At the end of each song, George would glance around, check she was still there, where he'd left her, and then give her a quick smile or a wink or a nod. It filled her with a gooey warmness every time he did it. It was an alien feeling to Della. No one had had that effect on her before. No boy. No boyfriend...

He wasn't her boyfriend. Not officially, anyway. She was just trying the label out in her mind. Seeing how it fit. See how she liked it. See how she liked it on him.

They'd made it to the gig on time - with time to spare, really - arriving after the others, but still a good couple of hours before the show. After the debacle that was yesterday, today had gone surprisingly smoothly. The plane was on time. The journey to the Hollywood Bowl had been easy, with light traffic and minimal fuss. The others had welcomed Della and George back into their midsts like they'd been gone for days rather than just a night, and laughed merrily at Della's stories of getting stuck in the audience, missing the car outside the stadium and the crazy Beatle fans who rescued her. That story changed a little bit every time she told it.

George told it with her, leaning a hand on the back of her chair, nearly with his arm around her. He added his version; the radio people in the airport, Derek ringing round the whole of England and dragging everyone out of bed, the amount of scotch he consumed on his own at the hotel.

But there was one part they both omitted.

'I was out cold by the time she got there,' George said, with sniggers from the others.

'You're a bloody lightweight these days,' John contributed and George smiled as his eyes met Della's.

'Must be,' he said, holding her gaze. 'She woke me and I thought I was hallucinating.'

'Three glasses of hard liqueur and you pass out,' John continued. 'For shame, George Harrison.'

'It was a bit more than three,' George said.

'Don't do that again, Del,' Paul said, at Della's side, finally forcing her to look away from George. 'We were all worried about you, love.'

'Thanks, Paul but... I was fine.' She shrugged and Paul reached to pat the back of her hand. With unexpected abruptness, George turned away.

Everything was uncommonly well prepared for the show. Maybe it had been done efficiently and in advance because they didn't know when or if George would be there. Dark navy-black mohair tonic suits were pressed and hanging in the dressing rooms. Fresh white shirts were already ironed and starched. Guitars and drums set up and tuned on the shell-shaped enclosed stage. George Martin had arrived to record the concert and was busy setting up a three-track with Capitol, the Beatles US record label. Everything was ready and perfect and it made such a difference to the way the boys played.

Everything about the Hollywood Bowl concert was in contrast to the previous night's show. There were the ever-present screaming and crying fans, but mixed in with them were people a little older than teenagers, people in their twenties and thirties, who'd come to listen to the music. The Hollywood Bowl was an amphitheatre, a shell dome around the stage in concentric arches which made the acoustics sound amazing. The Beatles music could actually be heard!

Above and all around the Hollywood Bowl was the open air. A warm night beneath a starry, midnight blue sky. Compared the previous night, the boys went through their set at a leisurely pace, enjoying the music, enjoying playing and performing, and their pleasure added to the music.

Della stood at the side of the stage to watch, exactly where George had told her to stand and stay in a stern, firm tone, rather like she was a puppy he was trying to train. He glanced over every so often, and always in between the songs, without fail, like he was worried she might have disappeared again. But George was more relaxed tonight too. It was evident from his smile, from how he stood and how he held his guitar; easy, calm, an extension of his own body instead of something he gripped like he was holding on for dear life.

'Della.'

Brian appeared next to her, hands clasped behind his back, lips slightly pinched and eyes trained on the boys on the stage. From the way he said the single word - just her name - she could tell he was angry with her. To be expected, but no easier to face up to. She'd dodged him for most of the day. He'd been occupied with George Martin's presence and the people from Capitol. Della would typically watch the shows by Brian's side, but she hadn't tonight. She'd stayed on the spot where George asked her to stand, knowing Brian and the others were on the other side of the stage.

'Brian, I am so, so sorry.'

A single nod and a pause, just to let her squirm. A telling off from Brian was usually one of two things. A furious tirade or measured, curt words. Della wasn't sure which was worse.

'Are you well?'

'Well?'

He moved his eyes from the Beatles to Della, but otherwise didn't move. 'No worse off for your... experience? Not injured?'

'Oh. No, I'm fine. Thank you.'

