bathroom. He'll be back in a minute.'

'Is... there something wrong?'

George shook his head and smiled. 'Ignore me. It's been a long day.'

She laughed. 'You know, for a minute there, I thought you were going to...'

George flicked his eyes up at her and something made her stop.

The bedroom door opened and George looked away.

'Paul!' Della scrambled off the bed and threw herself at him before he'd chance to close the door properly. 'God, finally, where have you been?'

Paul laughed and held her. 'Here. Why? What's the matter?'

'Oh, nothing. I've just been making a fool of myself again.'

'Do tell,' he said, with a sly smile on his lips. She shook her head. 'Brian said you were going home.'

'You knew I'd come back. I was going to surprise you. You know, be all...' She posed for him, faux suggestively. 'But it... went a little wrong.'

Paul laughed. 'You always surprise me,' he said, his smile widening into a grin, as he moved into kiss her.

She held him back from her. 'We've company,' she said, quietly.

'It's only George.'

Della turned to give him an apologetic smile, but George's head was turned away. 'Still, behave,' she took Paul's hand and led him to the bed opposite George's.

'Did you like the prezzie?' Paul asked.

'Yes, very much,' Della said and held her wrist and her new bracelet up. It was a slim, silver bangle with a single solid silver heart charm attached. 'It's beautiful.' George turned his head back to them. 'Have you seen what Paul bought me?' she said.

'Very pretty,' George said, bluntly.

'It's so you know,' Paul said, moving closer to her so he could nuzzle into her neck. 'You're my girl, Della,' he said in her ear and kissed her there, just once. It sent a shiver through her. 'No matter if I'm in Liverpool and you're in London, or anywhere else. You're still my girl. Any time you forget that, you can look at that bracelet and then you'll remember.'

The bracelet was gorgeous, but it'd been the letter that really touched Della.

She didn't know how he'd done it, but it was there, on the pillow of her bed, waiting for her when she got home. The bracelet wrapped in pink tissue paper and the letter written in fountain pen on crisp, cream paper. A love letter from Paul, the only one he'd ever written to her. He'd sent her lots of letters, but this was the first love letter; full of his feelings for her, how much she meant to him, how he missed her when he wasn't with her. It'd brought tears to her eyes and then brought her swiftly back into London for him.

'Do you want the second half?' Paul asked, leaning back from her.

'Second half?'

He stuck his hand in his pocket and drew out a silver chain, holding it up for her to see, a silver heart pendant to match her bracelet. Della gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

'You're a silly thing,' Paul said, softly, reaching to take her hands in his. 'Fancy writing to George and asking if I was your boyfriend. Of course I am. Who else's boyfriend would I be?'

Della looked at George. 'You told him?'

'He found your letter,' George said.

Della turned back to Paul. 'Thank you,' she said, her voice cracking a little. 'For this and for the job, and everything else. I don't know what I'd do without you, Paul.'

'The job?'

'Brian Epstein offered me a job. I know it was you who asked him to, and I'm grateful. Truly.'

'Oh. Well, actually that was...'

Paul looked at George. George smiled, almost grimly.

Paul turned back to her. 'That's alright, love,' he said. 'I mean, you hate where you work now, don't you?'

'Yes. Yes, I loathe it. I can't wait to hand my notice in. Brian said I should do it tomorrow. Right away.'

'Here, um, put your necklace on,' Paul said. He leaned over and unfastened the Comedy and Tragedy pendant she was still wearing, dropping it onto the bed next to them so he could put the other one around her neck.

This pendant was larger. It had something written on the back of it. She only saw it as he put it around her. She pulled it away from herself to read it.

Forever, Paul x.

'Oh, Paul...'

'Do you like it then?'

She kissed him, deeply and hotly, but only briefly, because George was still watching them. 'Yes,' she said, breaking away from him. 'I love it.'

George stood up.

'I think John's in the bathroom, mate,' Paul said, lifting his head but, keeping his hands on Della's waist.

'Yeah, uh, I think I might... I'll go and see if the hotel has any other spare rooms,' George said. 'You'd probably like the room to yourselves tonight, eh?'

'Georgie, you don't have to do that,' Della said. 'I'll go home.'

'No, it's fine,' George waved his hand at her, going to the door. 'I don't mind.'

'No, George, wait--'

'Thanks, George!' Paul said, over her, pushing her down playfully onto the bed. 'Ta, mate. I owe you one!'

