Snow fell, not in flakes, but in chunks. Massive, loose chunks of snow as big as Della's fist hit the car like someone was hurling snowballs at them. The little Triumph Herald shook and shuddered with the effort of forcing its path through the flurries on the road, as the squeaky wipers battled to shift snow from the windscreen fast enough so they could see out. They were late and now they'd be later. If they'd left on time, they might have avoided the snow all together. It'd only been snowing for ten minutes.

In the driver's seat, Phil was bundled up in his new grey herringbone Chesterfield coat. A coat befitting of a young, newly qualified solicitor and a Christmas gift from his parents. He dutifully wore the woolly scarf and gloves Della had given him as well, but the thick clothing hampered his movement and made it harder to drive. She could see him losing his temper as he tried to keep the car moving, revving the engine alarmingly even though they were only creeping forward slowly.

Phil yanked the gloves off and threw them behind him so he could grip the gear stick better. 'This is too much,' he muttered. 'Just... too much. We should turn back.'

'We're nearly there now.'

'I don't see why we have to come all the way out here...'

'Because this is where they're having the show.'

'Litherland? What the hell is in Litherland?'

'The Beatles,' she replied, and smiled, but Phil cast her a scowl in return.

'I think we should go back. We have to drive home afterwards. It might get worse.'

'I'm sure we'll be fine,' Della said breezily, but she'd already had to switch the radio off because it kept repeating, The public are urged not to make any unnecessary journeys as at least five inches of snow is expected to fall...

'I'm turning around, Della.'

'Okay. Stop the car then.'

'What?'

'Let me out. I'll walk the rest of the way. If you want to go home, you can, but I'm going to see the band.'

He pursed his thin lips. 'Don't be so... obtuse.'

They drove on in silence for a few minutes, just the swoosh, swoosh, swoosh of the wipers counting the seconds. Phil was prone to sulking. He had a temper that could flare suddenly, and then disappear just as quickly, but he could sulk for England when the mood took him.

'I'm sorry,' Della said, eventually. She wasn't. She didn't mean it, but she'd learned early on in her relationship with him that a quick apology often saved hours of sulking time.

Phil cast her a sideways glance and muttered something under his breath.

'We had to come tonight,' she said, gently. 'I promised I would, and I haven't seen George in so long. Hardly at all since last summer.'

Still Phil said nothing.

'I want you to get to know George too. I'm sure you'd love him as much as I do. He's really very funny and clever and he's the most important--'

'I can hardly "get to know him" when he's up on the stage all night, can I?'

'Yes, but we'll wait around and see him afterwards. Or during, if there's an interval. There might be an interval. I don't know how long they'll play for. There's a couple of other bands on the bill with them.'

Phil sighed.

'And, um... after that, perhaps we could... do something together.'

'Do something?'

'Go for a drink somewhere, maybe...'

'In this weather?!'

'Well... Okay, perhaps not then...'

That hadn't been what she'd intended to say. She'd bottled it. Della had plans for tonight, but she was nervous. Worse than nervous. She couldn't even bring herself to say it aloud to him. That's why she'd brought the confidence booster.

Della lifted her new handbag on to her lap - Phil's gift to her. It was baby pink, onion quilted with a gold clasp fasten, and huge. Almost a travel bag rather than a handbag. It made it equal parts useful and annoying to lug around; useful because it carried everything she envisioned she might need tonight, but heavy and cumbersome with it. She'd never really had a proper handbag before. Not a ladies handbag. It was the kind of thing her mother would like. In fact, she did. Evelyn had fallen all over it when she'd seen it, cooing and stroking it and saying, 'Gosh, Della, this must have cost him at least five pounds!'

Della opened it and took the silver metal flask from inside. This was Alan's. She'd borrowed (stolen) it from the corner cabinet in the living room, along with its contents. She unscrewed the cap and, trying not to breath in so it would minimise the taste, she took a couple of tentative sips.

'What's that?' Phil asked.

'Would you like some?'

'What is it?'

'It's, um... whisky.'

He turned his head so he could blink at her in disbelief. 'Do you normally walk around with a hip flask in your handbag?'

'No. You only gave me the handbag two days ago,' she said, then added, 'That was a joke,' because Phil stared at her like she'd grown a second head. He never seemed to understand when she was joking. 'They won't have a bar there,' she explained. 'I thought we could buy a coke and... add a little bit.'

'Do they... allow that?'

'Well, probably not. We'll have to do it in secret.'

'Della, you are...'