Eyes back to the boys. 'Derek tells me you somehow found yourself on the outside of the stadium, then they wouldn't allow you back inside.'

She nodded.

'Again, Della?'

'Yes. I'm sorry. I'd left my NEMS pass in the-'

Brian held his hand up to stop her. 'Honestly, this is too much. Every tour.'

'I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again.'

'No, it won't.'

She didn't like the way he said that, with a firmness, a finality.

'We'll discuss it tomorrow,' Brian said. 'After the garden party.'

Della nodded and Brian moved away without another word. On the stage, George turned his head and grinned at her. She tried to smile back.

'Do you... Um, do you have any identification with you, Brian? Your passport or something?' Della asked, quietly and as meekly as she could, because although the irony of the situation hadn't escaped her, if she so much as smiled then Brian was liable to explode. The shade of puce his face had turned was alarming and Derek, standing tall and thin next to him, was the opposite; deathly pale, white as a sheet.

Brian didn't answer Della. He only glared at her and then turned that glare onto the security officer who wouldn't allow them into the grandiose Bel Air house. This was the venue for the Beatles charity garden party this afternoon. A beautiful, large property with high gates and fences, surrounded by lush lawns and leafy palm trees.

The house belonged to a relative of Alan Livingston, their host for this afternoon and the chief of Capitol Records who'd had the good sense and even better fortune to sign the Beatles while they were still relatively unknown in the States. This was his reward, of sorts. A posh, semi-formal do that would be littered with famous faces who'd come to - and paid money to - meet the Beatles.

The boys were here, at least. They'd left much earlier than Brian, Derek and Della. Brian had gone out on an errand this morning - no one seemed to know where - and was late arriving back, waylaid by heavy weekend traffic. Given that Della was still in his bad books, she'd waited behind with Derek for him, but when Brian finally got back, they got further delayed in that same traffic over here.

Well, the traffic and Brian's driving. Good God, Brian's driving!

What had possessed Brian to rent a car in Los Angeles and decide to drive himself around? Della had never been in a car driven by Brian before. Whenever they'd shared cars, they had been chauffeur driven or taxi cabs. Whether it was the strange sensation of driving on the 'wrong' side of the road, or maybe he was rusty from lack of practice, but it had been hair raising. Della didn't scare that easy - she'd been in cars with George - but she found herself gripping the armrest of the door with white knuckles as they skirted past other cars, a coat of paint between them, mounted curbs when they went around corners and kissed the bumpers of both the cars parked in front and behind when they parallel parked on the street outside the house.

But that was as far as their journey seemed likely to go, because now they were being refused admittance to the garden party. The guards had a list of guests they were to allow inside, and no one thought to put down the names of the Beatles manager and his assistants. Della probably should have phoned ahead and checked, but the idea hadn't entered her mind. She hoped it wouldn't enter Brian's mind either, otherwise that was going to be another thing he'd be vexed with her over.

It was sort of Brian's fault as well, although Della sensed he would not appreciate having that pointed out. She'd overheard him on the phone to Alan Livingston a few days ago, emphasising how the security for this afternoon party must be on a par with a Beatles concert.

'Fans have ways of finding the boys, and they will try anything to get close to them,' Brian had told him. 'I cannot stress enough the need for proper security.'

So 'Proper Security' it was, in the shape of two uniformed men; one tall and lanky and one short and portly, and both with a petty, jobsworth attitude. Short-and-Portly was in charge evidently. Tall-and-Lanky hadn't said a word. He was taller than even Derek, and stood slightly behind Short-and-Portly, eyeballing him like he suspected Derek might try and tackle him any moment.

'I insist that you fetch Mr Livingston here, right this minute,' Brian demanded, pointing at the ground by his feet.

'I really don't want to bother Mr Livingston,' replied Short-and-Portly, leafing through the papers on his clipboard again. 'I'm very sorry, Mr, uh..?'

'Epstein,' Brian growled. 'Brian Epstein, the Beatles manager.'

'Well, I only have your word for that, don't it?'

Brian looked about ready to throttle the guy. He took a small step closer to him but Derek neatly stepped in front of him, putting a hand across Brian's abdomen. 'As my colleague has already told you, he is Brian Epstein, the Beatles manager, so maybe...'

