'C'mon, girl. It's only a cup of coffee.'

'No,' Della said. She turned sharply on her heel and walked away from him. As she rested the gig sheet she was filling in on top of the dressing table, Freddie Marsden, sitting to the side of the table, gave her a small, sympathetic smile.

Gerry followed her, guitar slung high around his chest like how he played it, the huge body of his Gretsch Tennessean almost tucked under his armpit. He bent over, dipping his head to try and get into her view. 'Why not? Come on, come out with me.'

Della flicked her eyes up at him. 'No.'

'We're both in a strange city, miles from home. Who else are you going to go out with?'

'No one.'

'Ah, well, if that isn't the saddest thing I've ever heard! Come out with me tonight. We'll keep each other company.'

She tapped her pen on the table, avoiding looking at him. 'Don't you have somewhere to be tonight? In around fifteen minutes?'

'We can get a lot done in fifteen minutes.'

Della laughed, despite herself. 'You never give up do you?'

Gerry grinned.

'The girl said no, Gerry. How many times does she have to repeat herself before it gets through your thick skull?'

Gerry whipped his head around and narrowed his eyes at his bass player. 'Shut the hell up, Les.'

Les stuck his middle finger up at him. He sat slumped on the sofa with the stuffing coming out of the armrest, his legs wide open, bass guitar over his lap. Freddie, the drummer and Gerry's brother sat in the tub armchair to Della's left, and the other Les, Les Maguire, waited by the door obediently. Fifteen minutes before they were on and for once she had them all in one place.

'What's the name of your hotel again?' Della asked Freddie.

He opened his mouth to answer, but Les Chadwick, the bass player, pipped him to it.

'The Talbot.'

'Thank you.'

'I'm in room twenty-eight,' Gerry added.

'I don't need that kind of detail,' Della replied, briskly. She turned around putting her back to him to write the hotel name on her gig sheet.

'Oh, I think you do,' Gerry said, walking round her. 'How will you find your way my bed, later on, when it's dark?'

'I'm not staying tonight,' Della said, deliberately ignoring his meaning. 'I have to go to New Brighton after the show.'

'What for?'

'For work.'

'For the damn Beatles, eh? Why would you want them when you can have Gerry and The Pacemakers?'

'Of course it's for the damn Beatles,' Les chimed in. 'She's going to see her damn Beatle boyfriend. As you already know, Gerry.'

Gerry shot him another look. 'You're such a spoilsport.'

'Leave the girl be. She's trying to do her job. Stop buzzing around her like a demented bluebottle.'

'I'm not bothering her.'

'Is he bothering you, Della?'

'I'm just asking if she fancies going for a coffee. Maybe a slice of cake or somethin'. Gotta eat, haven't you?'

'She has a boyfriend, moron.'

Gerry turned round to face him, his jovial demeanour evaporating. 'Thin ice, Les,' he said, teeth gritted. 'Thin ice, hot skates, mate.'

'Don't you have a girlfriend already, too?' Della interrupted, putting her hand on Gerry's arm. 'I'm sure you've told me that before.'

Whenever things threatened to get out of hand, Della would remind him of Pauline. It worked. It always worked because Gerry was in love with his girlfriend. They'd get married one day, though hopefully not too soon. NEMS already had one married headliner, they could do without another just yet.

Della knew her vaguely. She'd been George's girlfriend once upon a time, a few years ago. They hadn't lasted long. It was around the time Della was dating Phil and George had disappeared off to Hamburg for the first time. Pauline and George were never anything official, but Pauline had started seeing Gerry while he was away. When he came back, George had asked her to choose and she'd picked Gerry.

'While the cats away,' Gerry said, but he'd lost the enthusiasm he'd had earlier.

Della smiled at him and he returned it with a quick shrug. He was alright, Gerry. He was a flirt and a kidder. He always joking and teasing and asking her to go out with him in that half-joking, half-really-meaning-it way, but he was harmless. She'd come up against worse in her first six months on the UK tour circuit. It was very male environment. There were women, but very few in the role Della filled. In fact, she had yet to met another. Women tended to be singers, dancers, performers, or else they were wardrobe or makeup or front of house.

In the beginning even getting into the theatres had been a challenge, especially if she didn't arrive with the band. She still carried the letter from Brian authorising her to act on his behalf, just in case, but it was getting a little easier. Most of the tour promoters knew her now, or knew of her at least, as she was such a novelty.

'A woman band manager?! You're having me on!' Della remember one promoter exclaiming.

'Brian Epstein is the band's manager,' Della replied, primly. 'I am merely his assistant. The tour secretary.'

'Where is his nibs tonight, anyway?' Les asked, plucking at the bass top string idly.

'New Brighton,' Della said, concentrating on her gig sheet. 'With the Beatles. They're doing one of those showcases again. Like the one we'll do with them on Monday. What time did you get here tonight?'

When no one answered her question, Della lifted her head.

'What time did you and the Big Three get here?'

'Four-ish,' Gerry said, but he cast his eyes to the ceiling as he said it. A classic tell.

'Something else I should know about?' she asked.

'The Big Three didn't get here til half an hour before the show,' Les Maguire said, still waiting beside the door, leaning there now. The other three looked at him sharply. 'Well, they didn't...' he said, quietly, glancing away. 'You weren't here either, Della.'