George had already gone, closing the door behind him.

'That was mean,' Della said as Paul moved over her. 'You can't kick him out of his own room.'

'I didn't kick him out,' Paul said, leaning down to kiss her collarbone. 'He went of his own free volition.'

'Get him back, it's not fair.'

'Shut up. When do we ever get to spend the night together, eh?'

Della smiled and Paul kissed her, gently at first, then quickly hotter.

'Have I told you...' he murmured in her ear, '...how fucking gorgeous this nightie is on you?'

'No,' Della said, coyly. 'I don't think you have.'

He smiled. 'It'd look even better on the bedroom floor.'

This is the moment, George thought with sudden clarity. This is when everything changes and nothing is ever the same again. They were on the precipice and life would alter for them, one way or another.

They'd release their first single in a few weeks, regardless of whether it was How Do You Do It or a different one, and it would either make them a success or a failure. Brian Epstein had brought them as far as he could - he'd got them in the door, he'd made people listen and take note, but the rest was down to them and them alone.

If they failed, if it turned out that their music - their act - had only appeal limited to the fans that had followed them around Liverpool venues and the clubs in Hamburg, and the rest of the country didn't take to it, then it'd be over. This would be the peak. They'd probably get a few more years out of playing live, but God knows what they'd do afterwards. God know what they'd do if Rock and Roll, this fad, fell out of fashion. So called experts had been saying it was on its way out for months. Maybe they were right.

George had always been staunch in his belief that they would make it big one day, but in truth he knew as well as any of them that it rested on chance. It was a flip of a coin as to whether they'd be popular or not. But if, by a miracle, dreams came true and they did make it, then everything would change even more. Things they wanted to and things they didn't. It would be inevitable.

The next few months - the next few weeks - would shape the rest of their lives.

The plane was more than half empty, so as per usual the Beatles took a window seat each; John and Ringo on one side of the aircraft and Paul and George on the other.

There was a delay of some sort. They were supposed to have already taken off but they were still sat on the tarmac.

John was talkative, sitting in front of Ringo, twisting round to point something out to him or make some kind of joke. John didn't seem to notice, but Ringo barely said a word back. He answered when he was spoken to and nodded along and laughed at the jokes, but other than that he was quiet. It was a bit more than just tiredness. George should speak to him, and he would, either once they were in the air or maybe tomorrow. Ringo had quit the Hurricanes to join them. He hadn't said anything, but he must be questioning if he'd made the right choice.

The thrill of the recording day had worn off and there was an odd sort of melancholy left over. George felt it too, though for different reasons than Ringo.

Brian sat near the front, an attache on his lap with various papers from EMI and the crucial acetate of yesterdays recordings for him, and them, and probably everyone else they knew, to listen to and assess and bet their futures on.

George wanted to speak to him. He wanted to know what he thought to Della. He hadn't said anything to George, but there was no real reason why he should. Brian had given the Beatles a chance to escape their situation, he'd given them a shot. A job working for him would do the same for Della. She'd be free of her horrible boss in the very least.

But as he looked at her, waving at them from behind the glass viewing corridor in the airport terminal, he knew that he and Della would change too.

Della had called in sick to work to come and see them off this morning. She was waving at them like mad, jumping up and down on the spot, but whether it was directed at George or Paul, two seats in front of him, he couldn't say. Paul, probably, as he was waving back like an idiot too.

And that's what George had to remember now. He had to change things. He had to stop reading into things that weren't there. Stop making a fool of himself over her. Stop thinking about her like he had for - how long, a year? Longer? Yesterday Della told him that he never learned his lesson. Well, last night, when he watched Paul put that pendant around her neck, he finally had learned it. It had hurt more than anything he'd ever felt physically, more than the headbutt to the nose that'd given him the black eye that still lingered, but he'd finally got it.

He wasn't going spend anymore time thinking about her, wanting her, longing for her. Instead, George would concentrate on his own future. The music and the band. She'd always be his friend, but it was clear that was all she was going to be.

George raised a hand in a wave to Della as well, still unsure if she could see him or even if she was looking at him. 'Bye, Della,' he breathed, so low he barely heard it himself, as the plane finally started moving. It rolled forward, incredibly slowly at first, then gathered speed as it turned and took Della from his view.

It accelerated suddenly and launched into the air with that stomach flipping feeling George didn't think he would ever get used to. Within moments they were high above the English countryside. They'd left London behind, and George had left Della behind as well.