'That name is not on my list, so I can't-'

'Maybe,' Derek repeated, louder, talking over him. 'Maybe you could ask one of the Beatles staff to come and vouch for our identity?'

'Oh!' Della exclaimed, thrusting her hand in her bag. 'I have my ID. My NEMS card. That'll prove who we are.'

Since George took it upon himself to empty her bag out, the contents hadn't gone back inside in quite the same way. It took a good couple of minutes of rummaging around before she found her laminated card. Blue with a printed NEMS logo and registered office address in London, with Della's name and Brian's signature.

She handed it to Short-and-Portly who inspected it, wrinkling his nose up. It was unlikely, if he didn't know who Brian Epstein was, that he would know what a NEMS staff card would mean, but it was official-looking enough to prompt him into action. Short-and-Portly waddled back inside to fetch someone, leaving Tall-and-Lanky to guard the three of them.

'You didn't think to hand that over earlier?' Brian asked, testily.

'I'm sorry. I forgot I had it with me,' she said, sweetly, thinking, Now you know how it feels, don't you?

Brian tutted. 'We need to have a little chat, Della.'

After a couple of minutes, Short-and-Portly returned with Neil in tow, who seemed to find it all very amusing. 'Like that time on the Wirral,' Neil said to Brian after they'd finally been admitted. 'When they wouldn't let you in. D'you remember? I had to come and rescue you then too.' He was still chuckling as he led them through corridors to a room at the back of the house.

Brian scowled. 'I don't know what you're referring to, Neil.'

'You do,' Neil said, not catching Brian's tone. 'You were wearing denim jeans, and the guy on the door didn't believe you when you said-'

'Neil!' Brian barked and Neil glanced over his shoulder at him, surprised.

The Beatles were corralled in a small sunroom at the back of the house. Three of them were sharing a sofa while John, in thick, dark glasses and a pink oxford shirt, stood looking out over the gardens at the back of the property. Outside, caterers and waiters were setting up a buffet tables and a bar. A few of the keener guests had started to arrive already, along with a lot of record company executives. Della could spot them easily. They always had a look and a demeanor like they thought they were the famous ones, as they swanned around in linen blazers, open neck shirts, boat shoes and wayfarers.

Without even saying hello, Brian launched into a lecture on what would happen, who would be here and most importantly, how the Beatles were expected to behave. It was to cover his embarrassment at being refused entry, the news of which surely must have filtered through to the boys. Paul, George and Ringo sat with silly grins on their faces, trying not to giggle as they answered, Yes, Brian. No, Brian. Three bags full, Brian. Derek had slipped away already. He was a sly one, Derek. He always knew when it was best to avoid Brian. Della should observe and copy what he did, although she didn't dare leave Brian's side today. It'd only wind him up further if he needed her and she wasn't there.

She tucked herself into the corner of the room as George caught her eye and winked at her. Brian, pacing in front of the three seated Beatles, saw it and cast Della a look of disapproval, but picked on John instead.

'Are your listening, John?' Brian asked. 'Is that clear?'

'Is what clear?' John replied, remaining still. Della could see his face from where she stood. His expression was stone, always a warning sign where John was concerned.

'What I just told you.'

'Oh.' A beat. 'Crystal.'

Brian regarded him for a moment, then turned his head back to the others. 'Good. Now, Ringo, where's your tie?'

'Uh, well...' Ringo began.

'I'm not doing it, though,' John added.

Brian swung back towards him. 'What was that?'

'I'm not doing it. I'm not doing this stupid party. What's it for? So some fucking queer from the record company can show off to his rich mates? This isn't a circus. We're not a sideshow.'

That comment was a dig at Brian. John and the others had already met Capitol Records' Alan Livingston and his wife at the aftershow party last night. And Brian knew that.

He bristled at John, drawing himself up to his full height, even though John still had his back to him. Della rolled her eyes and stifled a sigh. What was it inside John Lennon that always flicked a self-destruct switch? Everything would tick along fine for a while and then - click - John would throw a spanner in the works. Or a nuclear bomb.