'I was finding out where your guitars had got to. That roadie had took them to the wrong theatre.'

No one replied.

'So the Big Three didn't do a soundcheck then?'

'Don't think so, love,' Gerry said.

There was something else. The atmosphere in the room had shifted. Della walked over to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. She opened the door and inside hung three sharply pressed pristine silver grey mohair suits. This wasn't the first time the Big Three had tried to avoid wearing their stage suits. It was the first time they'd managed it, on Della's watch.

Della turned back to the band. 'What are they wearing out there?'

'Their birthday suits?' Gerry joked, weakly.

'Brian will go mad,' Della said. She looked at the gig sheet, crumpled in her hand now. 'Well, I'll put four PM arrival down for both of you. Don't tell Brian. Or Alistair.'

She shouldn't be discovering all this now. She should be at the side of the stage. She should have filled the gig sheet in earlier. She would have done if it wasn't for the fiasco with the guitars. Some new driver they had took them for a twenty mile round trip.

Alistair was always meticulous in checking the gig sheets were complete and Brian insisted on it. It detailed everything that happened, all the expenses, anything that was required for this show or needed to be brought in for the next. This was another thing that marked NEMS out as different to everyone else. Brian took care of his artists - or rather Della and Alistair and everyone else who worked for NEMS did. They booked and paid for the hotels. They found drivers and road managers to take the bands around the country. They made sure everything was run smoothly so all the musicians had to worry about was their performance. Della knew this was unusual from talking to other promoters and band managers. Other artists had to get themselves to and from the theatres. If they didn't have the money for a hotel or petrol in their cars, that was their problem.

'Don't worry about Epstein, doll,' Gerry said, coming over to her again as Della finished her gig sheet, leaning on the arm of the sofa. 'If he were here, it wouldn't have happened. But he's never here, is he? The poor bloody relations, we are.'

'Brian will see you in Romford for the Merseybeat Showcase,' Della said, sweetly. 'Then he'll be at your Liverpool Empire gig next week as well.'

Gerry huffed. 'Well, so long as it suits him. I mean, if it's not too much trouble.'

She lifted her head. 'He'll be there. He said to tell you that-- Oh, I forgot! He sent this!'

Della pushed past Gerry and strode across the narrow dressing room to grab her bag from under the table. She put the gig sheet and pen down as she rummaged in the bag, the pen rolling away and disappearing into a gap between the back of the table and the mirror. She found the telegram someone had thrust into her hands during the chaos before the show and smoothed the piece of paper out on top of the table. Freddie lifted himself up to peer over her shoulder.

'Fuck me, you're kidding!' Freddie said, making her jump.

'What?' Gerry asked, taking his guitar off and depositing it on the sofa with Les.

GERRY + BOYS CONGRATS I LIKE IT NO 2 THIS WEEK STOP

DELLA BEATLES 1 GERRY 2 BILLY J 3 STOP BRIAN

'What's that mean?' Les said behind Della. 'Beatles 1, Gerry 2...'

She turned around, surprised to find all four of the Pacemakers crowding around her. 'It means the Beatles are at number one, The Pacemakers are number two and Billy J Kramer and the Dakotas are at number three. The top three are all--

'You've waited until now to show us this?' Gerry cried, flinging his arms around her waist and lifting her off her feet. 'Fucking straight in at number fucking two!!' He spun her around, making her squeal and laugh.

'Pacemakers on in five!' someone shouted outside, rapping a fist on the the dressing room door.

'Put me down,' Della said.

'We'll be number one next week!' Gerry said, turning his head to Les, still holding Della up. She put her arms up to stop her head hitting the ceiling. 'Mark my words, son!'

'What's going on?' said another voice. Johnny Hutchinson - Hutch - the drummer in The Big Three, stood in the doorway.

'Gerry,' Della said, warningly, and Gerry finally put her back on her feet. She straightened her clothes, a little dizzy now, as the other two members of The Big Three arrived in the dressing room, Brian Griffiths and the gorgeous Johnny Gustafson just behind him, fresh from their set on stage. Jeans and scruffy t-shirts, all three of them.

'You'd better get out there,' she said to Gerry, trying to comb her hair down with her fingers, feeling her cheeks reddening. 'They'll be introducing you.'

Gerry widened his eyes at her. 'You can't tell me a thing like that and then expect me to go on stage and sing!'

'What's happened?' Hutch asked.

Gerry grabbed his guitar and flung it over his chest. 'What are you lookin' at, Hutch?' he said, squaring up to him, trying to stand tall but still a good few inches shorter than him.

'Some Scouse wanker,' Hutch replied dryly and stepped past him.

The Big Three were one of Brian's more recent signings. Unique in the fact they were a trio - just drums, bass and lead guitar, no rhythm, their sound was loud, fast and reverberating nonetheless. They were immensely popular in Liverpool. They packed the Cavern for their shows, but their transition to a national act had been bumpy. They were currently playing support alongside Gerry and The Pacemakers. The two groups were supposed to alternate positions on the bill, sometimes the Pacemakers closing before the headline act, sometimes the Big Three, but more and more promoters asked for the Pacemakers to go on second, and Gerry and the boys didn't let the Big Three forget it.

'You're looking at the singer of the new number two entry in the UK charts,' Gerry informed him. 'Record Retailer charts! Released this week and straight in at number two!!'