'What?'

Phil just shook his head.

Della needed the whisky tonight. She needed to assuage her nerves so she could do this. Sober, she wouldn't be brave enough. Phil hadn't a clue what was on her mind. She just needed the confidence to... broach the subject. Make the move. His parents had gone away for the New Year, visiting relatives. Phil's house would be empty, except for Phil. And Della, perhaps. She'd take the edge off her anxiety with a couple of sips of whisky and then she'd suggest she could keep him company.

Then, if all went to plan, tonight, Della was going to lose her virginity.

Litherland Town Hall was a long brick building with stone pillars at the entrance. There was a small car park in front of it, but by the time they got there every space was filled. They found room on a side street nearby and trudged back to the Town Hall through the slushy snow, arriving cold and wet.

Phil paid the three shillings each for them to get in, with the woman in the ticket booth warning them the show had already started. They'd missed the first two bands and The Searchers were half way through.

'Do we get a discount then?' Della asked and both the woman and Phil stared at her. She hadn't meant it. She sighed inwardly, took the ticket and went inside.

It was dark inside, the Searchers on stage in full swing. The hall had been designed for mayoral banquets, with a polished parquet floor, wood panel walls and a raised platform at the far end making the stage. There were a few couples on the dancefloor, but it was mostly girls in groups dancing together, their handbags in a pile in between them. Della looked around for George but couldn't locate him.

'Can you see any of them?' she shouted over the music to Phil, as he struggled with the stiff buttons on his coat. 'Are you taking that to the cloakroom? Would you mind taking mine? It's warm in here.'

'I was just going to hold it.'

'We don't want to carry coats around with us all night. The cloakroom is free.' She took her coat off and passed it to him. Phil sighed but obeyed, heading off towards the small cloakroom housed in the Town Hall's reception. 'I'm going upstairs,' she shouted to him as he walked away. She wasn't sure if he heard.

They were serving refreshments on the balcony level. A rotund lady manned a folding table covered with a white tablecloth and holding rows of room temperature coke bottles, packets of crisps and plates of sandwiches. It was reminiscent of a school fayre.

Della bought a couple of cokes for her and Phil and went to stand at the end of the bannister that overlooked the dancefloor and stage below. She rested the drinks and her handbag on a ledge shelf attached to the wall, then swallowed a couple of mouthfuls from each coke, as below The Searchers finished their set.

Turning her back to the room, she surreptitiously took the hip flask from her bag. Quickly, it became apparent that it wouldn't be possible to decant the whisky into the narrow neck of the glass bottle, or vice versa, without spilling half of it. Well, never mind, she thought, taking another quick swig straight from the flask. She hadn't really brought it to share with Phil, anyway.

As she screwed the top back on, she became aware of a man leaning on the bannister about two feet away, watching her. He was thin and tall and wore a dark purple, satin lapelled, two button suit that The Shadows would have been proud of.

'Strictly medicinal,' she told him, holding up the flask. 'This stuff wards off consumption. My granny swears by it.'

'Yeah, mine as well,' he said, a broad Scouse accent, and grinned.

'Want a nip?' she offered.

He took the flask from her and as he tipped his head back with it, Della thought she recognised him.

'Aren't you Faron Ruffley?' she asked, as he gave her the flask back.

He raised an eyebrow. 'Yeah. I am.'

'I've seen you singing. You sing for, um... Tempest...'

'Tempest Tornadoes. The TT's, that's right.' He moved closer to her. 'What's your name, love?'

'Della.'

'Who are you here with, Stella?'

'My boyfriend,' she replied, slickly, and took another mouthful of whisky. The alcohol was warming her nicely.

'Ah, and which band is he in?'

Della laughed. 'Oh, he's not. He's a solicitor. We're came to see my best friend's band play.'

'Really? I didn't think there were any girls on the bill. Which band's that?'

On the stage below, a compere in a black dinner suit appeared. 'Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please! Time now for our headline act! They've come all the way from Germany for you tonight! Direct from Hamburg - The Sensational Beatles!!'

Della moved to look over the bannister. The curtain that had been dropped after the Searchers finished flew up, revealing five figures. Four of them stood in black leather jackets, black drainpipes and daft pink hats, and Chas, the temporary bass player, wore a suit and shirt. John, Paul and George had the black and silver cowboy boots on. Della had laughed at George for wearing them but now, she had to admit, they looked bloody good.

'Gonna tell Aunt Mary--' Paul launched into their signature opening piece before the curtain was even fully up - but it got the audience's attention. The crowd surged to the front of the stage, all notions of dancing instantly forgotten as they jostled for space.