It wasn't exactly difficult what Brian was asking them to do here. All they needed to do was sit in a line for an hour or so and shake hands with the guests who'd bought tickets to come and meet them. And it was for charity, to raise funds for the Haemophilia Foundation of Southern California.

'What is it exactly that you so vehemently object to?' Brian asked, with false sweetness.

John spun around to face him, trying to bear down on him, although he was just an inch taller. John was the dominant one. In any given situation, he was. When asked, the Beatles would always state they didn't have a leader. There wasn't any one person in charge. But at the same time, it was pretty clear to everyone that it was John. John's band. John's gang. John's word who stayed and who went. He was boss, master, leader.

And then you came to moments like this.

Brian raised an eyebrow, waiting for an answer. He mirrored John's body language; squared up to him, toe tapping impatiently - and in John there was a change. The tiniest, almost imperceptible, flicker of doubt crossed his face and he blinked.

'It's a fuckin' joke, Bri,' John said, his voice strained suddenly. 'We're supposed to sit there while all these posh nobs parade past us, poking at us, laughing at us. "Look at "Beatle", darling, with his funny hair and funny accent. Isn't he stupid? Isn't he thick?" It's the Embassy party all over again.'

Brian drew a breath and paused. The daft smiles had evaporated from the other Beatles faces and they'd fallen silent, watching the exchange between them like they were the little children of warring parents.

Brian didn't flinch. The only thing that moved was his eyes, over John, looking him up and down.

'I'm sorry,' Brian said, plainly. 'Were you under the impression this is optional? It's not. We're doing this.'

'Everything is optional.'

'You'll do as you are asked.' Brian turned away, dismissing him.

'No,' John said, to Brian's back. 'I won't. And that's twice, Epstein.' Brian ignored him, so he added, 'Ringo thinks the same.'

Brian moved his head to Ringo, questioningly, and Ringo sunk down in his seat, attempting a small smile. 'All I said was, it's a pity that real fans can't get close to us, but these people with more money than sense can. It's just all a bit... fake, isn't it?'

'Why aren't you wearing a tie?' Brian asked.

Ringo put his hand on his collar, feeling for the tie that wasn't there. 'Uh, I guess I... forgot it. It's a bit hot today, isn't it? Bit hot for suits and ties.'

'You look half dressed. It's not creating a very good impression, Ringo.'

'I'm... sorry.'

'I could try and borrow one from somewhere?' Della offered.

Brian sighed audibly and turned his attention to the remaining two Beatles. 'And what about you?' he said to Paul and George. 'Do you object to attending the garden party? I must say, it's a little late to protest when we're already here.'

'No, I don't mind,' Paul said, cheerily. 'It's all a laugh, isn't it? And it's for charity, that.'

If Paul saw the dark look John shot him, then he pretended not to. Brian moved his eyes to George.

'Edward G Robinson is here,' George said. 'I've always wanted to meet him. Do you remember going to watch Little Caesar at the Odeon, Della?'

Della nodded, just as Mal barrelled into the room. 'Uhh, do you know where Mr Livingston is?' he asked. 'There's a little... problem outside.'

'What? What now?' Brian snapped at him.

'One of the neighbours is getting a bit worked up. People keep walking over his lawn so he's got his gun and now he's threatening to shoot the next one who strays onto his property.'

Brian sighed, wearily. 'For God's sakes. Can this day be any more trying?' He waved his hand, shooing Mal back out of the room and following him.

'Great,' John said, sarcastically, turning back to the window. 'And now there's lunatics with guns running around.' He shook his head, pursed his lips and a moment later, sucked in a breath before turning on his heel. 'I'm going. Wanna come, Ringo?'

John stepped towards the door. Della blocked his path. 'Do you always have to be so difficult?'

'It's not a matter of that.'

'You know you'll end up doing it anyway, so can't you skip the tantrum? Hasn't this tour already been problematic enough?'

'Uh, Del...' George was suddenly next to her.

'Fuck off, Della,' John said, but only half-heartedly. 'Most of those problems have been caused by you anyway.'

'Oh, hardly,' she scoffed. 'One problem. One problem was down to me-'

'A pretty big fucking problem. Buggering off somewhere, getting lost, making George have a bleedin' nervous breakdown.'