Hutch frowned. Freddie, holding the telegram currently, passed it to him. He read it and sniffed, disdainfully.

'That's two for two!' Gerry continued. 'How Do You Do It number one, now I Like It number two, and it'll knock the Beatles off the top next week.'

'I'm sure it will. They've been there two months.'

'It will.'

'Yeah, cos it sounds like a Beatles hit. Your first single was a Beatles reject and the new one sounds like it should be.' Hutch dropped the telegram, letting it flutter to the floor.

'Hey,' Freddie said, going to retrieve it.

'Beatles reject? It's got higher than their first single did. So who's better, eh?'

'Yeah,' Hutch said. 'You're so bloody good, Gerry, Epstein's God knows where with them and he's sent his fucking secretary to look after us.'

Gerry laughed, mirthlessly. 'Jealous much?' He took a small stepped towards him.

'Get out there before you miss your cue,' Della said hurriedly, pushing Gerry around and pointing him out of the dressing room.

'That fucking tosser. Did you hear what he said?'

'Gerry, go!' Della gave him a shove. 'You lot too. Go! Now!' The Pacemakers filed out, making as much noise as the crowd in the auditorium beyond and Della shut the door on them. She turned back to the others. She'd have to mention the suits. She should. She can't let them get away with that.

Hutch gave her an apologetic smile. 'Sorry, love. I didn't mean-- What you do for us is great but... where's our telegram from Brian, eh?'

'Gerry is just trying to wind you up.' Della said, returning to her gig sheet. 'Don't let him get to you.'

'Yeah, but... Where is he then? Our fucking manager.'

'He'll see you at the Empire next--'

'No one knew who the fuck we were out there,' Hutch cut her off. 'Does the record even get air time?'

Maybe if you wore the stage suits, you'd look like a band, Della thought. 'Yes, it does,' she said instead, patiently, and reached for her bag again. 'I have a schedule of radio--'

'I don't want your bloody schedule. It's a shitty fucking record anyway. No wonder no one's buying it.'

'It's hardly Della's fault,' Brian Griffiths said, amiably. He'd taken Les' place on the sofa.

'Who's fault is it then?'

'You're at the Talbot Hotel tonight, city centre...' Della continued, regardless. 'But, um, Brian arranged for you to have dinner at a steakhouse in the town first. It gets rave reviews. NEMS will pick up the bill of course.'

A little white lie, but things like that - food, meals out, a little special treatment - usually quelled the boys when they were upset about something or other. And more and more often, the Big Three were getting upset about something or other.

'I'll call a taxi to take--'

'Fuck that,' Hutch said, going to the door. 'You can tell Epstein to shove his steak dinners up his fucking arse.'

'Johnny--' Della said, but the drummer had already gone.

'Sorry, love,' Brian said, getting up and following Hutch to the door. 'He's just fed up. There were hecklers out there tonight, you know.'

'It's okay,' Della said, but he'd gone too, chasing after Hutch and leaving just her and Johnny Gustafson in the dressing room.

She turned to him and gave him a small smile. He leaned on the sink in the corner of the room, arms folded over his chest. Dark hair neat and swept back, intense brown eyes boring into her. He'd not said a single word yet.

'I don't suppose you want a steak dinner?'

He wet his lips and shook his head.

He should be wearing a silver suit, but he did look good in his blue jeans and snug black t-shirt. Bloody hell, he was handsome. He always gave her a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw him. It made her trip over her words and act like a fool, laughing too hard if he made a joke, blushing if he even looked at her. Two weeks on tour with the Big Three and Johnny Gus must think Della was a half wit.

'I'll just go back to the hotel,' he said, in his lovely deep voice.

'Okay. Well, I'll get a taxi to take you there then, instead. I can take you anywhere. In a taxi, I mean.... I mean I can arrange a taxi to take you wherever you want to go.' What the hell was she saying? She turned away, gathering up her gig sheet papers and stuffing them in her bag.

'He doesn't mean to have a go at you,' Johnny said.

'I know. It's fine,' Della said, searching for her pen. It'd rolled down the back of the dressing table. She bent over it, trying to reach it.

'Della?' Johnny was suddenly right behind her. Right behind her. She twisted round to face him, still leaning backwards over the table and laughing like a demented hyena. Johnny smiled, unsure, and took a step back from her.

'Sorry,' she said. 'You made me jump...' She could feel herself blushing a bright crimson. Why did she always act like a total idiot around him?

He nodded. 'I was wondering, could we go somewhere tonight?'

'W... What?' she asked, her mouth drying. She stood up straight.

'After you've took care of the Pacemakers and that, of course, but tonight. If you can. If you've time.'

'What.... What for?' she asked, suddenly unable to remember what time her train to New Brighton was. And why was she going to New Brighton in the first place. And who she was. Everything - Della's past, present and future plans - seemed to have been erased from her memory.

She blinked and tried to muster a coherent thought. What was going on? Was she losing her mind? She must be, because she thought she just heard Johnny Gustafson ask her out.

'I want to have a chat with you,' Johnny said, a serious, commanding tone of voice that made her feel weak. 'In private, preferably. Just me and you.'

'Just me and you...'

'Yeah. If that's alright?'

There was a pain in her chest. She realised she hadn't taken a breath in over a minute.

'I thought we could go for a drink somewhere.'

'Umm...'