'This band,' she said as Faron came and stood next to her, close, nearly touching her.

'They're your best friend's band?' he asked.

'Yeah, my best friend isn't a girl. He's a boy. He's George--' She pointed to him, standing stage left with his Futurama guitar, as she took another drink from the hip flask. 'George Harrison.'

'I know George,' Faron said, flatly. 'Bloody would be your best friend, wouldn't he?' he added, with a snort and Della would have given him a questioning look if she'd been able to tear her eyes away from the band long enough to do it.

They were fantastic. Wild. Better than the other night at the Casbah, if that was even possible. On the raised stage, they had more room to move and perform. Chas had a couple of gigs under his belt now. He was keeping up a lot better. Della was transfixed. Faron tried to talk to her but she could only offer one word answers and nods in reply. They went from Long Tall Sally into a Chuck Berry song sung by John, then George stepped up for Red Hot. Each time they switched, they passed what looked like a scarf to each other, so the one singing always had it around his neck. When they sang together, they laid it on an amplifier.

'Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you,' Phil said, arriving at the other side of Della as Paul started Red Sails in The Sunset.

'Right here,' Della answered, vaguely. In the corner of her eye, she noticed Faron step back.

'She has a boyfriend,' Phil said to him, hostilely.

'Just keeping the lady company, mate,' Faron replied.

'Della, what--'

'Shush,' she said, looping her arm through his, still unable to take her eyes from the band. 'Watch them, Phil.'

He harrumphed, but turned his head towards the band.

'Fucking hell, look at them,' Della breathed, barely noticing the disapproving look from her boyfriend. 'They're going to be famous.'

It's funny how things change so fast.

Six months ago, they hadn't been to Germany yet. They hadn't played any gigs outside of the Liverpool and Mersey area, except for that week in Scotland where they were only billed as Johnny Gentle and "his group". They were nothing to look at and nobody did.

Less than two months ago, they'd been getting places in Hamburg. The'd come on leaps and bounds in terms of skill and musicianship. Their repertoire and variety couldn't be rivaled by any other group. Playing eight, nine, ten, more hours a day will help you do that. Then, almost overnight, it had all fallen apart.

A month ago, everything was over. It felt like it anyway. George had been home for a week. The rest of the band were carrying on in Germany without him. He'd been wretched and despondent over it.

Then, three nights ago, on Christmas Eve, they'd played the Grosvenor in Wallasey to a half empty room. They'd had a residency there in the summer, before Hamburg, until the locals started complaining about the gangs of Teds they attracted to the area. Christmas Eve was set to be a triumphant return, but it'd been lukewarm. They'd shared the bill with Derry and The Seniors who were popular too, but it was hard to get the Casbah crowd to follow them to shows over the river. They were usually reliant on buses or ferries and there was a restricted service on Christmas Eve.

But how different things were tonight.

The Litherland Town Hall show was supposed to be a dance, but the only dancing going on was on the front row and then it was hard to tell if they were dancing or just elbowing each other for space. As soon as they started the audience had flown to the front, they were jumping up and down, holding their hands out and grabbing for them like they'd seen people at Elvis concerts do. George was glad the stage was raised a good four or five feet, out of arm's reach.

Della wasn't in the front row. He didn't expect her to be, but she was here somewhere. He'd seen her come in, lanky git of a boyfriend in tow. George had been standing in the stage wings, half watching The Searchers and half looking out for Della. He hadn't been convinced that she was going to come at all. It wouldn't have surprised him if Phil had said to her something along the same lines as he'd told him the other night. Would he have dared? The Della George knew would have been furious if someone tried to stop her doing what she wanted, but George wasn't sure just how serious she was about this Phil.

She'd missed most of the show by the time he saw her arrive. She was wrapped up in a long coat that she'd taken off and shoved into her boyfriend's arms. He'd headed off back the way they came in - to the cloakroom, George guessed - and Della had gone towards the chairs at the side of the dancefloor, out of George's view. She hadn't come back by the end of The Searchers set and he still couldn't find her when the curtain went up on The Beatles.

People changed fast too. George had. He felt more mature, more independent than he did when they'd left to catch the ferry from Harwich all those weeks ago. He'd grown up in Hamburg. He proved that he could look after himself, away from Liverpool and his mother's cooking. He'd fed himself, he'd earned money and he'd got himself home again in the end - albeit by the skin of his teeth, but still, he'd survived.