George put his hand on Della's shoulder, trying to maneuver her away from him. 'Don't,' he said in her ear. 'Leave him alone when he's in a mood like this.'

George was always a little wary when Della had a go at John. She wasn't sure why. She didn't make a habit of it, but as far as she could see, John was just a spoiled child who needed a bit of discipline now and then. Everyone, from his wife to his bandmates to his manager, seemed to let him get away with murder. The thing that had annoyed her was him calling Brian 'queer' in front of everyone, but in that roundabout way he always did. He didn't have the bollocks to say it to his face, but he always insinuated. It was a his trump card. His best weapon and it almost always made Brian back down.

'What's happened?' Della asked, narrowing her eyes at him. 'What's dented your fragile ego today, then? You always act like a prick when someone threatens you.'

'Della, stop it,' George said.

John tried to step closer to her, but George put himself between then. 'I hope he fires you this afternoon,' he said, spitefully. 'Birds coming along on tour are never a good idea. They're always a fucking liability. In fact, I think I'll tell him I think it's a good idea if you went home.'

John pushed past, shoving George out of the way and stomped out of the room, leaving the other three Beatles looking around at each other.

'Bloody hell, Della,' George sighed.

Despite the difficult beginning, the party went smoothly. The Beatles sat on four high chairs in a line in the middle of the spacious garden and the guests, most with their children, queued up to meet them. Della could see that John - and Ringo, for that matter - had a point, but it wasn't like the Embassy party. It was a warm, sunny afternoon. The guests were in good spirits, thrilled to meet the Beatles, and the Beatles ended up being quite interested to meet a few of them too. In among them were Dean Martin, Jack Palance, Jack Lemmon, Shelly Winters, and as promised one of George's favourite actors, Edward G Robinson. Even John warmed up eventually and started laughing and joking, teasing the children good-naturedly and making them giggle.

Brian relaxed too. Black Wayfarers hid his eyes, but there was a smile on his lips as he stood in a light grey end on end summer blazer, chatting with John like nothing had happened earlier. Della stuck by his side, shadowing him, following him around the garden until he finally said, 'Della, you don't need to chase after me everywhere. Go and get a drink or something, just... don't wander off again.'

And that gave Della licence to spend the late afternoon with George instead. Well, kind of. George had to stay where he was, on his tall chair, and chat to the garden party patrons, while Della hovered behind him awkwardly. After a while, her feet, in another pair of silly high heels, began to hurt. She wouldn't normally wear heels as often as this, but she was currently trying to look nice. She offered to fetch refreshments for everyone as an excuse to walk around for a while.

John, seated next to George, ignored her, but she brought him an iced tea anyway. This was all they seemed to want to drink in California, but Della had to admit, she was getting a taste for it. It was nothing like anything they had at home. They served it with ice and lemon, and sometimes with fruit flavorings like peach or raspberry.

John was still ignoring her, so she dug him in the ribs from behind. He twisted round in his chair, no doubt about to give her a gobful, but Della thrust the tall glass into his hand before he could speak. John took it, sipped it through the straw and turned around again without speaking.

George, watching, rolled his eyes at her but Della was defiant. She wouldn't put up with that sort of crap from The Big 3 or anyone else. Why should it make any difference if he's a Beatle?

After the party finally dwindled down, not after a single hour as promised, but a whole four and a half hours later, they could finally make a move back to their own rented Beverly Hills mansion. A few guests still lingered, including a young, pretty blonde girl who'd clearly taken a liking to Paul. He was still holding her hand when they got into the car to take them back to the house, Della with them as Brian and his little rental car had already vanished.

Paul held the girl's hand at his side, shielding it from view, and avoiding Della's eyeline as they rode back, but the most shocking thing about it was the little effect it had on her. Paul seemed embarrassed - as embarrassed as Paul McCartney got about anything - but Della couldn't care less if he was bringing a girlfriend back with him. She was still fond of Paul, of course, and she always would be. t hadn't been quite a year yet since they'd broken up and even a few months ago in Miami when he suggested they get back together, she would be lying if she said she hadn't been tempted, but now all she felt was indifference. But then, a certain someone else had been preoccupying her mind for the last few months.

And that person wasn't Danny, her long-forgotten boyfriend back in London. Shit, I had better call him. She and Danny had things to talk about.

It did occur to her that she might remind Paul about his own long-forgotten girlfriend back in London too, but that would make Della a hypocrite then, wouldn't it? After all, she was here with someone else's boyfriend.

Technically. Only technically.

George had been dating Pattie for a few months, but he and Della had been a pair forever. It'd always been the two of them, yet all of this was frighteningly new too. It didn't help that she hadn't had chance to talk to him about it. About the kiss.

Because that was it. Beyond that kiss, nothing had happened.

In Vancouver, they'd gone into the bedroom together and before Della could say or do anything, George was asleep again, on top of the bed, fully clothed.

Hollywood Bowl day had been hectic and tiring. There had been a party after the show and Della had been adamant she was going back to her own hotel room, but it was so late and George looked at her like she was crazy when she asked him to call a taxi.

'Just stay over,' he said.

'There's... There's no room,' Della said, awkwardly, because she didn't want to presume...

'With me, you dope,' George said like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then yawned, loudly, took her hand and led her up the stairs.

But nothing happened. Nothing they hadn't done before, anyway. He slept with his arm wrapped around her, entwined with her, holding her tightly, like he did every time they'd shared a bed. No more kisses, no... straying hands... but perhaps he was being cautious. Perhaps he wanted to make sure Della was agreeable, because they'd been here before, hadn't they? Once. A long time ago.

The chance to speak to him came a little sooner than expected.

As soon as they arrived back at the house, everyone scattered. Ringo went to call his girlfriend. John went for a shower. Paul and his girl went... well, Della didn't want to work out where they went. She didn't think she had any residue feelings for Paul, but there were limits.

'Fancy going for a swim?' George said. 'There's a pool out the back.'

Della shook her head. 'I'd better wait for Brian. I was supposed to have a meeting with him after the party, but he disappeared. You don't know where he went, do you?'

George shrugged, unbothered, but Della was more worried than she was letting on. Ever since John made that comment this afternoon, it was playing on her mind.

They read for an hour in the living room, an enormous circular room with a long, horseshoe shaped white couch. George had his nose in You Only Live Twice, the latest James Bond, lying on his back with his head resting against Della's thigh. Della had the thick, heavy novel on her father with her, but found she had no desire to read it currently, and with nothing else around, discovered a copy of Playboy left down the side of the sofa.

She didn't want to ask who's it was, but as she leafed through the covers, she found in between the photos of naked women, there actually was interesting articles. Who'd have thought it? Serialised fiction, interviews with actors and film directors, full colour cartoons. Why didn't they have magazines like this for women? All there was for women were daft magazines about how to get a boyfriend or how to do your makeup so your boyfriend would like it and articles about boys you might want to be your boyfriend like, well, the Beatles.

But as they settled into a comfortable silence, she knew, this was the time. This was the moment when she could ask George about... what was happening. What did he want? Did he want something more from her than just friendship? Why did he kiss her?

She didn't know how to bring it up. How funny. It was only George. George, who she had always told all her secrets to, all her deepest, darkest thoughts, and she couldn't find the words to say this.

Della wasn't the type to get tongue tied around boys, but nothing had felt as important as this before. She'd procrastinated asking Paul some things, but that'd been because she suspected his answer was something she hadn't wanted to hear.

With George, it was the opposite. And George couldn't be more different from Paul. A relationship with George would probably be serious, quickly. She was only twenty-one. Young to settle down with someone when one of you wasn't up the duff. Did she want that?

She didn't know what was more scary. That thought, or the fact she suspected if it was George, then her answer was... yes.

'George?'

'Mmm?'

'The other night...'

'What about it?'

'In Vancouver. Did you... really nearly have a nervous breakdown?'

George rolled he head back so he could see her.

'Like John said,' Della added.

'Oh. He was just winding it up.' George returned to his book. 'Take no notice.'

'You did wait for me though. Were you worried about me?'

'Well, I didn't know if you'd been trampled or something.'

'Thank you. For waiting for me.'

George didn't respond.

That was nice of you, Georgie... and, um, you know when you were asleep on that chaise lounge and then I woke you up and you-'

George laughed. Della stopped speaking.