Oh, fuck. Shit. What was she supposed to say? Paul was meeting her at 11:30 at the train station. The last train of the night. She had to go straight from the theatre to catch it. She couldn't stay here.

'Sure,' Della said, smiling. 'Of course, Johnny. I'd love to go for a drink with you.'

'Della,' Johnny said, slowly, savouring the word.

She took a deep breath and held it. A shiver ran through her when he said her name like that.

'I have to tell you, baby...' He leaned over their small shared table, his head closer to hers. Della leaned in too. They were close enough to kiss. 'You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.'

'But Johnny,' she whispered. 'This is wrong. I already have a...'

'I know what you're going to say.' He cut her off. 'Your heart belongs to another. But Della, if I didn't tell you how I felt, I thought I was just going to... die! You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?'

Della gasped. 'Of course not, Johnny...'

'There must be a way we could be together? I must have you, even if it's just for one night. One night of pure, hot, unadulterated passion...'

'Oh, Johnny! Yes! Let's go now!' ...

Johnny had stopped talking. He was looking at her expectantly, a frown on his brow as he waited for her to speak. Oh, bugger, what did he just say?

Della sat up and pursed her lips like she was thinking. 'Mmm...' she said. 'Yes. I see...'

Johnny nodded, earnestly. 'So you understand what I mean?'

'Yes, I, uh... I totally understand your concerns,' she replied.

That was a lie because she hadn't actually been listening to his concerns for the last five minutes. She'd been daydreaming about all the other many and varied things he could be saying to her instead. Okay, not all that varied, but definitely more interesting than his complaints about their absent manager.

But Johnny smiled. That gorgeous, wide smile of his that lit up his face. Good God, he was beautiful, wasn't he? Tall and handsome with deep, dark eyes that you could drown in. He was perfect. He would be perfect if he'd just shut up for five minutes.

'...I feel if Brian was here a little more often, things would be different,' Johnny continued. The longer he went on, the more whiney he sounded. What a pity. Every rose must have it's thorns.

'If he had been here, he would have seen you playing without your stage suits. Why didn't you wear them?'

Johnny shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. 'It's too hot to wear a suit in the summer. They make you sweat like a race horse.'

That was better. That was a much more pleasing image. A hot and sweaty Johnny Gustafson, peeling off a white shirt in the dressing room after a show...

Della leaned her head on her hand and sighed. 'Mmm. Yeah, too hot...'

'You know, that Decca record should not have been put out. That's really what's bothering Hutch.'

'No...'

'We didn't know anything about it. We got back from Hamburg and Brian greets us with, "Welcome home, boys. Your new disc is out in a weeks time!"'

'I know,' Della said. 'Shocking.'

'It's just so... frustrating.' Johnny drummed his fingers on the table. He had those lovely slender fingers that all guitar and bass players seemed to have.'It was a fucking demo recording. Not polished, not finished! There were mistakes on it, for Christ's sakes. Our voices were shite. Brian shouldn't have allowed it to happen.'

'No, he was not very happy about that at all. I've no idea why Decca decided to do that.'

...Maybe because they were terrified EMI would poach them..?

'Really?' Johnny said. 'That's not what Brian said when we asked him.'

'Oh, uh...' Della sat up. 'I'm sure Brian said something... like that...'

George Martin probably could have done something better with the Big Three than Decca had. The Beatles had their first number one with From Me To You. The Pacemaker's version of How Do You Do It made number one as well and there was a good chance their follow up would too. Meanwhile, the Big Three's Some Other Guy, their signature song back home in Liverpool, was languishing on the charts somewhere in the high thirties, looking like it was about to disappear.

Decca, who must be kicking themselves for turning down the Beatles, wanted a slice of Merseybeat success. Brian had taken the Big Three to audition for them at the start of the year, shortly before packing them off to Hamburg for a few weeks at the Star Club. In the meantime Decca decided they were happy with the demo recording of Some Other Guy and issued it as a single, to the bands dismay. They didn't think it was their best work and Della was inclined to agree. It was unfair. The Big Three were a good band, they deserved better.

'It's a fucking joke,' Johnny sighed.

'I'm going to speak to Brian about it,' she said, earnestly. 'I promise. I'll bring up everything you've talked about and we'll get it ironed out.'

Johnny smiled, apologetically. 'I'm sorry for swearing, love,' he said, gently, and leaned forward to pat the back of her hand.

By biting her lip hard enough to draw blood, Della kept herself from making a sound when he touched her.

'It just gets under your skin, you know?'

'Of course,' she said. He still had his hand over hers. 'I am going to talk to Brian for you, Johnny. It's not right, what's happened.'

He nodded. 'Let's talk about something else then.' Johnny sat back in his chair, taking his hand away. 'All this brings you down. It's the same old shit, all the time. Do you want another drink?'

It was nearly eleven. The train had gone ages ago. She wasn't going to New Brighton tonight.

Della nodded. 'Please.'

'Same again? This Cherry B stuff?'

Johnny went to the bar for them and fetched another round of drinks. They were in a small pub down the road from the hotel shared by the Pacemakers and the Big Three. And Della, hopefully, if they had a room spare for tonight. Otherwise she was sleeping on the streets. Or somewhere else, maybe, if Johnny would oblige.

'So,' Johnny said, his beautiful smile causing triangular dimples in his cheeks. 'What shall we talk about?'