They all felt like that. George supposed that was why Paul had taken to working life like he had. He felt old enough to have a job - a career - now. They were adults.

Maybe Stu had changed the most. He'd fallen in love, and not just the kind of "love" George seen his friends experience before, which was, let's face it, usually more lust than love. At first, they'd had been amused by how hard Stu had fallen for this German girl, but not long after that had turned into envy. No one was going to admit that aloud, but it was still true. Stu and Astrid had a proper relationship. They were even thinking about marriage. They were in love and besotted with each other. Who wouldn't want that?

It'd made John and Cynthia change. They suddenly seemed a lot more serious about each other too, since John had come home. They were inseparable. Cyn was audience now. George could see her, just in the shadows at the side of the stage.

It's what George had put his thing about Della down to as well. It was like the cowboy boots. Or the leather jackets, or the Hofner Club 40's. Once one of them got something, they all wanted one. Stu had got himself a serious girlfriend and they'd all fancied the same. He was over that Della thing now though. Thank God he hadn't made a fool of himself and done something stupid like telling her.

By the time it was his turn to sing, George had stopped looking out for Della. He was concentrating on the music and their performance. Hamburg's shows had been long and tiring. This one was a doddle in comparison. They put their all into it their forty minute set - over in the blink of an eye - and brought the house down. They played two encores and still people were clapping and stamping their feet, calling for more when they put the house lights on and the stewards set about trying to kick them out.

Bob Wooler, the guy who'd arranged the gig for them, invited them upstairs in the town hall after the show and introduced them to a local promoter, Brian Kelly. He offered them more bookings, six to eight quid for each show and they snapped his hand off. Pete went to arrange it with him while the rest of them started packing up. They'd had three gigs in a month and now January was filling up with shows nearly every night. Funny how things change so fast.

'We need to get a van,' John said to him as he hoisted his guitar on his back. 'And someone to drive it.'

They had a van, but only borrowed for tonight. For the gig at the Grosvenor Ballroom, George had took his guitar on the ferry. Pete's drum kit had arrived back from Germany a few days ago. Getting around was becoming a chore.

George nodded as wiped his guitar down with a cloth. 'Neil might do it,' he said, but John's mind had already switched onto something else.

'Everyone's gone now. Wanna drink before we leave? That Wooler bloke's got some bottles in.'

'Yeah, I'll be there in a minute.'

George stood to put the guitar in it's case as John left.

'Oh, sorry,' a voice said behind him. 'I was looking for my friend, George. Have you seen him anywhere?'

George straightened up and turned around. Della stood in the doorway, swaying a little in a blue dress that George had only previously seen her wear for weddings and special occasions. There was a familiar dopey smile on her lips. There was no such thing as a poker face where Della was concerned.

'You kind of look like him, but you can't be him. You're clearly some kind of rock and roll star, hounded by crazy female fans wherever you go.'

He laughed and shook his head. 'Not me.'

'Yeah, you. I was talking to Faron Ruffley out there. He's green with envy. Literally. His skin is a nice emerald shade. They wouldn't let me back here either. There were other girls trying to get in and they didn't believe me when I said I was your best friend. As if anyone would claim that if it weren't true!'

'They're stopping girls getting in here?' George said, cheekily. 'We can't have that!'

Della crossed to him. 'I had to wait for Paul to come out so he could let me in. He's out there with his own fan club.' She put her arm around George's waist and, surprising him, kissed his cheek. 'Did you have a nice Christmas?' she asked, staying with her arm around his back.

George nodded. 'It was alright. Irene cooked dinner. It was baby Paul's first Christmas, not that he had a clue what was going on.'

'I'd forgotten they had a baby now. I haven't seen Harry or Irene in months.'

George smiled. 'How was yours?'

'Oh, okay,' Della said. 'Same as every year, until Evelyn got to the sherry. Then again, that happens every year too, so yeah. Same as normal.'

She said it in a light hearted way, making a joke of it, but George knew there was more to it. She still had her arm around him and he wanted to hug her, but the moment had passed.

'I got you something,' he said, to distract her from the subject and bent down to retrieve it from the front pocket on the guitar case.

'A Christmas present?' Della asked.

'Well, it's not a Easter present.'

'The last time you bought me a Christmas present, we were about ten years old!'

'That's not true,' George protested, although at the back of his mind he knew it was. Well, perhaps he was making up for it now, because he actually had two gifts for her. Both had been bought in Hamburg and both had luckily made it back to England in one piece. One was slightly more significant than the other. He plumbed for the other gift. A small box, crudely wrapped in bright red paper. He'd attempted to add a ribbon bow but now it looked too much, too try-hard. He pulled it off as he turned around to face her, holding it out for her.

'Oh, George,' Della said. 'You didn't have to.'

He rolled his eyes and shook it at her to take. Della stepped forward and stumbled slightly. George frowned. She was behaving oddly. Kissing him, hugging him, swaying about when she walked. Della took the parcel and sat down on the dressing room bench seat to unwrap it.

'Oooh, it's lovely,' she said, extracting the glass bauble from the box inside the paper. 'What is it?'

George laughed and sat on the bench next to her. 'It's a snow globe of Hamburg. Like you asked for.'

She looked past the snow globe at George, closing one eye to focus on him. 'I asked for this?'

'You said to bring you back a souvenir.'

She tipped it upside down and then righted it to watch the tiny flakes of "snow" flutter down over the little model buildings and ferry supposed to represent Hamburg. 'Was it nice in Hamburg?'

'Um, "nice" isn't the word.'

'Maybe I could go there one day.' She rested the globe on her lap. 'Maybe I could go anywhere one day. It would be nice to see the world outside of Liverpool.'

'You could come and visit us in Hamburg.'

She looked up at him. 'You're going back?'

'Well, maybe. I don't know yet. I'd have to wait until I was eighteen.'

She folded her hands in her lap, still holding the snow globe there. 'Oh.'

George nudged her. 'What?'

'Nothing. Just... You're leaving again so soon.'

'Will you miss me?'

She nodded. 'Believe it or not.'

'You've got Phil, haven't you?'

'He's not the same.'

He smiled, kindly. 'I'm not eighteen until the end of February. I'll be around at least until then. The guy who set up this show has offered us some more gigs.'

'Oh, wow, George. Eight whole weeks.' The snow in the globe had settled. Della tipped it over again. 'It's all happening for you though, isn't it?'

'What is?'

'This. The band and that.'

George shrugged, modestly. 'Well, it's up and down, y'know. A week or two ago, I didn't even know if there was going to be a band anymore.'

Della wrinkled her forehead in disbelief. 'What? When the five of you can whip a crowd into a frenzy like those batty girls out there? Are you kidding? You're going to be... huge. The next Elvis.'

George laughed. 'I don't know about that.'

'Will you still remember me when you're famous?'

'Della, I could never forget you.'

It was supposed to be a joke but Della didn't laugh. Instead, she leaned in towards him. He thought for a fleeting moment that she was about to kiss him, but then she swung backwards again. She was swaying like one of those roly-poly toys, the dolls that when you pushed them, they tilted and wobbled but didn't fall over. This close to her, he could also see a glassy sheen in her eyes.

'Have you been... Are you drunk?' George asked.

Della blinked a couple of times. 'I am a bit... tipsy, I think.'

George laughed. 'How? There isn't a bar here.'

'I brought my own.' She looked around, searching for something. 'Oh, I left my bag outside with Phil. I've got a hip flask in it.'

George cocked an eyebrow.

'I thought I... might need it.'

'What for?'

'I'd better go and find him before he gets another of his sulks on,' she said, neatly side-stepping the question. 'Or picks a fight with Faron Ruffley.'

Della stood and reached for George's hand. 'Come with me, I have a prezzie for you too.'

Della seemed drunker when she walked. George put his arm around her back to steady her, and was still holding her like that when they found Phil, leaning on the wall in the main dancehall, clutching a large pink handbag. He scowled when he saw George.

'Suits you,' George said to him, nodding to the handbag.

Phil's lip curled but he didn't seem willing to say anything. Della laughed, oblivious, and untangled herself from George so she could take the bag from Phil. She dumped it on a nearby table, setting the snow globe down there too, and started rummaging. 'Here, have some,' she said, passing a hip flask to George. 'Don't drink it all.'

'Why are you keeping everything in a big pink blancmange?' George asked, taking it from her. It was light. Nearly empty.

Della cast George a disparaging look. 'This was a Christmas present from Phil.' She turned to him. 'Did you see what George gave me?' She picked up the snow globe up and shook it in front of his face. 'Isn't it pretty?'

Phil forced a smile. 'A tatty souvenir. Very thoughtful.'

She tutted. 'Don't be awful, just because he said your handbag was a blancmange.' She put the snow globe back on the table and returned to rooting through her bag.

'Your handbag, sweetheart. Not mine,' Phil said, but Della ignored him. He glared at George. George stared coolly back.

'I definitely brought it with me,' Della said, still searching. 'I better not have dropped it somewhere...'

Behind her, Phil rested the tip of two fingers on the top of the globe and, without taking his eyes from George, flicked it forward so it toppled over. It fell and rolled off the edge of the table and onto the floor, where it shattered in a crash of glass and water and desiccated coconut snow.

Clearly, Della wasn't supposed to see that. She was supposed to still have her head in her bag, but unfortunately for Phil, just at the moment he did it, Della had looked up, wrapped Christmas gift in hand.

'Did you do that on purpose?' she said, unnervingly calm. Phil didn't know what to say. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. 'Why would you do that?' she asked, looking at the mess on the floor.

'You shouldn't be taking gifts from other guys,' Phil said, hotly. 'First I catch that fella chatting you up and now--'

'Other guys? It's George.'

'Yes, and he... he's...' Phil moved his gaze to George. 'I don't like how he behaves around you, Della. Can't you see it?'

Della dropped the gift back in the top of her bag and turned fully to face Phil, folding her arms over her chest, putting her back to George. While Della couldn't see, George grinned sneeringly at Phil. Phil glared at him and flexed his fist.

'George is my oldest friend,' Della told him. 'He's one of the most important people in my life.'

'And I'm your boyfriend!'

'No, you're just a waste of good whisky.'

'What? What does that mean?'

'It means we're finished, Phil.'

'Della--'

'Over!' Della roared, making both Phil and George jump. 'Do I have to spell it out for you?!'

'We're going home. Now. Come and--' He tried to grab her wrist. Della stepped back to avoid him, knocking into George.

George put his hands on her shoulders to steady her. 'She's not coming with you.'

'You're lucky if I don't smack you one--'

'What's going on?' Paul asked, arriving next to George and Della.

'Phil's a prick,' Della said. 'He smashed my snow globe.'

'Oh,' Paul said, confused. 'Of course. Well, that's not on.'

Phil looked between Paul and George and turned on his heel and stomped across the dance floor, flinging both the double doors on the other side wide open as he went through them. As they swung closed behind him, Della sagged. 'Oh no...'

'What was that about?' Paul asked George.

George let go of Della carefully and she rested her weight on the edge of the table, looking like she might cry. 'Oh, God...'

'You did the right thing, Del,' George said, rubbing her arm. 'He was a dick. You don't need him.'

'No, I do...' She shook her head. 'He had the cloakroom tickets. I'll freeze going home in just my dress.'

George laughed quietly. 'I'll get your coat back for you.'

'And we'll take you home,' Paul added. 'We've got a van. We'll give you lift, right to your door.'

Della turned her head to him. 'Thank you, Paul. You're very sweet.'

Paul grinned. 'Ah, don't worry, love. I'll look after you. I'll see you right.'

''Ere are, love. Give us your hand,' John said, leaning into the van to help Della down as George grappled with his guitar, lifting it onto the pavement.

Della took his hand and John put his other hand on her arm at her elbow to support her, but she still managed to bang her shoulder into the side of the van. John was all that kept her from falling head first out of it.

'There you go. Back home, safe and sound,' John told her.

Della put her hand to her forehead as if she was dizzy. 'Thanks,' she replied and eyed George. 'You care more about that bloody guitar than you do me.'

John laughed as he passed Della her handbag. 'Hey, George. Your girl is all lit up like a Christmas tree!'

She's not my girl. The words were on his lips. A knee-jerk response. But George didn't say it this time.

'Can you get her in the house?' John added, voice lower and more serious.

George nodded and glanced up at Della's house, dark and silent again. They'd parked next to Della's, rather than George's. 'We'll be fine.'

'Righty-oh. See you New Years Eve, if not before,' John said, slamming the doors on the van a lot harder than he probably should at this time of night.

John climbed into the front of the van with Pete and Neil, the only remaining residents, and before George could move Della from where she stood, they were gone.

'Where's your keys?' George asked and tried to reach for Della's ridiculous handbag, dangling from her forearm.

Della didn't reply. Instead she put her hand to her mouth and looked a little... queasy.

'Not gonna puke are you?'

'No, of course not,' Della said. She looked up at her house and then unfastened the clasp on her bag. She put her hand inside, but somehow managed to drop the bag, spilling some of its contents on the pavement and into the gutter.

George sighed. 'I'll get it. Hold this,' he said and passed her his guitar. He crouched down and scooped up the lost belongings; a hairbrush, a lipstick, the damned hip flask, a toothbrush... A toothbrush?

As he dumped them back into Della's bag, they landed on top of a nightgown, stuffed inside there. It looked orange in the light from Upton Green's scarce streetlamps. Suddenly he thought he knew why Della was drunk. Why she brought a hip flask full of whisky out with her and why she might have a nightie stuffed in her handbag.

He looked up at her, holding onto his guitar case, both arms wrapped around it's neck. 'Della, you didn't...'

'I don't wanna go in there, George,' Della said, morosely, staring at the house. 'It's just Alan home. My mam's working tonight.'

He snapped the handbag shut and stood up, giving it back to her as she relinquished the guitar to him. 'Want to stay at mine instead?'

She nodded.

'Can you walk? I've got to carry the guitar.'

'Of course I can walk,' Della said. 'I'm not a child.' She took a wobbly step and promptly fell forward onto her hands and knees.

'You have it right, Georgie,' Della told him as he tried to hold her up and felt the wall for the bedroom light switch at the same time.

'Do I?' he replied, only half listening.

'Yes, no girlfriends. No fucking girlfriends or boyfriends. They are a pain in the fucking arse.'

'When did I say that?' he asked, stopping momentarily to look at her.

'You're all about the music, Georgie. That's the way you should be.'

She was rambling a bit. Impossible to hold a proper conversation with her. George found the light and brought Della inside the room, leaning her against the wall.

Harry had finally managed to clear his old bedroom of all his belongings this summer, only three years after he'd gotten married and left home. Pete had moved into his old room and George had a bedroom to himself for the first time in his life. The little room was surprisingly spacious without his brother's stuff in it. Room enough for George's guitars and amplifier. All that was left was Pete's old bed, a stripped bare mattress which George was dumping all his worn clothes on instead of putting them in the laundry basket.

'That's it! NO MORE--'

'Della!' George hissed and clamped his hand over her mouth, intending to shut her up but it just made her squeal. 'Shh! Shh!' George held the index finger of his other hand to his lips. 'Do you want to wake the whole house?'

She narrowed her eyes at him, mischief there, intending to shout or scream the moment he took his hand away. He could read her like a book sometimes.

'How about going to sleep at your own house then?' George asked. 'Wake my dad and you won't be staying here.'

Della smiled behind his hand and licked his palm.

George took his hand back and wiped it on his jeans. 'Are you six years old?' he snapped, annoyed.

'You're sexy when you're angry,' she said, teasing, and it made George hesitate.

'I'm... I'm not angry. I'm just saying you have to be quiet.'

She nodded. 'Quiet. As a mouse,' she whispered.

George let go of her and closed the bedroom door. Della made her way to George's bed and flopped down on her back, her handbag landing on her stomach and making her 'Ooufff'.

George looked at Pete's bed. There was no sheets on it and it was covered in clothes. Still, he shouldn't presume Della will want to sleep with him when there's a perfectly good spare bed. He started picking the clothes up to clear it.

'Oh. I suppose I don't have a boyfriend anymore,' Della said behind him, an afterthought. 'We're both single now. Well, that's it for me. No more boyfriends. Except for perhaps Johnny...'

George paused to look at her, shirt in hand. 'Who's Johnny?'

'Your friend. We saw him in the Jac the other day.'

'Johnny Gustafson?'

'Yeah, him. He's lovely.'

'I think he has a girlfriend.'

'Oh, really? Shouldn't be a surprise. The best ones usually do.'

George returned to clearing the bed. 'You know what, Del? You pick the worst boyfriends.'

'I've only had two.'

'And they've both been wankers.' He gave up trying to fold the clothes and shoved the lot of them onto the floor instead.

'Phil was alright until you came home,' Della said, watching him walk to the door. 'That must be the effect you have on people.'

'I'll get some sheets and blankets from the airing cupboard,' he said, and shrugged his leather jacket off his shoulders.

'Don't take that off,' Della said, lifting her head. 'Leave it on.'

'My jacket?' he asked, pausing as he reached to hang it on the peg on the back of the door.

'Yeah. Put it back on.'

'Why?'

'Because you look good in it.'

He raised an eyebrow. It was unlike Della to pay him a compliment without some sort of sarcastic remark behind it. 'I can't sleep in it.'

'Just for a while. I quite like you as a leather clad rocker. You're like a tiny Gene Vincent.'

'Tiny,' George repeated with a snort, but put the jacket back on. 'You said second rate the other day.'

'Did you mug a cowboy for those boots?'

'What's wrong with the boots? We've all got them.'

'They've all got them so you have to wear them too?'

'Yep.' He kicked them off and stood awkwardly. Della looked him up and down. 'Do you want to borrow a t-shirt?'

'In a minute.' She patted the bed. 'Forget about making the bed up. Come lie with me.'

George hesitated again. He had to be careful. Don't read too much into the things she's saying. She's pissed. Nonetheless, he went and sat on the side of the bed beside her.

'I never gave you your Crimbo prezzie.' Della sat up ungracefully and opened her bag, producing the parcel. She gave it to him grinning and George dutifully unwrapped it.

'Socks,' he said and laughed, taking out the three pairs of argyle patterned navy wool socks.

'Yeah to keep your tootsies warm,' she told him. 'As all yours have holes in them. You can wear them and think of me on those cold German winter nights.'

I did think of you on those nights, Della. Every night I was away, I thought of you. Sometimes he had the patter, he just couldn't quite find the bollocks to say it to her.

'It'll be spring when we go back,' he said instead and then regretted it. 'But thanks, Del. They're great.'

'They're socks,' she said, flatly. 'But they are good ones. Lewis's. Not rubbish.' She lay down on her back again. 'Not as nice as your prezzie was though. I'm sorry Phil smashed it. I liked it a lot, Georgie.'

'I'll get you another one when we go again.'

'Mmm,' she agreed, absently. 'Won't be the same.'

George moved further onto the bed, lying down on his side, in between Della and the wall. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked down at her. 'I could get you a snow globe from anywhere we go and play, if you like. If we ever go on a tour again.'

Della didn't say anything. She picked at a thread on her dress. Corny lines ran through George's mind. He should have said that one earlier. He wouldn't come up with something better now.

'I, um... I did get you something else actually.'

Della flicked her eyes up at him and for the first time he realised she was wearing eyeshadow and mascara. He couldn't remember her wearing that before. Now he looked at her, he noticed she'd dolled herself up. Her hair was styled differently, teased up and with flicked out ends like Jackie Kennedy wore it. It was messy now, but it'd looked good earlier. She was in her best dress too, even though it was more of a summer style. He wanted to reach out and smooth the fabric of it. But, he should remind himself, all this wasn't for his benefit. It'd been for her boyfriend.

'Two presents?' she asked.

'I was going to save the other one for your birthday.'

She smiled. 'Give it to me now.'

George pushed himself off the bed to retrieve the small square of tissue paper from the pocket of his guitar case. He gave it to Della with a bashful smile and resumed his position, lying on his side next to her.

'Why did you buy me two?'

'I bought the globe first, but then I saw this. I was going to save it for your eighteenth.'

She looked up at him. 'Good God, George, we're eighteen soon. Grown-ups!'

'Yeah.'

Her eyes sparkled. 'We can do what we want then.'

George laughed. 'Within reason.'

Carefully, but refusing to sit up to do it, Della opened the pink tissue paper packet, nearly losing the contents inside. Two small enamel charms on a silver chain. Two faces - masks - one smiling and one crying. He'd found it in a tiny jewellers in Hamburg. She held it up and looked at it and didn't say anything for so long that George thought she didn't like it. Maybe she wouldn't - after all, it might remind her of something she didn't want to think about.

'It's, uh... that theatre thing. Like they have over the Playhouse in town.'

She nodded. 'They're called Comedy and Tragedy. '

'Are they? Well, it just because you like theatre stuff and... It's just a daft prezzie, Del. It doesn't mean anything.'

She lifted her eyes to him. 'No, it does, George. It means a lot.'

'I didn't think it would--'

'No, I love it, George. It's perfect.'

'Oh.' He smiled. 'Well, that's alright then.'

She was still gazing at him. 'How is it that you don't have a girlfriend?'

'Well, I'm... I'm...' She was still looking at him funny. Was she... Did she want him to... He leaned his head down to her, not taking his eyes from hers. 'You said... The, um... music and...'

His voice trailed away as he forgot what he was saying. Della's lips parted slightly and she ran the tip of her tongue over her bottom lip. George could feel his heart beating in his chest, hard, thumping. His breathing hitched as he moved his head closer to hers.

Della snatched herself out from under him, making George reel back in surprise. She rolled over and retched violently over the side of the bed.

'Della!' George shouted. 'Fucking hell!'

The light on the landing outside the bedroom flicked on.