'Sorry,' he said, pointing to his book as he looked up at her. 'James Bond, with his witty quips. What were you saying?'

Della moved, pushing George off her, making him sit up. 'Just put James Bond down for a minute, can you?'

'Sure,' George closed his book and smiled at her. 'What's the matter?'

'It's, uh, I wanted to ask you about... the other night.'

George gazed at her, plain, unreadable. Not encouraging or discouraging, but suddenly, doubt gripped her.

'Um... Were you... I mean, do you...'

'What, love?'

'Georgie, you know, you're the most important person in my life. You alway have been, and when we fell out last year, I... I didn't like that.'

'Well, neither did I. But it's okay. That's all in the past now. Doesn't matter, Della.'

'No, I know, but I... I missed you, and... We're different, aren't we, George? We're different for it.'

'Different how?' he asked, a little warily. 'We're different since then?'

'No, not in a bad way, I don't mean that.' She reached for his hand and brought it into her lap. 'It made me think about... us.'

'Us..?'

'Della, are you busy?' Brian. From somewhere outside the room. She didn't even know he was in the building.

'Yes,' she shouted back, then added. 'Um... just a minute.'

Brian came to the doorway. 'Now, please, Della. I won't ask you again.'

'It's alright, go on,' George said, laughing.

'No, I need to-' But she couldn't just blurt this out and then trot off for her tete-a-tete with Brian. 'I need to talk to you,' she said, frustrated. 'Properly, George.'

'Okay, well, go and speak to Brian and me and...' He raised his book cover to her. 'Double Oh Seven will wait here for you.'

'Well?' Brian said, leaning back in the chair behind the desk. 'I'm waiting for your explanation, Della.'

She hesitated. It wasn't that Della couldn't say it to Brian, but she objected to the audience. Especially one who Brian hadn't even bothered introducing to her.

The Stranger sat at the side of the room in a chair, resting his elbows on the arms and fingers steepled over his chest, regarding her like he was appraising her. Straw blonde hair cut short but with a fringe that flopped over his eyes, a muscular, stocky build and, even from this distance she could see, ice blue eyes. A very striking, light blue. He'd given her a strange, slick smile when she walked in and for a reason she couldn't quite pinpoint, Della had instantly took a disliking to him.

'There was a girl who got hurt backstage. She fell out of a, um...' Della waved her hand above her head. 'Air vent thingie. She smacked her head and it was bleeding but she ran off. Then later I thought I saw her in the crowd. I wanted to see if she was alright so I went to look for her. Ringo was upset about it.'

'Ringo was?' Brian echoed.

'She fell on top of him. In the locker room. He was worried about her.'

'I fail to see how all that resulted in you being left behind at the stadium.'

Della cast her eyes at the stranger. He hadn't moved. He hadn't spoken.

'They wouldn't let me back in. I'd left my staff card in the locker room. Then the show was over and I couldn't reach the cars in time.'

Brian rubbed his forehead. 'This has become a habit, Della.'

'I know. I'm...'

He moved. The stranger shifted his weight, crossing and then uncrossing his legs. Della couldn't concentrate on Brian. She was watching him instead. He was a dog, a pitbull, about to bite her.

'Sorry,' Della finished.

Brian turned his eyes to the stranger, acknowledging him for the first time. 'My apologies. Della, this is... a friend of mine. John Gillespie.' Then to him, 'This is Della, my tour secretary. At least, she is when she's not running off on wild goose chases.'

The Stranger stood and crossed the room, offering Della his hand. 'Charmed to meet you. My friends call me Diz.'

Della faltered. She didn't want to shake his hand, but she did. His palm was cold. He smiled, his teeth even and neat and unnaturally white. He turned away from her and wandered over to the bookcase at the side of the room, picking up random books and flicking through their pages before placing them back on the shelves.

'What am I supposed to do with you, Della?' Brian asked.

'It won't happen again.'

'So you say, but it always does.'

'It won't, Brian. I can promise you that.'

Brian took a breath, held it and then exhaled emphatically. That's an affectation, Della thought. He's acting. Showing off. And - she stole another look at the Stranger, watching them from over the top of a hardback book - it appears to be for his benefit.

'My dear, you have to understand, my primary concern is always the boys.'

And he'd never do that. He'd never call her something like "my dear" in a professional setting. Maybe in a more casual situation, like when they occasionally went out for dinner together or to the theatre, but Brian would never do that when they were working. And tours were work, twenty-four hours a day.

'I understand that-'

'It's why I had to press on to Los Angeles. I couldn't simply wait for you to catch up to us.'

'Yes... Mr Epstein.'

That's how Della would address Brian too, though only in the most formal meetings and only, usually, when she was in trouble. He liked it, she thought. He liked the distance of respect it put between them. He liked the superiority it gave him. He was the boss and she was the employee. Brian might not be like most of the other men in Della's life, but he was still a man. He still functioned like a man, he still behaved and reacted and thought like any other man.

'I have a duty of care to you as well, of course, as I would any person in my employ. But I cannot think what we would have done if Derek hadn't found you.'

Actually he didn't. I found them.

Those words were on the tip of her tongue, but she held them back. Della was used to looking after herself. She'd been doing it for the last few years exclusively, and really, even as a child. Her mother worked long night shifts and she'd often be already at work when Della got home from school. By the time Della was twelve she was used to it. Cooking her own meals, doing her own laundry, getting herself around.

'Mr Epstein.' A perfunctory smile. 'I can assure you nothing like that will ever-'

Brian raised his hand to stop her. 'Yes, so you've said, but that is not the issue here.' He stood, slowly and paced around to the front of the desk. 'It's George that concerns me.'

'George?'

'You are a distraction for George, and I can't really have that.'

Della frowned. 'I'm not a distraction.'

'Della, do you know what he said to me when you were missing?'

He paused for a response. Della shook her head.

'"I won't go without her and you can't make me leave." He told John they would have to play the Hollywood Bowl without him.'

'Well, that was stupid of him, and I've told him that. But I don't think he really meant it. He was just panicking because...'

'He most certainly did mean it. He point blank refused to go without you.'

'But it was all okay in the end,' she said, weakly. 'We got to Los Angeles in time for the show.'

'That's not the point, is it? I can't have one of the boys running off after you. I can't have one of them quitting the group because he's worried about you. Della, you must see that?'

This was it. He was actually going to fire her this time. John's words from earlier came back to Della and she realised, Brian had been thinking about this. Considering it. Discussing it with John Lennon to gauge his opinion on the matter.

Brian had sacked Della before, but every time it'd been in anger. In a rage over something, not planned out beforehand, not thought about. He'd fired her because he'd been furious about the Big 3 breaking up, but then reinstated her the next day. He'd fired her because he was humiliated when she walked into his flat and found him bruised and robbed and hurt, but he'd taken it back a few hours later.

In the moment, Della had almost forgotten the presence of the third person in the room. She looked at him now. The Stranger, still beside the bookcase. Stanger to Della, but not a stranger to Brian. Something different to Brian. Something she'd never encountered before.

He smiled at her again, that fake Hollywood smile. Brian saw it and pressed his lips together. 'What's your thoughts, Diz?' he asked, quite casually but the words turned her stomach.

No, Brian. Don't have this person decide our fate.

'They care about each other,' Diz said, and walked over to Brian. He was tall, taller than Brian by a couple of inches. He wore a striped t-shirt which was taught over his chest, like it was a size too small, and blue jeans that sat low on his hips, leaving a gap between the waistband and the hem of his shirt. 'I'm sure you can appreciate how that feels,' he said, arriving next to him. He ran the back of his hand down Brian's blazer sleeve, smoothing it for him. 'When you care about someone, everything else pales into insignificance.'

Brian smiled. 'I do appreciate that, but this is business. And we can't allow sentiment any place in business.'

'You're firing me then,' Della said, because she couldn't bear it any longer.

Brian wrinkled his forehead. 'No, Della. I'm not firing you.'

'Then what-'

'If you're going to be a liability on the Beatles tours, then I can't have you working on them. I wonder if I should allow you to see this one out or send you home now.'

I should resign, Della thought. That would be the correct thing to do. Maybe that was what Brian was waiting for. