Della hesitated outside the room. She'd never knocked before. Not for George. She'd just fling the door open and if he was half naked, getting dressed or undressed - or perhaps doing something else - he'd swear and shout at her to get out, but she still wouldn't knock the next time.

Something had shifted between them. They could pretend to go back to 'normal', but that 'normal' was unobtainable now. Too much had happened, too much had been said.

Instead, she settled for somewhere in between. A cursory rap of her knuckles against the heavy wooden door and then she flung it open like she used to, a grin on her face, expecting to find George startled and surprised under his bed covers.

But he wasn't there.

'George?' Della called, stepping inside. The room was ensuite but the bathroom door had been left  half open and the light inside switched off. Della closed the bedroom door.

On the far side of the room was a small balcony which overlooked the street at the side of the hotel. That door had been left ajar, the wind fluttering the long curtains there. Della crossed to it. Outside was a small patio space, long and narrow with potted topiary and a low hedge that ran round the balcony wall.

'George? Should you really be out-'

She stopped as she located him, standing on the edge of one of the planters, wearing a dressing gown over his pyjamas and taking photos of the street below with his camera.

'GEORGE! Get the FUCK DOWN from there, NOW!!'

George started and spun round to her, remaining balancing on the edge of the planter in his slippers. 'Bloody hell, Della. You frightened the life out of me!'

'Get down! Get down from there, now! What do you think you're doing?!'

A mischievous grin spread across his face. He took a surreptitious glance at the street behind and below him. 'I'm not going to fall off.'

'Get off there! Brian would have a heart attack if he saw you.'

'I think you're having it for him.'

Della stepped out on the balcony, going over to him, stopping a foot away. It was horribly windy and cold. 'Come back inside. This can't be good for you.'

'I was just taking photos. Most of the fans have followed them three to the park, so the streets clear. I can take a proper photo without them all screaming at me.'

'You're supposed to be ill and trying to recover. You should be in bed.'

'Oh, I'm okay now,' he said, flippantly and resumed snapping photos of the wall of the hotel above their heads.

'You're okay?'

'Yeah. I feel great.'

'You were dying last night.'

George lowered the camera. 'It's you who thought that, not me.'

'So you've made a miraculous recovery? Overnight?'

'Tha' doctor came back in and gave me a jab with something and now I feel fantastic. Why didn't they give me that last night? Would have saved a lot of bother.'

Della frowned. She moved closer to him, holding her hand out for him to take and trying not to look down. 'George, come down from there. Please.' She squinted and turned her head away. Della wasn't the biggest fan of heights. She could manage a step ladder, but the edge of a balcony on the twelfth floor of the New York Plaza made her stomach turn.

George snapped a photo of her. 'What would you do if I fell off?'

'Leave the country before Brian found out.'

George laughed and smartly hopped down off the wall, landing close in front of her, so close that Della took a step back from him. He reached and grabbed her hand, still extended towards him, bringing her closer to him.

He smiled at her and for a few seconds, Della lost track of all thought.

'Um... I... Uh, I really think you should get back in bed, Georgie. You don't want to make your flu worse.'

'It's not flu,' George said, not moving.

'Well, whatever it is. Come back inside. It's cold out here.'

He let the camera he was still holding in his other hand drop, swinging by it's strap around his neck, and put his hand on her waist so he was almost hugging her. Della's breathing seemed to malfunction. It got stuck somewhere in her throat.

'Della,' he said, softly and her heart did a strange sort of... flip. It must be from lack of oxygen. 'We're friends again, aren't we?'

'Yes,' she said, stifling a cough.

'Want to get back in bed with me?'

'What?'

'Like last night.'

'I... have work to do...'

'You're such a spoilsport these days,' George teased and let go of her to continue taking his photos. 'You won't let me climb on walls, you won't go to bed with me...' He snapped a photo of a perfectly spherical ball of topiary. 'I mean,' he said, a little bashfully. 'To sleep, you know, like we do.' 

'That was just for last night,' Della said, only really because she wanted him to ask her again. 'Because you were poorly.'

'Well, I think it helped. It's comforting, isn't it? To have someone next to you, when you feel rotten. Keeps you...' He stopped, considering what word he wanted. 'Warm,' he settled on finally. 'I feel much better today.'

'Do you?'

'That's down to whatever the doc gave me, but I think sleeping with you made a difference too.' He laughed. 'You know what I mean, Della.'

'Then come back inside, before you have a relapse.' She pulled the balcony door open wide, holding back the curtain for him and George obliged, stepping back inside the room.

'I feel great,' George said, effusively, as Della closed and locked the door to the balcony, straightening the curtains. 'I feel like I could run ten miles. I feel like I could- Oh, Della, let's go out somewhere. Lets go sightseeing. Or dancing! Let's go dancing!'

Della turned around. George was in the process of unthreading the cord of his dressing gown and taking it off.

'What are you doing? We can't go out.'

'No, I was just going to try that on.' He nodded to a square patchwork pattern jacket hanging on the back of the dressing table chair. 'We should go dancing somewhere. Where could we go?'

'On a Saturday morning?'

George laughed. 'No, tonight, of course. We'll go out tonight.' He dropped the dressing gown on the bed and grabbed the jacket off the chair, sweeping it around his shoulders.

'I think you should be taking it easy. You're still recovering and you don't want to jeopardise the show-'

'Pfft,' said George, zipping the jacket shut over his camera, still around his neck. 'And waste more time lying in bed when we could be seeing New York? Me and Pete were here for a couple of days last year, but we left saying we wished we'd had more time. You can't squeeze all of New York into two days. You came over with Brian last November, didn't you? Bet you loved it.'

He was talking fast, jabbering on, not allowing Della a word in edgeways. 'What did that doctor give you?'

'Did you, Della? Did you like it? What did you do while you were here?' George moved in front of the mirror, pulling the jacket straight. It hung on him, at least three sizes too big. 'Pete and me saw a play. Stop The World, I Want To Get Off. It was alright. Anthony Newley was in it. Don't you fancy him?'

'George,' Della said and went to his side.

'Don't you like him? I thought you did.'

'He's okay. George-'

'What do you think to the jacket? It was a gift. Someone sent it to me. Lots of people are sending us things. Someone sent a whole box of harmonicas over yesterday. Twenty of them!'

'It's hideous.'

'Hideous? I think it's alright. There's a scarf to match.' He reached for a scrap of fabric in the same green, yellow, red and orange brickwork pattern, left on the back of the chair, and tied it around his neck.

'It's too big for you.'

'I thought of you while we were here. At that play. I thought Della would like this. Did you go to the theatre with Brian?'

'George, why don't you get back in bed for a while?'

'I can't go back to bed. I feel too... too... full of energy!'

'You're full of something.'

He laughed, a little too hard, too boisterously.

'What's the doctor given you?'

'I don't know. It was clear liquid and he used that-' George nodded to the large injection needle, left atop the dressing table alongside George's other medicines. Della winced at it.

'Come on, humour me. Take the jacket off and go back to bed. There's rehearsals this afternoon. Maybe you can go if you're feeling up to it.'

'Oh, fab, rehearsals,' George said, sarcastically. 'That's just what I want to do.'

Della reached and unthreaded the scarf from around his neck. George turned to face her, letting her take it from him.

'I'm glad we're not fighting anymore,' George said and placed his hands on her hips, smoothing the fabric of her dress in a way that was - was she imagining it? - a little more than just friendly. 'I've missed you, you know, Del. I didn't like not being friends with you anymore. I thought...' He stopped and swallowed. 'I thought about you...'

'I thought about you too,' Della said. 'A lot.'

'I think... Della, I think I... I'm gonna throw up!'

He broke away from her and ran for the bathroom, retching noisily over the sink.

After she'd settled a remorseful and sorry for himself George back in his bed, bringing him water and having Louise come and sit with him to ensure he didn't go climbing around on balconies, Della retreated to the sixth floor for the briefing with Brian. She hadn't spoken with Brian today yet, but he was bound to ask how George was. That's why she'd gone to see him in the first place. Now she had to decide whether to tell Brian a half-lie or a complete pack of lies. She couldn't tell him she'd found George bouncing off the walls from whatever that doctor had given him, culminating in him puking in the bathroom for twenty minutes. Brian didn't take bad news very well. But they still had a day to get George back on his feet. There was hope.

As she approached the hotel suite, Brian opened the door for her. 'Della,' he said and walked away.

Della hesitated. That wasn't good. It wasn't a Della, would you please come in here. It wasn't a Della, come and look at this. It was a straight, flat Della. A summons.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside, closing the door behind her and as soon as she had, she knew what it was going to be about. She could hear it playing in the lounge.

Brian stood beside the low coffee table in the centre of the room, waiting for her. 'What is this?' he asked, gesturing open palmed to a small transistor radio, sitting on the table. It was cream with dark green sides, a handle on top and a large dial on the front that looked like a speedometer. And yes, everything was going much too fast today.

'Well, it looks like a radio, Brian,' Della said, coming into the room.

'Don't be smart,' Brian told her and checked his watch. He bent and turned the volume up.

'Just one more reminder, folks-' said the radio DJ, then fuzzy like it was spoken through a telephone; 'This is George Harrison of The Beatles, and you're listening to Jack Diamond, your Beatles leader in the Springfield area...' A guitar strummed, followed by a snippet of the Yeah, Yeah, Yeah's from She Loves You.

Oh, fuck. When the hell did he say that? She'd been standing at the foot of his bed the whole time. He'd couldn't have been talking to them for more than a few minutes. Della had been trying not to eavesdrop. It seems she had managed it.

'They're playing that every hour on the half hour,' Brian told her, primly, turning the volume down. 'Care to explain, Della?'

'Um, well, I... Louise went to one of the radio stations last night. Some of the DJ's were hassling George and she thought they would leave him to get some rest if she went with them to look at the entries they'd had for a competition. She called from there and spoke to George. I guess they recorded him and...' Her voice trailed away. Brian wasn't really interested in her explanation.

He frowned at her. 'Yesterday, I couldn't convince you to sit in the same room as George while he slept. Now you're recording radio interviews with him?'

'I wasn't! It wasn't me! George was-'

'They run that trail every half hour. The one they play on the hour promises an exclusive interview with Beatle George and his secret childhood sweetheart, who he's taken on tour to New York with him.'

Oh, double fuck.

Della shook her head, feigning confusion. 'I don't know what they're talking about. George doesn't have a girlfriend. They must have-'

'There's a clip where a girl tells George to get off the phone.'

'Oh.'

'Your voice, Della.'

'Well, okay, I was there, but as soon as I realised who he was speaking to, I made him hang up. Louise called to say George needed to take his medicine and George wanted to talk to her. She must have put him onto the radio guys and they've recorded him somehow.'

'Oh, they've recorded him. I can vouch for that. You allowed George to talk to this... this...' He waved his hand at the radio, voice rising, face getting red with anger. Della took a small step backwards. 'Springfield radio station? Knowing full well we have an exclusive deal in place with WINS radio?!'

'No, I didn't, I thought he was only talking to Louise...'

'He's recorded a jingle for them!'

'I don't know when he said that...' 

'What's this interview they're talking about?'

'I don't know. They've made that up.'

Brian pursed his lips, doubting her.

'I'm not going to do an interview!'

'Correct, you are not!' he barked. 'Seven AM this morning I was awoken by a call from WINS, very upset, very angry that their exclusive access deal with the Beatles had been compromised.'

'I'm sorry, Brian.'

'Della, you did all the paperwork for this! You had all the release forms and the photography permission forms and the exclusivity contracts-'

'I know, I'm sorry. I don't know what-'

'You allowed Mrs Caldwell to go to a radio station?!'

'I... Well, she said-'

'How could you let this happen, Della? You know what this means, don't you?'

Della swallowed, a lump in her throat. 'That I'm fired?'

Brian pressed his lips together, trying to contain his temper. Failing. 'We will discuss your future with NEMS when get back to England,' he said. It was almost a growl.  

'You still want me here?'

'I need a secretary. One who knows the boys and who knows what she's doing. At least for most of the time. We couldn't hire a nurse because she'd faint at the sight of a Beatle. How am I to find a secretary at short notice?'

'Right,' Della said, meekly. 'I see.'

'We're going to have to pay WINS for their losses, if that can even be accounted for. I don't know if we'll make any money out of the deal. This is going to cost us, Della.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'Stop saying you're sorry. It doesn't help.' Brian ran a hand through his hair and turned away from her, going to the window. It overlooked Central Park, across the road from the hotel. 'Where are the boys?'

'John, Paul and Ringo are still at the park. They were going to stop for lunch somewhere but they'll probably be on their way back by now.'

'And George?'

'George is... resting. In bed. He's not got out of bed at all. He's... resting.'

Brian turned back to her, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. 'Is he any better?'

'A little, I think. But he's trying to sleep at the moment.'

'I don't want to see you near George for the rest of the weekend, do you understand? Keep your distance from him. You're not to speak to him, you're not to stand near him in public. If this radio station is putting it out there that you're his girlfriend, everyone will be looking for a photograph of the two of you. I don't want that to happen.'

'Okay.'

'Della?'

'I mean, yes, Mr Epstein. Of course.'

Brian sucked his cheeks in. He was probably dying to fire her and send her home, away from photographers and gossip column stories. She was lucky he needed her or she'd be packing her bags this afternoon.

'You will accompany the boys to the studio this afternoon. I trust George will be too unwell to attend the studio rehearsal?'

Della nodded. 'Yes. I think he will be.'

'Well, at the moment, that's probably for the best.'

It was all starting to wear on Della.

By car, the journey from the hotel to the TV studio was less than ten minutes. Della knew this already from their extensive planning back in London. Eight minutes. Slightly longer if they accounted for Saturday afternoon traffic, but certainly not more than quarter of an hour from the New York Plaza to CBS Studio 50. The proximity to the studio was the main reason they'd chosen to stay at the Plaza. There had even been thoughts, at the beginning, of them walking there.

But they'd been in the Cadillac for over half an hour and they weren't even three quarters of the way there yet. They crawled along painfully slowly, much slower than walking - it felt much slower than actual crawling. At least Della knew to allow for extra time to get to the studio tomorrow, but that was poor comfort.

New York was cold today. Everyone on the street were bundled up in coats and hats and scarves, but the atmosphere inside the car was decidedly humid and stifling. Or maybe that was just Della. John, Ringo and Paul seemed okay in their dark navy wool overcoats. Della could feel a prickly sweat creeping up her neck. If George had given her his fever now, that would just be the cherry on the cake.

She unbuttoned the top of her coat and loosened the chunky knit scarf from around her neck, but it wasn't really anything physical or medical that had brought on this hot flush. It was more circumstantial.

'We might as well have stayed on the horse buggy,' Ringo said. He sat on the seat next to Della, their backs to their direction of travel. 'We had a horse buggy ride round the park,' he told her. 'We should have took it to the studio. We'd have got there quicker.' 

John opposite Ringo, rolled his eyes, and Paul, opposite Della, gazed out of the window, unperturbed, like he hadn't heard anything, but Ringo had a point. Their Cadillac limousine was being escorted by mounted police, battling through the streets, as the fans along the route surrounded them. If they could get close enough, they'd hammer on the windows and sides of the car with squeals of 'Paul! John! Ringo! Geooorrrgggeeee!' The risk of being pulled under the wheels apparently not enough to put them off the chance to get close to a Beatle.

Maybe they should have gone in the red car again. This morning they'd parked the limo at the front of the hotel and sneaked John, Paul and Ringo out of the back of the building and into a nondescript little red car. It had been loaned to them by one of the police guards in charge of keeping the Beatles safe from their hoards of adoring fans. Della hadn't gone to Central Park with them, but Neil had told her it'd worked, until they'd gotten to the corner and the leading police car put the siren on to clear some of the fans waiting in the road there. 'You might as well take the limo,' he'd told Della. 'They're covering every hotel exit now anyway. You won't be able to escape without being seen.'

Escape. That had been the word he'd used.

But it wasn't the unrelenting fans or the slow police escort or the fact they were already behind schedule that was wearing Della. It wasn't the earache she'd received from the general manager of the Plaza before they'd left, who'd told an enquiring journalist that the Beatles were "a credit to England and we're so pleased to host them here," before he'd dragged Della into the office to complain that the military style guard outside the hotel and the chaos wrought by the Beatles' fans did not fit in with the Plaza's staid and decorous reputation. And it wasn't even Brian, who was now icily ignoring her to show his displeasure; his cold shoulder treatment much worse than his furious outbursts.

It was him. Paul. Silent Paul, refusing to speak to Della still, refusing to even look at her. By accident, he'd ended up sitting opposite her. He must be getting a crick in his neck from staring out of the side window for so long, just so he didn't have to acknowledge Della.

She half suspected he thought they were engaged in a battle of wills. The loser would be the one to speak first, to admit the presence of the other one. She wasn't going to play games with him, but Della thought that if she spoke to Paul she might end up hitting him, and then Brian would be even more angry with her for giving Paul a split lip.

'Where's Eppy?' John asked, lowering his voice.

'He's around somewhere,' Della replied, not looking up from the union papers.

'Shouldn't he be here?'

'He doesn't interfere with your rehearsals, does he?'

'Yes, but can you... do this?'

'I'm perfectly capable of-' Della snapped, then stopped as she lifted her head to him. The thick lenses of John's glasses made his eyes look bigger as he blinked at her, genuine concern there and maybe even a little sympathy. 'It's fine,' she said, firmly, and went back to reading - or trying to read - the papers the TV people wanted the Beatles to sign. It was written in almost indecipherable legalese. All parties of the therefores and herewithins.

'Let me look,' John said, swinging the guitar around his neck onto his hip.

'It's complicated,' Della said, not wanting to admit most of it was going way over her head. 'I don't think you'd understand it.'

'It can't be that difficult. I can read, you know,' John said, sardonically. 'Quarry Bank lad, me.'

They'd been at rehearsals for a couple of hours, although a significant portion of that time had been consumed by shaking hands with TV people, meeting Ed Sullivan and posing for photographs with disappointed journalists who were quite vocal about their resentment at only having three Beatles instead of the full four.

Neil stood in for George on stage, standing on his marks so they could line the camera shots up, holding George's Gretsch and looking quite self conscious about it. Yesterday, the boys had to recite their names at the airport press conference so the journalists could get it straight. Maybe they would have gotten away with putting a Beatle wig on Neil and saying he was George for their photographs too. Della would have joked with Brian about that, if he wasn't still furious with her.

Della sighed and gave the papers to John. 'Here then, look. I think it's like the American version of Equity. Or something similar.'

'What's Equity?'

'The actor's union.'

John raised his eyes. 'We've never had to sign anything like that in England.'

'Well, it's different rules here. And you will, when we make the film.'

John twisted his mouth and held the papers up, peering over the top of his glasses to read. Della stood awkwardly in the centre of the stage with him. She'd interrupted the rehearsal to have them sign these. The CBS guy had made it sound so important, she thought she'd better, but now she wished she'd waited.

The TV camera operators and studio people milled around them, impatient to carry on with the rehearsal. Della kept catching herself on the monitors around the edge of the blue low platform stage. It made her uncomfortable. She loved the theatre, but she was no actress. She was strictly backstage.

Ringo was on the raised drum platform behind her and Paul stood a distance away, tuning his bass guitar, pretending he wasn't listening. All she could hear were huffs and sighs from Ringo as he fiddled with the drum kit and an echoing silence from Paul.

The studio was smaller than Della had expected. Everything in New York seemed on the grand scale, but Studio 50 was the exception. On the inside, it looked less like a TV studio and more like a theatre, and a little one at that. There were only seven hundred seats across studio level stalls and a circle balcony level above. The London Palladium held three thousand.

'You can wait for Brian if you want to,' Della said, stepping closer to John. 'But they won't let you play unless you sign up.'

'Play?'

'Tomorrow, on the show. Not now.'

'We should run through again, John,' Paul said, without looking up from his bass. 'We're wasting time.'

A stage technician walked across the stage, straight through them, dissecting John and Della from Paul and Ringo. John followed him with his eyes as he went over to the encompassing navy backdrop and illuminated THE BEATLES sign. He started tapping it and pulling it away from the backing it was screwed onto.

'Brian had better get his arse down here,' John said, watching him.

'I can take care of things,' Della said, defensively.

'Never said you couldn't, love.' John retrieved a pen from his blazer pocket and, guitar still hanging around his neck, leaned on his thigh to sign one of the sheets of paper, creasing it up in the process. 'Macca, come 'ed. Sign this,' he said, straightening up and crossing over to Paul.

Della turned around with him and caught Paul staring at her. She knew he must have been looking at her from the way he snapped his head round, casting his eyes up to the lighting rig above their heads to pretend he wasn't watching her.

Della could understand Paul was suspicious of her sudden arrival on the Beatles entourage. She could understand that he was annoyed no one told him she was coming and that he most likely didn't know how to talk to her now, but the most hurtful thing about his behaviour was how unfriendly he was to her. She wasn't used to that at all. Paul was everyone's friend. Before they started dating, Della and Paul had been friends, and she missed that. She missed his friendship a lot.

'Miss Milton, Mr Harrison has arrived,' someone behind Della said, quite formally, as if he was announcing guests at a debutantes ball.

'George?' Della said, turning around. There was a lad with a clipboard behind her. 'George is ill today. He's in bed back at the-'

As she spoke, the white double doors at the side of the studio swept open and George came in, flanked by several suited TV men, photographers and his sister, Louise in her grand white coat. George wore his grey four button suit with the black velvet collar and Cuban heel boots. The full Beatle uniform except for the black roll neck jumper he had underneath, pulled up to protect his throat. He saw Della with the band and made a beeline for them. His face was deathly white but his lips were a dark red and his eyes wide and staring, making Della worry about what that quack of a doctor had put into him this time.

'One hour!' Louise announced to anyone who was listening, trotting in white heels to keep up with George. 'George can stay for one hour only. Doctor's orders.'

'What are you doing here?' Della asked, as the group reached her. George smiled and she felt oddly relieved. It'd only been George and Della alone so far, she didn't know how he'd behave around her in the presence of Paul, whether he'd revert back to ignoring her too, or if Brian had warned him to keep his distance from Della as well. But George wouldn't do that, even if he had, would he? Della knew he wouldn't.

'He's not to sing or play guitar,' Louise said, still clucking around him as photographers snapped her photo. She seemed to be enjoying all the attention a lot more than George. 'And we can only stay for an hour.'

'Apparently it was of paramount importance that I came down here,' George told her, raising his eyebrows. She could hear Brian's words echoing.

'I thought you were at death's door again.'

'Not yet.' He grinned and Della felt an odd swell in her chest.

'Shush!' Louise scolded. 'You're not supposed to be speaking. What did Doctor Gordon tell you?'

'I haven't been struck dumb,' George said.

'That's a matter of opinion,' John said, arriving next to them, putting his hand on George's shoulder.

'You're meant to be resting your voice so your throat can get better,' Louise told him.

'What can you do if you can't sing or play guitar?' Della asked.

'I can pose for photos,' George said, ruefully. 'So here I am, to pose for photos.'

'We're just wind-up monkeys to you, aren't we, Della?' John said.  'Wind us up and away we go, banging our cymbals together for your entertainment. We can do other things than just play guitar, you know. We do have brains inside our heads.' He turned to George. 'She was accusing me of not being able to read earlier.'

'Can you read?' George asked, with a daft grin.

'No,' said John, returning it.

'Della, the drums-' Ringo said, suddenly standing beside her, pointing drumsticks held in one hand at her.

'Ringo, I promise you, Neil is working on it,' Della said, just as one of the photographers took her picture with him. Glancing at George and remembering Brian's warning, she put her hand on his Ringo's arm and brought him into the shadows at the side of the brightly lit stage, away from the others and more importantly, away from the photographers. 'He's gone to the music store now to personally see that the right kit is brought here for tomorrow.'

'No, um, what I was going to say is, they'd probably be alright. If I had to use them, I mean.' He nodded towards the drum platform and the cursed white drum kit. 'They'd be okay. I just didn't want you to think I was getting at you, before, you know. When I was saying they weren't the right ones.'

'What's this?' George asked, stepping down from the stage to join them.

'They delivered the wrong drum kit,' Della said.

George turned around to look at it. 'It's a Ludwig.'

'It's a white-marine-pearl,' Ringo said.

'Well, what do you usually have?'

'A black-oyster-pearl,' Ringo said, astounded that George would even ask.

'Can't you use that one?'

'Would you use it if they brought the wrong guitar?'

'That's different,' George said, looking at Della. There was a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He was teasing. 'A guitar can have lots of different sounds depending on what it is. Drums are just... drums, aren't they? Just bang, bang, bang, all the same whether your on one kit or using a set of upside down saucepans instead.'

Ringo opened his mouth to protest then noticed the grin George couldn't hide. 'You're not supposed to be talking,' he said and stalked off, back to the drum kit with a, 'All the bloody same! Pah!'

'Thanks, George,' Della said, sarcastically. 'He was already in a bad mood over it.'

George laughed and took a packet of cigarettes from his trouser pocket.

'Throat,' Della said to him as George slid one out and put it between his lips.

'What?'

'That won't do your throat any good.'

'Give me a break, Del. Lou's been on me all the way here.'

'There's a reason for that.'

George lit the cigarette regardless. 'How did he get the wrong kit?' he asked, nodding towards Ringo, posing for a photo with George's sister.

Della sighed. 'Oh, it's been... The whole day has been a pain in the arse. Whatever could go wrong, has gone wrong.'

George exhaled a lungful of smoke and raised his eyebrows.

'The drum kit is my fault,' she said, lowering her voice. 'They rang last week and asked. Ringo hadn't put the colour on the paperwork. They started reeling off the colours and I knew he had the black one, but all I heard was Oyster Pearl, and pearls are white, aren't they?'

'You didn't just say the black one?'

'No, I said, "Not the Oyster one. The other one."' She nodded towards the drum kit, left forlorn on the blue raised platform. 'That's "the other one". Neil thinks it's the music store's fault. He's gone to shout at them for sending the wrong one and they'll tell him it was me.'

'Well, they'll have one, won't they? They'll get it here for tomorrow so disaster averted. The white one looks okay, anyway. It stands out against that.' He nodded to the backdrop and it's twenty foot high jagged lettering, surrounding the performance area. The letters were lights. They were going to change hue subtly while the band played, bringing the intensity of the THE BEATLES up and down.

'Yeah, it's nice but that's going too.'

'What's wrong with it?'

'Nothing at all, but Ed Sullivan doesn't like it so he's told them to take it down.'

George stuck his bottom lip out. 'Bit late for changes, isn't it?'

'He said it's not needed. Everyone will know who you are already. I think it's because Brian said he wanted to know exactly what he was going to say to introduce you and he wanted to show who's the boss around here.'

George frowned. 'So what are we supposed to stand in front of?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'Well, there will be something, but it won't say The Beatles on it. So there was that little upset and Ringo's kit and they have all these union contracts they want you all to sign too. CBS was quietly seething that you weren't here as well, because they'd arranged all the photographers to picture you rehearsing and you being poorly scuppered it.'

George laughed quietly.

'I'm glad you find it amusing.'

He shook his head.

'Are you better now? Are you well enough to play?'

George took her hand and pressed the back of it to his forehead. He was hot, burning up, just as bad as the night before.

Della took her hand back. 'Oh, God, George. You shouldn't be here. You're not going to be well enough. What are we going to do?'

'I can probably manage to stand up for half an hour tomorrow night. The doctor will have to give me more of that magic medicine.'

'No, not if you're not up to it. It might make you worse. If you're too sick, we'll just have to think of something.' She sighed. 'But I don't know what.'

He smiled. 'Aren't you glad I got you the job now?'

She grimaced. 'Yeah, well, it might not be for much longer. Brian is furious with me and that's your fault.'

George frowned and opened his mouth but before he could speak the door on the opposite side of the studio opened and Brian with Ed Sullivan and yet more TV people in suits arrived.

'Ah, George, you're here. I'd like you to meet Mr Sullivan,' Brian said, putting his arm out to beckon him over. He shot Della a look and she shrank back to the edge of the studio floor, further into the darkness. George went towards them, over by the gold curtains that draped the sides of the studio.

'Della,' George called, turning back around to her, halfway between her and Brian. 'It'll be alright,' he said and winked.

'Stop shouting,' Louise scolded, meeting George and taking his arm to bring him the rest of the way. 'You're supposed to be resting your voice.'

Della laughed.

'Are you Della?' said a man to Della's left.

'Yes,' she said, still smiling. 'Can I help you?'

He raised a camera that Della hadn't noticed him holding and snapped a photo of her. 'George's Della?'

'What?'

'The Della he was talking about on the radio yesterday?'

She stepped back. 'I just work for Mr Epstein, that's all.'

'But you're George's girlfriend?' He took another photo of her.

'No, I'm not.' Della found herself walking backwards. She put her hand out, an effort to stop him photographing her but it did little good. He took another one. 'Stop it! Don't take my photo.'

'Could you go and stand next to George? So I can get a picture of the two of you together?'

'Hey, she said stop it,' a voice said behind her, just as Della walked backwards into someone. She stumbled and a pair of hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her. She twisted her neck to look at him. Paul.

'Stop hassling her or we'll have you thrown out,' Paul said, releasing Della and stepping in front of her. 'She told you, she works for our manager. That's all.' 

The photographer lowered his camera. His lip curled like he was about to argue, but then he reconsidered and turned on his heel to join the other photographers, snapping away at George and Brian and Ed Sullivan.

Della stared at Paul, more shocked by him than the photographer. 'Thank you,' she managed, eventually.

Paul gave a half shrug. 'I hate it when they're pushy like that.'

They looked at each other for a beat longer, then Della nodded and turned away, retreating to the first row of the audience seats inside the studio. She pulled a seat down and sat, only realising then that Paul had followed her.

'What did he mean? Asking if you were George's girlfriend?'

'Um... George was on the radio last night.'

Paul frowned, confused.

Della shook her head. 'It's a long story. I was in his room, and they heard me and asked who it was and... now the world thinks we're dating.'

'Oh.'

'We're not,' Della said, unsure why she felt the need to tell him that. Paul already knew that.

He nodded, scuffed his shoe on the floor and stuck his hands in his pockets. 'Um, Della...'

'Paul? Paul!' Brian called and waved him over. The other three Beatles were being positioned in front of the curtains for photos.

'I think you're  wanted over there,' Della said.

Paul exhaled. 'Yeah,' he said and went to join them.