'Anything you desire,' Della said, and tossed her hair in the way she saw Anita Ekberg toss her hair in La Dolce Vita. Or she tried to anyway. She hurt her neck doing it.

Johnny frowned briefly, probably thinking Della had some sort of nervous tick. Della wasn't entirely sure she hadn't.

'You can talk to me about anything you want,' Della said, attempting to act a little more normally. Professionally. That was the word.

'How's Paul getting on?' Johnny asked.

Oh, but not that, Johnny, for Christ sake.

'He's fine,' Della said, brightly, trying to shift the image of an angry, confused Paul waiting to collect her from New Brighton Station from her mind. She'd rung Paul's dad to tell him she couldn't make it tonight. She hoped Paul would receive the message before he went to the train station otherwise he was going to be pissed off with her.

'He is your boyfriend, isn't he?' Johnny asked, leaning into her, lowering his voice.

'Yes, he is,' Della said, wishing they could get off the subject of Paul. She felt guilty enough already.

But Paul would get over it. It wasn't the first time she'd had to stay somewhere for work. He knew what tours were like. All sorts of of things happened, emergencies arose, guitars got sent to the wrong theatres, trains were missed, beautiful Johnny Gus asked you out for a drink...

'It's like one of those open secrets, isn't it? Like Lennon being married and Brian being... well, you know. Like he is.'

Della nodded and exhaled. All of this was just pretend anyway. She was kidding herself. Johnny was gorgeous, but Paul was Della's boyfriend and she wasn't about to jeopardise that.

He was nice to daydream about, but spending time in a claustrophobic, stressful environment like when they were on tour was a quick way of extinguishing any real desire you had for someone. She fancied Johnny something chronic but she wouldn't want to be his girlfriend. Johnny was one of the worst. He was handsome, but he knew it and he took full advantage of it.

The musicians drank like fish, and swore like dockers, and got into fights or other trouble that they left to Della to sort out. And all of them shagged around. Half already had girls back home, but they forgot about them pretty quick when the fans that somehow managed to get backstage or into the tour van put themselves on offer.

No, she wouldn't be Johnny Gustafson's girlfriend for anything. It would be a shortcut to a life of unhappiness and heartbreak.

Della was so glad Paul wasn't like that.

'Are you going in, love?' the photographer, a Mr Howard Walker asked as he checked his viewfinder for the twentieth time.

'Come on, Del,' George shouted over. He nudged Paul to make space for her on the wall. Paul refused to budge and carried on talking to Gerry Marsden, pretending not to have noticed. George dug his fingers into his side and Paul whipped his head round to curse at him. 'Shift up,' George said.

Della, standing to the side of photographer and his tripod mounted camera, smiled and shook her head. 'No, it's alright. It's just the boys and Brian.'

'You're welcome to join us, Della,' Brian said.

'No,' Della said again, and George saw a glance pass between her and Paul. 'Thank you.'

'Mr Epstein, why don't you stand on the wall?' Mr Walker said, coming over to rearrange them all again. Beatles - Pacemakers - Dakotas, Brian Epstein somewhere in the middle.

The photo was to commemorate an amazing week. Maybe an amazing twelve months. The Beatles single, From Me To You was number one - as it had been for the last eight weeks. Two months at the top of the charts. Gerry and the Pacemakers had just gone to number two with I Like It, not George's favourite song but who cared? People were buying it. And Billy J Kramer and the Dakotas were at number three with Bad To Me. That was something they could take credit for too. Well, John and Paul could. They'd written it. It seemed that they; Liverpool, Merseybeat, NEMS artists, however you wanted to categorise them - they ruled the world now. The pop world at least.

If this was the peak, then George would be happy with it for the rest of his life.

They took several photos in different positions. Mr Walker had the bands sit in a row, legs crossed in the same direction, then stand on the wall with Brian at the side, then again with Brian in the centre. Mr Walker kept huffing and puffing because inevitably with fourteen people, someone was always looking the wrong way or talking or blinking.

It was surprising that Della was here. George had wondered if she'd even come to the party later today after the row she and Paul had at the Merseybeat Showcase two nights ago. The Beatles had been playing New Brighton. Della was in Chester or somewhere with Gerry and the Pacemakers and she was suppose to come over to meet them. But she didn't turn up. She didn't join them until Romford, travelling down with Gerry and the lads who were part of the Merseybeat Showcase there too. Paul and Della had a row that night which George could hear three doors down in the hotel. In the morning, Della had gone.

But here she was. She'd walked down to Childwall Fiveways, the roundabout and shops in the middle of the leafy and green Queen's Drive, with Brian. Brian's parents house was further up Queens Drive, beyond the roundabout. George had been there once when Brian made a huge fuss of introducing "the boys" to "Mummy and Daddy" when they made that acetate of Love Me Do. It'd been a large house painted cream with neatly manicured lawns all round, twin trees at the front and borders of rose bushes. Terribly middle class with terribly middle class people living in it. They were nice and polite and pretended to enjoy the rock and roll record Brian played for them, but George couldn't get his mind off the fact that while Brian seemed so mature and sophisticated, he still called his parents 'Mummy' and 'Daddy'.

Della might have stayed there last night. She didn't stay with George and he would wager she hadn't stayed at Paul's either.

'All finished?' Brian asked the photographer.

Mr Walker took a last look around the boys and nodded, admitting defeat. The last photo had been them leaping off the wall with a triumphant cheer. Everyone was milling around now, wandering off.

Brian smiled. 'I'm sure the photos will be perfect. Please give Della your card. She'll let you know where to send the invoice and the prints.'

Della stepped over and started taking down Mr Howard's information in the notebook she carried everywhere with her. She was a proper secretary now. Smartly dressed, hair always pinned up. George could hardly recognise the girl he used to climb trees with and race down the steep muddy bank near Speke Airport.

'Giza lift back,' John said, clapping George on the back.

George nodded compliantly.

'You can give me an' Cyn a lift over to Paul's later too, if you like?'

'I can't,' George said. 'I have to pick up Marie. She lives all the way out in Prenton.'

John laughed. 'Pick a more conveniently located girlfriend next time.'

'Mmm,' George agreed and looked round for Della again, still talking to the photographer as he tried to pack away his equipment around her. Paul was six yards away on the other side of the small forecourt they'd used for the photos, giving out his address details to the members of the Dakotas. George strode over.

'Let's have a photo with Della.'

'What?' Paul said, turning around to him.

'A photo. Us and Della.'

'Us and--' Paul gave Della a cursory glance. 'Nah. She's working, isn't she?'

'She can spare half a minute for a photo.'

Paul said something else, but George was already striding over to Della and the photographer.

'What for?' Della asked cheerfully, when George told her what he wanted.

'For... For the same reason anyone takes a photograph of anyone, why do you think?' he said. 'Besides, it's someone's birthday, isn't it?'

Briefly, Della's pleasant disposition slipped and her face clouded, just for a split second before she plastered her sunny smile back on, but it had been long enough to confirm what George suspected. Trouble in paradise.

George gathered the other Beatles under the trees on the green between the two lanes of Queens Drive and made the annoyed photographer get his camera out again. Paul and George stood in the middle, John and Ringo on either end, as Della lingered on the periphery.

'Del, come in the middle,' George ordered, pushing Paul away from him to make space for her.

With a reluctant smile, Della came to stand in between him and Paul. 'Hi,' she said quietly, twisting her neck to look at Paul.

'Hello,' Paul replied, stoically.

'Happy birthday.'

'Thank you.'

'Are you ready?' the photographer asked, testily. 'I have a wedding across town to get to.'

'Ringo will give you a lift,' George said. 'You can do that, can't you Ring? I've got to take John and then fetch Marie for the party.'

'Uh, yeah. Okay,' Ringo said, confused, having missed what George had just volunteered him for.

'That's alright, thank you,' Mr Walker said, shortly. 'I have a car.'

'Take the bloody picture, mate,' John said.

The photographer raised the camera, holding it this time instead of putting it on a tripod. George put his arm around Della at the same time Paul put his arm around Della. Their hands clashed and they both looked at each other just as the camera clicked.

'One more,' George said, as Paul put his arm around Della's waist possessively. 'We weren't looking.'

'You're in a funny mood today, George,' Marie said, as she lit the cigarette held between her lips.

George cast her a sideways glance as he drove and wound the window down as if the smoke was bothering him. It wasn't. He was just making a point.

'How?' George said.

'What?'

'How am I in a funny mood?'

'You're just...'

'What?'

'Nothing. Forget it.'

George pressed his lips together and changed gear roughly, not pressing the clutch down properly so it made a horrible scraping noise. That wouldn't do the car much good, but he was swapping it soon anyway. He'd test driven a Jaguar last week.

'A step up from a Ford Anglia, eh?' he'd said to his brother, Harry.

'A step? A jag's a fucking vertical leap!' Harry had replied.

George smiled to himself. He'd get both his brothers cars too when he had the money. And his dad. He'd put that bloody spanner set he'd got him one Christmas in the boot. So long as the bubble didn't burst before then, of course. They were top of the charts now, but who knew how long that'd last?

'You've changed George,' Marie said, waking him from his thoughts.

George turned his head to her. She was wearing what she always wore. He thought she might put a dress on for Paul's birthday party, but no. Black roll neck top, blue jeans, blonde hair teased up high on top of her head. He used to like the way she dressed but lately she looked... out of date.

'I haven't changed,' he said, softening. 'I've just had a lot on. We've been playing almost every night and when we're not playing, we're travelling. I'm not avoiding you.'

'Don't they have phones where you go touring then?' she said, smartly.

'Don't start, love,' George said. 'We haven't even got to the party yet.'

Marie turned her head to look out of the passenger window. George knew was being unnecessarily short with her, making it plainly obvious that he didn't want her here. He wouldn't have brought her to this party if it'd been up to George. She'd invited herself. Someone must have told her about it and she'd assumed. Marie made a lot of assumptions.

Okay, he was being unfair. It wasn't Marie's fault. He'd simply outgrown her. Lately, she got on his nerves. She nagged him about not calling her, accusing him of forgetting about her or avoiding her. If he had been avoiding her then it was only because she was getting to be such a drag every time he came back to Liverpool.

Marie was a fan. He realised that now with a couple of tours under his belt. She had pictures of the Beatles on her bedroom walls. She helped Freda with the fanclub mail. She wasn't much different from the girls that came to the shows and hung around at the theatres afterwards. That's where he'd met her, wasn't it? The Cavern. Hanging around after the shows.

It'd been great, at first, to have a girl so devoted to him. In the beginning George could do no wrong and Marie would do anything for him. It'd been fun and just what he needed after Della had made it plain she wasn't interested in George in the slightest. That'd been a dent in his ego which Marie had smoothed out, but when he thought about it now, the whole thing baffled him. Why had he spent so much time hung up on Della when there was a plethora of girls out there for the taking? All shapes and sizes. Sexy and beautiful and smart girls. Women. A lot more interesting and worldly than Marie. Or Della for that matter.

'George?' Marie said, sweetening her voice. He glanced at her and she smiled. 'I'm sorry, love.'

'It's okay,' George said with an emphatic sigh.

'We're early, aren't we? I mean the party won't have started yet. It won't start for a couple of hours or more. Why don't we go to...'

'Where?' he asked, facetiously. He knew very well where she meant.

'You know. To our place.'

A secluded spot on the Wirral overlooking the river. He and Marie used to go there after the Beatles Liverpool shows, to be alone, to kiss and... to do other things... because Marie still lived with her parents and George with his. He'd been glad of his Ford Anglia then.

'That's back in the other direction.'

'So? Turn around.'

'There won't be time.'

'There will.'

'I've said we'll help set up the marquee. Paul's got a ton of people coming... Including, um... Well, there's going to be some people from London and people we work with and people like... The Shadows...'

Marie's eyes widened. Even keeping his gaze on the road in front of them, George could see the expression on her face at the corner of his vision. This was just what he meant. She was a fan.

'Hank Marvin?!'

'Yeah, probably, and--'

'Oh my God, George! That's fabulous!'

'This is why I'm telling you now. So you won't act all... like you do.'

'Like what?'

He looked at her. 'This.'

Marie fell silent and went very still.

'I mean, just be... cool? Okay? Don't go all silly if you see someone famous.'

'Are you embarrassed of me or somethin'?'

'Don't be daft. I'm just saying be cool. That's all.'

Marie turned around in her seat, turning her head to the window so he couldn't see her face and George felt a familiar wave of guilt.

'Look,' he said and reached to pat her knee. 'We'll go somewhere before I have to go away again. Just us two?'

She didn't reply.

'All day if you like.'

'What?' Marie asked, turning her head back to him.

'We can stay there all day if you want. Our place.' He gave her a smile. She didn't return it. 'Maybe tomorrow, eh? If you want to?'

'Yeah,' she said, flatly. 'Tomorrow.'

George balanced his cake plates on one arm and pulled back the flap of the marquee entrance as a cacophony of noise exploded inside. Guitars, loud and fast, and a yelled, accelerated version of; 'Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday day, dear P--'

The band stopped as abruptly as they started.

George grinned wryly and laughed. 'Thanks, fellas! It's not my birthday though. Not til February. Or maybe you're late?'

'George!' Della shouted, stepping out from between the Fourmost. 'What are you doing? You're supposed to be Paul.'

'That's what all the girls say to him,' Billy Hatton, the band's bass player said.

George gave him a sarcastic smile. 'Cakes,' he told Della, holding his plates out to her, pink and yellow and baby blue iced cupcakes arranged artistically. 'I've been sent with fairy cakes.'

'Over there,' Della said, indicating to a long table, laden with other plates of sandwiches, crisps and sausages on sticks. 'Mike was supposed to send Paul out here,' she continued, hopping down from the makeshift stage that took up one end of the marquee. She followed George over to the table. 'It was going to be a surprise. He was going to tell Paul there was some sort of emergency he needed to deal with in the marquee and then--'

'What's the bloody emergency?' Paul asked, arriving behind them. 'Della, if--'

On the stage, the Fourmost grabbed their instruments and made an attempt at the furious, rock and roll version of Happy Birthday, discordant guitars starting out of time with each other.

'No, no, don't bother. It's too late now.' Della waved at them to stop. 'That's your fault, George.'

'My fault?' George laughed, glancing at Paul who finally managed to crack a smile. 'How is it my fault?'

'You were supposed to be Paul.' She turned to Paul, putting her arm through his. 'He was supposed to be you. You were going to walk in and they were going to sing Happy Birthday to you.'

'So there isn't any problem?' Paul said, suspiciously.

'No. Just... The usual. Nothing going to plan.'

'I thought we were having a DJ?'

'Bob Wooler will DJ, and Mike's band is going to do their, um... act, but I thought it would be nice to have a proper band too.'

Paul smiled. 'Proper band, eh?'

'Well, you know what I mean.'

The Fourmost were Brian's latest signing. Well, they were going to be. They hadn't actually signed a contract but it was looking like they would.

Everyday more bands and singers were being added to the NEMS roster. The Beatles were at the top of course, then there was Gerry, Billy J Kramer and the Dakotas, the Big Three, Tommy Quickly had joined recently, Sounds Incorporated and John was in the process of convincing Brian to give Cilla another chance. Della was hired as Beatles tour secretary, but in practice she mostly dealt with Brian's other artists. When George got her the job, he didn't envision it would be like this. He probably saw less of her now than previously.

'This is my birthday present then?' Paul asked.

'No,' Della said, coyly. 'This is just for your party. I have a present to give you later.'

'Your mum's here,' Paul said to George.

'Yeah, I know. She's helping with the food.'

'She's in the kitchen,' Paul said. 'Marie's with her.'

It was a hint for George to leave but he wasn't going back in there. He'd just spent an awkward forty-five minutes with Marie in the car. He needed a break from her.

'Ringo here yet?'

'No. John is. He's with Hank Marvin, already drinking. Go see him, he'll get you a beer.'

'In a bit.' George smiled thinly.

Paul pursed his lips annoyed and went over to the band. 'Drinks, lads?'

'Wouldn't say no,' said Brian O'Hara, the Fourmost's lead guitar.

'Thanks for playing tonight. We'll, uh, we'll pay you the going rate.'

'Nah, no need. As I said to Della, we'll take four pence ha'penny each.'

Paul laughed. 'Cheap at twice the price.'

'Don't eat those,' Della said, nudging George as he helped himself to the small triangular sandwiches. 'They're for the party.'

'I'm part of the party,' George said, mouth full of egg mayonnaise.

'George...'

'Oh, alright.' He put the sandwich back on the plate, a bite taken out of it.

'Well, obviously finish eating that one.'

George grinned at her toothily and picked up his sandwich again.

'What are you doing tomorrow?' Della asked him, lowering her voice and stepping closer to him again. 'Do you want to do something? The pictures, or Sunday pub lunch? Me and you?'

George raised his eyebrows. 'Just me and you?'

'Yeah,' she said, and slipped her hand into his. George tensed involuntarily. 'I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. We can catch up.'

'You won't be with...' He moved his eyes to Paul. He was up on the stage with the band now, holding one of the Fourmost's guitars upside down as he tried to play it left-handed.

'I don't think so,' Della said, watching him as well.

'Fallen out?' George asked, casually.

She looked up at him. 'Is it that obvious?'

'Well, you know... Only to me, coz I know you so well.'

'We had a little bit of an argument.'

'Oh. A little bit.'

'Stop it. Don't take the piss.'

'I'm not.'

'I was supposed to come to New Brighton when you were there last week, but I couldn't make it. Paul's got it into his head that...'

'What?'

She sighed shortly. 'Well, never mind. I wasn't. I wasn't doing what he thought, but then he went and got himself stopped for speeding the same night - on his way to the station to pick me up, but I wasn't there anyway, so he's peeved about that too and--'

'Did he?' George interrupted, laughing gleefully. 'He didn't tell us that. Poor old Paulie, eh?'

Della dug him in the ribs. 'Stop being rotten. Don't you dare say anything to him either. He's been in a bad mood with me ever since.' She sighed and took her hand out of his. 'So, tomorrow? Are you busy?'

'No,' George said, smiling at her. 'No, I'm not doing anything.'

George skipped across the lawn, hands in his trouser pockets and whistling chirpily to himself as he headed back towards the house. It was Paul's Auntie Jin's house they were using to host the party. Bigger than Paul's house, with a large back garden where they'd pitched a marquee tent. It was a warm, summer's day, with a cloudless blue sky. It had lifted his mood. Marie had been right - he was in a funny mood earlier, but he felt much better now. It must be the effect of the weather. Paul was fortunate to be born in summer. It was probably almost always warm and sunny on his birthday. George's birthday was in February, when it was almost always cold and dreary.

'George!'

George turned around as Paul jogged over the grass to catch up with him. 'Hey,' he said as Paul drew level. 'I haven't said it yet. Happy birthday, mate. Key to the door! How's it feel to be an adult at last?'

'What was Della saying to you?' Paul asked, ignoring all of George's banter.

'Oh, nothing. We were just talking about this and that.'

'What this and that?'

'Pub lunches and the like.'

Paul gave him a confused look and stopped walking. George stopped too and smiled.

'She didn't mention... where she'd been, then? What she'd been doing lately?'

'She hasn't been doing anything except working. Bit like us, eh?'

'She hasn't said about about... any fellas? The fellas she works with or anything like that?'

George frowned. 'No. Not to me. Why?' he said, pretending not to know what Paul meant. Not very convincingly either, but Paul didn't seem to notice.

'She was meant to come to New Brighton last week. She didn't turn up.'

'Oh. Right. Yeah. She came to Romford though.'

'Look,' Paul stepped closer to him, putting his hand on his arm. 'What do you know about Della and Johnny Gus?'

'From the Big Three?'

'Do you know anyone else called Johnny Gus?' Paul said, sharply. 'When she didn't come to New Brighton last week it was because she was with him.'

George frowned, genuinely this time. 'Who told you that?'

'She left a message with me dad saying something kept her at the theatre and she'd missed the last train. I rang her hotel back to say goodnight, but she wasn't there. Gerry tells me she's gone out with Johnny Gus, but when I asked Della about it, she said she went to bed early. Why would she lie about it?'

'So you think she was...'

Paul wasn't exactly innocent. There were girls, but that was life on the road. They didn't mean anything. It wasn't anything to lie about. Well, he did lie about them. They all did, but that was only to spare feelings. They didn't lie to cover up affairs, because they were one night only things. Nothing important. But Della liked Johnny. She'd told George that before, and she had spent a lot of time away with him, sharing hotels and tour vans and dressing rooms.

Still, he didn't think Della would cheat on Paul. She wasn't the type.

'So?' Paul said. 'What do you know? Do you think she'd... do anything with him?'