This chapter is dedicated to Billy Hatton who passed away in September 2017.

Della had never planned a party before, and technically, she hadn't planned this one, but all the same, she was rather proud of the way it was going. Della's main contribution had been sending the invitations and ensuring everyone knew where to go. She had a brief period of panic when it reached 7pm and hardly anyone was here, but after a while, slowly but surely, the guests started to arrive. 

By half past eight, there must have been more than a hundred people trying to cram into the marquee, the garden surrounding and every room of Paul's Auntie Jin's house. Although Della had diligently addressed and sent invitations to everyone on the list she was given by Paul's Aunt Milly, there were many faces she didn't recognise. Mostly members of Paul's extended family, all of whom seemed to know exactly who Della was.

'Della!' Jim, Paul's father called, his face slightly pink. He put his arm around Della's shoulders as he pointed to people, all vaguely similar looking; dark hair, dark eyes and round faces. 'This is Paul's Auntie Edie and Auntie Joan, I don't think you've met them. Joan is Joe's wife. And here's Dill, she's Bill's wife and Milly and Jin you know of course--'

Della smiled and nodded as the women all clucked and cooed over her. Joan and Joe and Jin and Mill and Dill and Bill... She'd never remember them all.

'Oh, you are a pretty girl!' one of the aunts told her.

'I said, didn't I say?'

'Who's your mother, dear? Do I know her?'

'Um, she's...' Della started.

'Oh! Don't you have lovely hair?! What a lovely colour it is! And so soft!'

'Where did you grow up? Did Paul say you were from Speke?'

'Yes, I...'

'Where do you work, my love?'

'I...'

'Brian Epstein! She works for Brian Epstein!'

'Della is an unusual name. Is it short for something?'

'How did you meet Paul then?'

'Well, he was...'

'Look, stand back! You're overwhelming the poor lass. Let her speak. Shush! Go on, Della. What were you saying?'

'Umm...' Della said, looking around all their expectant faces. 'Do you know where Paul is?'

The sun was setting when she managed to escape the house and Paul's relatives. It cast calming  pink and orange hues over the olive canvas of giant circus tent of the marquee and the garden beyond. The Fourmost had the party going in the Marquee, working their way through a furious set of Rock and Roll standards and pop covers. A small dance floor space was already packed with people and most of the food, carefully laid out on long tables, had been devoured. They were bringing Paul's birthday cake through when the band had finished the first half of their set, but Della wanted to grab five minutes with Paul before then.

Squeezing through people, she finally found him standing with George at the edge of the tent, watching the band. He'd changed his clothes for a white shirt - top button left open - a thin black tie and a black waistcoat. Almost the same as he wore on stage every night. He glanced at her when she arrived and shifted his weight, but otherwise didn't react. George, on the other side of him though, widened his eyes at her and wiggled his eyebrows in an indecipherable message. Della shook her head at him. He'd been in a strange mood all day.

'Can I see you outside for a sec?' Della said in Paul's ear, lifting herself onto her tiptoes.

'Now?' he asked, a little sharply.

'If it's convenient,' Della joked, but judging by the way Paul sighed and made a show of giving his drink to George to hold, it wasn't convenient at all.

'I've met loads of your family,' she told him as she lead him to the small conservatory, tacked onto the side of the house. 'I keep thinking I must have met all of them now, but still more aunts and uncles and cousins seem to appear!'

'Mmm,' Paul responded, less than enthusiastically.

'You're lucky to have such a large family. There was only ever me and my mum and my gran who lives in--'

'Della, was there something you wanted?' he asked, briskly. 'Only it's my party, yeah? It's rude if I disappear off for ages.'

Della nodded and bit her tongue before she snapped back and said something she regretted. They'd been arguing quite a lot recently. She'd promised herself that they wouldn't today.

Thankfully, there was no one inside the narrow conservatory. She closed the door behind them, as Paul stood huffing, and opened the flaps of the box she'd left on the small folding table that took up most of the room. She started to unpack the contents, laying each individual parcel on the table.

Now she had everything gathered together, Della had to concede that perhaps she'd gone a little over the top. She hadn't known what to buy for him, but it was his 21st. It had to be something special. In the end she'd bought everything she could think of. Cologne, a new shirt, a couple of records, expensive chocolates from Harrods, things she'd picked up in all the decaying and forgotten towns of the United Kingdom where the Pacemakers - Big Three tour had taken her. She'd wrapped each item individually, adding bows and ribbons and little cards full of soppy sentiment she now regretted, given how bloody belligerent Paul was behaving.

'What's all this?' Paul asked, curiosity making him drop his guard momentarily.

Della sighed shortly and stood back from the table. 'Happy birthday,' she said, sweeping her arm over it.

'All of this?'

She nodded. 'Some are just souvenirs from the places I've been. I was going to give them to you earlier, but your birthday was coming up so I thought I might as well save them and give them all to you together.' 

Paul picked up one of the smaller gifts. 'Well, I... I don't know where to begin.'

'You don't have to open it all now. Just, um, start with that one...' She pushed the new shirt towards him. Soft mercerised cotton in a bright blue colour from a shop that had just opened in a back street behind Regent Street. She'd never seen shirts in such amazing colours. All shops like Austin Reed seemed to stock were white, baby blue and maybe a pale yellow in the summer if you were lucky. As soon as she'd seen the bright blue shirt with long point collar, she'd thought Paul would love it. 

Despite Della, Paul unwrapped all of his gifts, dutifully making appreciative noises and exclamations and laughing at the corny souvenirs she'd found on her travels. At the end they were left with a small group of presents and piles of wrapping paper.

'Della, this is too much.'

'It's not, it's your birthday.'

He reached for her hand, squeezing her fingers in his. 'Well, thank you, love. It's all wonderful.' He leaned forward and kissed her. The first proper kiss he'd given her all day. Della inhaled him. She'd missed him.

When he broke away from her, he paused, head still close to hers. They both felt it. The moment. This was the moment to say it, but neither did.

I love you.

It'd been two years. She never would have imagined that her and Paul would last this long. She'd wouldn't have bet that it'd go past the first summer, but here they were.

It had always been relaxed between them. Casual. Some other couples seemed to only date for a couple of months before they were talking about weddings and buying houses and having babies. Not Paul and Della. Both of them had been too focused on their lives outside of each other. Careers and jobs. Paul's music. Della's insistence on her independence.

But now they were two years down the line. Wasn't it time get serious or break up?

Paul moved back from her and cast his eyes down at the gifts. 'I should put this on,' he said, changing the subject that neither of them had voiced. He ran his fingertips of the fabric of the shirt.

'You're still angry with me,' Della said. A statement, not a question.

Paul looked up. 'I'm not angry with you.' 

'For standing you up at New Brighton.'

He tipped his head to the side.  'That's not what I was bothered about.'

'Don't you trust me?'

'It's not you I don't trust.'

It wasn't that he didn't care about her. He obviously did. He wouldn't get jealous otherwise. She knew he didn't like her spending so much time away, working in theatres and close alongside other guys who Paul knew all too well. It confused her because he was the one who'd got her the job with Brian in the first place. Maybe he thought she'd be typing in an office, not going on the road with bands. But, as she told him repeatedly, she loved her job and she was always professional. Brian would accept nothing less and neither would Della. And she had Paul McCartney as her boyfriend. Why would she throw it all away?

She exhaled. 'Okay, I should have told you that I went out with Johnny Gus. I'm sorry about that.'

'Then why didn't you?'

'Because I... I felt guilty. I should have gone to meet you instead. I'm sorry, Paul. Nothing was going on, nothing like you think. He just wanted to complain about Brian and Decca.'

Paul pursed his lips. 'I don't know if this is going to work.'

'What isn't?' Della asked, although she knew exactly what he meant. She was surprised by how much it alarmed her.

'You're away on tours. I'm away on tours. We're apart for such long stretches of time.'

'Yes, but I trust you, Paul.'

'I know what people like Johnny Gustafson are like--'

'What's it matter what he's like? It only matters what I'm like. I trust you and what you tell me, even when I read things about you in the bloody paper that say different.' The words came out before she'd had time to think it through.

Paul stared at her, eyes wide and eyebrows in perfect arches. 'Read what?'

Della bit her lip, regretting bring it up. 'It was in the London Evening News. You took a pretty young actresses home after one of the Beatles parties.'

Paul moved closer to her, frowning, like he didn't know what she was talking about. Admittedly the story had been a few weeks ago. Della had been holding onto it for a while, telling herself it was probably nothing. Probably.

'I live in London. I see the news there.'

'What actress?'

'She interviewed you at the Royal Albert Hall then you invited her to a party and then you took her home.'

Paul tried to take her hand again. She wouldn't let him, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

'I did? I didn't take anyone home. What-- When did you read this?'

'You escorted her home. That's what is said.' A malaise settled in her stomach like she'd eaten too much rich food. She knew she was probably making a mountain out of a molehill. The article had only been short. Anything the Beatles did was reported in the social columns. If they were seen standing next to a girl then the media made it sound like wedding bells were imminent

Paul thought for a moment, or appeared to, she was never too sure what was an affectation with Paul. 'Jane,' he said, eventually and without emotion. 'I remember.'

'Well, it doesn't matter. I went out with Johnny once and you took "Jane" home, so I suppose we're even.'

Paul laughed. 'Love, she was just a girl.'

'I know she was a girl.'

'No.' Paul made her unfold her arms and took her hand in both of his. 'I mean she was seventeen, but a young seventeen. Quite naive, you know? John was pissed and being a bit cruel to her. Asking her rude things and that. I just took her home.' 

'So, what? You rescued her?' Della asked, sarcastically. 

Paul shrugged. 'I was getting fed up of the party. It was an excuse to leave early. I took her back to her parents house in a taxi, then I took the same taxi round to your place.'

'Did... Did you?'

'Don't you remember? It was the night of the Royal Albert Show, in April.'

'I wasn't at the Royal Albert Hall show.'

'No, I know. You were out carousing with Gerry and The Pacemakers. Or was it The Big Three? Or Tommy Quickly? I can't keep up with all your fellas.' He smiled, teasing her and pulled her into him, folding his arms around her.

Della softened. 'I don't have any fellas other than you.'

'I don't have any girls other than you either,' he promised. Della swallowed and put her head against his shoulder. 'Let's forget about all that now, eh?' he said softly. 'We'll go back to normal.'

Normal. Was that a good idea?

Did he want something more serious? Did she? Neither of them had talked about the future. Their future, if they had one.

If they couldn't even bring themselves to say, 'I love you', how were they supposed to talk about anything else? It wasn't that she didn't feel anything for him. She did. But saying it aloud, so he could hear, that would take them through the door wouldn't it? The point of no return.

What if he didn't feel the same?

'I have one more thing for you,' she said, breaking away from him. There was one last gift, left in side the cardboard box. A small, flat box, tied with a yellow bow.

'Del, you've given me enough already--'

'Well, this isn't really a birthday present...'

Paul took the box from her and pulled the ribbon undone. Inside was a nondescript, brass coloured key on a silver keyring. 'The key to the door,' he said, and took it out, threading the keyring onto his index finger.

Della nodded. 'The key to my door. My flat in Chelsea.'

A glimmer of shock, and perhaps even a little horror, crossed Paul's face. That answered one question then.

'I... You want me to...'

'Not move in, no,' Della said, quickly, a little irked by his reaction. 'Brian would go up the wall if another one of his boys was getting tied down already.' She smiled, but that had hurt a little. 'It's so you can come and go as you want to. You can let yourself in if I'm not there. You can come round if it's late and you've been out or something like that.'

Paul recovered quickly and drew her in for another kiss. 'That's the best birthday present you could give me.'

'Well, I thought... now you're spending more time in London.'

'Yeah. Of course. It's very thoughtful. And apt, eh? For a twenty-first birthday.'

'Yes, that's what I thought.'

Paul slipped the key back in his pocket and gave her one last, brief kiss. 'We'd better go back to the party, before they come looking for us. Actually, I'd better put in an appearance in the house, before all my aunties start pulling their faces.' He grinned. 'Coming with me?'

'Um, I think I'd better tidy up in here first,' she said, looking at the mess of wrapping paper, hiding her face from Paul.

'Alright. I'll see you back in the marquee then. We'll have a dance, eh?'

George felt odd. He'd eaten dinner earlier, and several of the small sandwiches and finger foods laid out in the marquee, but the beer seemed to have gone straight to his head. It bubbled inside him, fizzing in his stomach, making him feel dizzy.

And excited.

Was that it? He had a feeling of anticipation, like something big was about to happen. But nothing was. It was just Paul's birthday party. Nothing important. Maybe he was just tired.

Della and Paul had been gone for ages. Maybe they were fighting. Splitting up? Surely they wouldn't do that at Paul's birthday party, but Paul had been pissed off about her going out with Johnny Gus, and why would Della not tell him about it? George had told him something non-committal when he asked. He'd said he didn't know, but he didn't know if Paul believed him. If he'd had chance, he would have warned Della, but Paul had stuck by his side ever since.

'That for me?' John said, taking the drink Paul had given George to hold from him.

'It's Paul's,' he said.

'He can get another.' John swallowed it, gulping half of it down in one swallow. John had probably had enough already. It wasn't much past nine o'clock but his eyes were glazed and his face had that drunken, sunken expression. 'Fuckin' shit band,' he said, much too loudly considering they were standing quite close to the front and the song had just ended. 'Shit band, shit guitars, shit music.'

Billy Hatton, the Fourmost's bass player, heard and glanced over. George gave him a hapless shrug and smile.

'Gizza another beer, la,' John said.

'I'm going for a piss,' George told him and escaped before John could demand anything further.

There were people smoking in the garden. It was getting dark now, a dusky purple twilight. George supposed he should look for Marie, but he couldn't be bothered to wander around. She'd find him if she wanted him. He should find Della instead. See if she's alright. See if she's upset about Paul breaking up with her.

He walked round the groups of people in the garden, but she wasn't there and no one had seen her. Brian came out the house, over dressed for a party in a marquee in a black suit and bow tie. George spoke to him for a few minutes but Brian hadn't seen Della either.

There was a woman leaning on the wall by the back door of the house, smoking. She wore a figure hugging black dress and had a clutch handbag tucked under her arm. George paused next to her.

'I don't know you,' he said.

She turned her head to him. 'Should you?'

'I thought I knew everyone here.'

'Debbie. I'm here with Brian.'

'Brian..?'

'O'Hara. In the band?'

'Oh, that Brian.' George smiled and leaned on the wall next to her, trying to keep his eyes on her face and off her more than ample chest.

She frowned at him. 'You're one of the Beatles.'

George nodded. It still felt odd when people recognised them. All sorts of people did now, at the most unexpected times. Even at the Jaguar garage last week, they'd recognised him. Good thing too, otherwise they probably wouldn't have let him test drive one. The salesman had been really snotty with him until one of the mechanics said, hey, aren't you that fella?

'Which one are you? What's your name?' Debbie asked, suddenly trying to sound posh but a South London accent evident in her voice nonetheless.

'George. Lead guitar.' 

She giggled, though there wasn't anything to giggle at. 'I keep getting you mixed up. You all look the same with your funny hair.'

He shook his head and she giggled again. Her chest rose and fell in the most pleasing way when she laughed.

'I'm a dancer,' Debbie told him.

'I can tell.'

'How can you?'

George took a step backwards, so he could look her up and down properly. 'You've got the legs for it.'

She laughed again and moved closer to him, lightly placing her fingers on his arm. 'I should have known you were a guitar player,' she said, trailing her fingers to his wrist. 'Look at your hands. I love guitar players hands. They're always so...' She raised her eyes to his. 'Strong.'

'There you are, baby. I was looking everywhere for you.' Marie appeared next to him. She put herself in between George and Debbie, forcing them to separate, and kissed him hard, wrapping her arms around his neck. It was so unexpected, George didn't kiss her back. Unexpected and actually, unwanted.

George shoved her off him, but Marie clung onto his neck. The dancer girl was smiling, amused. Marie twisted around to look at her without releasing George. 'Hi,' she said. 'I'm Marie, George's girlfriend. I don't think we've met?'

Debbie moved her eyes back to George. 'No,' she said, dropping the end of her cigarette and extinuishing it with her toe. 'I don't believe we have.' She walked away from them, towards the marquee, disappearing into the now darkened garden.

'She was strange,' Marie said.

'Don't... Don't ever do that again,' George said, extracting her from around his neck and pushing her back from him.

'What?'

'Don't fucking... kiss me like that. What did you think you were doing, Marie?' 

'Why can't I kiss you?'

'Not in front of people. Not when I'm talking to someone. It's embarrassing.'

'It's embarrassing? For your girlfriend to kiss you?'

'When you do it like that, yes.'

'Well, if I embarrass you so much, maybe I shouldn't be your girlfriend anymore, George.'

She pouted and folded her arms across her chest but George felt like everything had suddenly become clear. A weight had been lifted from his chest. Someone had shone a light in the darkness.

Della squeezed through the crowds in the marquee, circling the tent, searching for George or Paul and unable to locate either of them. Paul would probably still be in the house, lapping up the attention and fuss, center stage as always, but George was nowhere to be found. Eventually she found Brian who said something about George that she didn't hear over the music. She smiled and nodded and stood next to him to watch the Fourmost, until she turned around to say something to him in between songs and discovered Brian had left.

'Della!' she heard George shout, somewhere behind her. She turned around, making a full circle before she located him, pushing his way through the middle of the dance floor. He shoved through a pair of dancers to reach her, oblivious to their glares. 'I was looking for you!'

'I was looking for you,' Della said, her words cut off slightly as George wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her unexpectedly.

'Are you okay?' he asked, shouting in her ear as the band started another song. 'You were gone ages.'

She nodded and pressed her lips together. 'Me and Paul were talking some things through.' Normally, if something was on her mind, George would be the first one Della would talk to. But it was different when it came to Paul. George was Della's best friend, but he was also Paul's.

'Where's he now?'

'Around here somewhere. Trying to speak to everyone, I expect.'

'I broke up with Marie,' he said, quickly, like he was bursting with the news. He was still holding her, one hand on each arm.

'Oh, George, I'm sorry,' Della said. 'When? Just now?'

'Don't be sorry. It was a long time coming.' He smiled. Della couldn't tell if it was genuine or not. 'Besides if we're moving south it won't be practical to have a girlfriend who lives up here.'

'Practical? You old romantic.'

He shrugged. 'It wasn't like we were anything serious.'

Della wasn't sure Marie would agree with that assessment. 'I didn't know anything was decided about you moving to London?'

'Well, it's not, I suppose. But we probably will, won't we? We'll be at studios and doing radio and telly and that.'

The Beatles were spending a lot more time in London, but as far as Della knew, the idea had only been that they rent a flat or apartment as a place to stay while they were in the city. A pied-à-terre, Brian called it. Not a permanent residence, but because hotels were getting to be expensive and the increasing amount of fans the boys were attracting were starting to cause nuisances if they discovered where the Beatles were staying.

Brian had asked Della to collect a few prospectuses of places which might be suitable, which she had, but as far as she was aware Brian hadn't looked at them since she'd left them on his desk a couple of weeks ago.

'It'd be good if we moved to London, though,' George said. 'I could see you everyday then. Come round your flat. Or you can come round to ours.'

'You could. When I'm not away on tours and things.'

Della lived in Chelsea now. She had to remind herself of the fact almost every time she went back to London. She'd find herself nearly heading out to Victoria before she remembered.

She'd worked for Brian for about three months before he asked about where she lived and decided that a rented room in a boarding house simply wouldn't do. He loaned her money for a deposit, to be paid back in installments taken from her wages each month, and signed as guarantor on a one bedroom, first floor flat, a twenty minute walk from the tube. It was small and close to the railway lines, but it had a view of the river from the living room. Distantly.

Della had moved there in December, but she'd ended up spending Christmas and New Year at Paul's home in Liverpool, and since then she'd been away so often the flat hardly felt lived in. She was still trying to unpack everything and she was midway through repainting the kitchen wall. She knew even now there was a long dried out paint brush left on the side of the kitchen sink where it'd dripped emulsion paint and molded itself to the draining board.

She didn't know why George was so keen suddenly. He hadn't even seen inside it yet. He hadn't been all that interested when she'd tried to invite him round.

'Is that, um... Is that what Paul was narked about?' George asked. 'You being away on the road so often?'

'Partly, I think.' Della rolled her eyes, comically, making light of it. What else was there to do? 'Anyway, this is my night off. My weekend off! The first I've had all year, so stop talking shop and come and dance with me.'

Della took George's hand and the found a space at the edge of the dance floor. He must have had a few drinks as he stayed dancing with her for several songs. The best Della could normally get out of him was one or two before he got bored or wanted a drink or to go and talk to someone. He kept smiling at her in the strangest way and bumping into her, although that might be because it was so crowded on the tiny dance floor.

The dancers were nearly on top of the band. There wasn't much of a stage, it was more just a space they'd been crammed into, drums and three guitars, forcing them to hold their instruments high up on their chests to avoid smacking anyone with the guitar heads. They were being jostled from all sides. George took Della's hand, bringing her into him close. He laughed and said something she didn't hear over the music. She smiled, judging it pointless to ask him to repeat himself, but then she wished he had because he pulled her into him so suddenly that she had to put her hands flat on his chest to stop herself from falling over. She laughed and looked up at George but he wasn't laughing, he was gazing at her very oddly. He must be drunker than she thought.

Was he  serious about him and Marie splitting up? He didn't seem bothered about it. Maybe they'd had an argument or something. Whenever she'd seen George and Marie together previously, they'd appeared quite enamoured with each other.

The music changed to a slower tempo and the dance floor emptied a little. Della was about to suggest they sit down for a while, but George brought her closer to him again swaying with the music, holding her tightly with his cheek next to hers. Maybe he was feeling sad about Marie. His ego or his heart was bruised and he needed a little consoling. She moved to put her arms around his neck.

'Della...' George said, breathily in her ear.

'It's okay,' she replied in his. 'I know. It's alright.'

'May I cut in?' Paul said, suddenly next to them and George let go of Della like she was a hot coal.

Paul caught her neatly and slipped his arms around her waist. 'Thanks for keeping her entertained,' Paul said to George, cheekily. 'For keeping her out of trouble for a few minutes.' He was speaking to George but facing Della. He grinned. 'I have to keep my eye on you, don't I? I turn my back to five minutes and you're dancing with another fella!' 

'Oh, it's hardly "another fella"!' Della protested. 'It's only George.'

George didn't say anything for a moment, just standing alongside them. Then he smirked mirthlessly. 'It's no bother.'

When the slow song finished, The Fourmost took a break to give the stage over to Mike's... group. 

Mike, Paul's younger brother, had a band too, although "band" might be stretching it. There was music, but it was mostly comedy, sketches, a few jokes, poetry... If it was in a theatre, they'd call it  revue, but... Della wasn't sure what to call this. She stood in between George and Paul to watch as slowly the marquee emptied around them.

There was three of them, Mike and two of his friends. They called themselves The Liverpool One Fat Lady All Electric Show, which they found funnier than any of their audience did. They recited amusing poetry and performed word play sketches like two diaries mix up a report of attending a Liverpool football game and a date with a girl.

'I was so shy! Her lips were like...'

'...Two bottles of stout!'

'...Nectar. She got me so excited...'

'I had to go to the bogs before I went in!'

They ended with a modified version of  Ten Green Bottles, Ten Whisky Bottles, where at the end of each verse they'd pretend to drink the 'whisky', getting more and more drunk, slurring the words as they went on.

'That's not funny,' John shouted, standing directly in front of them, alone on the now abandoned dance floor. He kept shouting it, over and over, except it came out as 'Thass no' funny! Thass no' funny!' and maybe they should take his criticism seriously because no one could be drunker than John Lennon right now.

Brian Epstein had two moods. He was either warm and genial and effusive or else he was cold and aloof and withdrawn. He only ever seemed to be in one of these two places, never somewhere in between. The trick was to judge which he was in currently. If it was the former, then he'd be open to new ideas and happy to laugh and joke and chat with you, but if it was the latter then it was pointless to even try talking to him. 

It was hard to say whether this was a good time or not, but Della hadn't seen her employer face to face for a couple of weeks and after this weekend the Beatles would be away again, playing Abergavenny or Leeds or Newcastle. Della found Brian in the kitchen, talking with a man she didn't know, slightly red faced with the effects of drink and in high spirits.

'Hello.'

'Ah, Della,' he opened his arm to her. 'I was wondering where you were. Have you met Peter before? Peter, this is Della. The girl I was telling you about.'

Della smiled politely and moved to Brian's side. 'I was wondering if I might have a word?'

'Is everything alright?'

'Yes, of course. I just wondered if I could speak to you about the Big Three?'

Brian rolled his eyes and huffed. 'It won't keep until Monday?'

'Um, well, I'm going back to London on Monday, so...'

'Very well.' He turned to his friend and excused them and took Della into the hall of the house so they could speak.

It was easy to understand why Brian neglected the other groups in favour of the Beatles. It could hardly be any other way. When you were with the Beatles it felt like you were at the centre of the universe. Everything that was important was here. Everything that meant anything happened here. And that was unfortunately that's where the problems started.

'You don't need to explain, Della,' Brian said, before she could open her mouth. 'I think I can guess what the problem is.'

'I promised I would speak to you.'

Brian sighed. 'In retrospect, perhaps Decca shouldn't have released the single, but it's out there now. We can make more records.'

Della nodded. 'They don't want to wear the suits anymore either.'

That seemed to bother him more. 'What do they want to wear on stage? Denim jeans?' he asked, like that was ludicrous, but actually, yes, that was just what they wanted. They had always worn jeans on stage before Brian had become their manager. The suits made them uncomfortable.

'They need taking in hand,' Brian said, shaking his head. 'That's why I sent you.'

'Me?' Della laughed. 'You think I can control them?'

'Do they arrive at each show on time?'

'Yes--'

'And they take care of their instruments now?'

'Yes, but--'

'And they sleep at the hotel we've booked? Not in the back of the tour van?'

'Yes, of course at the hotel, but, Brian--'

'Then you're running things perfectly well, my dear. You are in control. The last time the Big Three went on the tour circuit, they took the money we gave them for the hotels, spent it in the pub and opted to sleep in the van instead. They forgot their instruments and left them out on the side of the road. Careless. Last summer when I first signed them, I gave them money to buy suits from the tailor. They got three pound suits from C&A and the rest of that money went behind the bar too. I had to take them personally to ensure they got the right suits, like naughty school boys who can't be trusted.'

Della laughed. Brian gave her a disapproving look, his eyebrows knit together.

'Sorry.' 

'They complain about my management, but they refuse to do as they're instructed. What do they expect?'

'They're not complaining about you, per se. It's just...'

'Della,' Brian said, in that way which always stopped her argument. 'I will speak to the boys if they wish. Ask them to make an appointment with Beryl.'

'Okay,' Della said, acquiescing, but knowing the Big Three wouldn't be happy with that. They wanted Brian to pay them more attention, not to have to make arrangements with his secretary before they could even see him.

As Della was heading back towards the marquee, she met George walking the other way. He had his head bowed as he fiddled the zip on his leather jacket. She hadn't seen him wear that for quite a while now. He always seemed to be in a suit blazer or overcoat these days.

'Georgie,' Della said and George snapped his head up. 'Are you leaving?'

'Yeah, um, I think so... Had enough. Paul's still inside.' He jerked his head back towards the Marquee.

'I should hope so. Otherwise I'm sleeping on the streets tonight!'

It took George a beat to realise that was a joke. He smiled but it faded. 'He was asking me about you and Johnny Gus earlier.'

'Oh, yeah. He got some silly idea in his head. We've sorted it out now.'

George nodded. 'Good,' he said. 'That's... good.'

A loud crash made them both jump. A strangled cry came from the marquee, followed by a woman's scream.

'What--' Della said, stepping towards it. George put his arm out, stopping her as two men fell out of the entrance to the tent three feet in front of them, wrestling with each other ungracefully, hitting, punching, kicking.

It was only as one of the men grabbed the other and threw him to the ground that Della identified him, with horror, as John. A crowd had gathered in the mouth of the marquee, watching in stunned silence. John had Bob Wooler, the Cavern Club DJ, on his back as he pummelled him with his fists. Nasty and violent and bloody.

'John! Stop! Stop it--' Della said and outstretched her arm to touch him as he pinned Bob to the ground.

Something snatched her back, away, lifting her off her feet. George. He roughly deposited her behind him, holding her there with his body.

'George, we've got to stop--'

'No,' he ordered. 'You'll get hurt, Della.'

But not as hurt as Bob Wooler, who'd given up trying to fight John back. He held his arms up in front of his face, cradling his head, trying to protect himself, but it was the expression on John's face that was truly terrifying. It was pure hatred and anger. Pure evilness. He looked like he was trying to--

'He's going to kill him,' Della said. 'George, he's--'

George wouldn't turn around. He tightened his grip on Della's arms, holding her where she was. 'Don't look at them,' he said, locking eyes with her. 'Look at me.'

'John!' someone shouted. 'John, what the fuck are you doing?! Let him up!'

Billy Hatton pushed through the people in the marquee. He shoved and then dragged John away, pulling him off his feet, dropping on his arse on the grass. John swore, screamed something unintelligible at him and scrambled to his feet to take a swing at Billy.

'George, stop them,' Della pleaded, panic choking her.

Billy ducked out of John's way, catching him by his shirt collar and drew back his fist to return the punch.

'Billy, hit him and your careers over!' George barked.

Billy hesitated, then dropped his fist and dropped John. He sprawled on the ground, coughing and retching, but the fight gone out of him.

'Where's Brian Epstein?' Bob Wooler howled, getting to his feet, spitting blood from his mouth onto the ground. 'Where's Brian fucking Epstein?!'

'Della, find Brian,' George said and Della ran for the house.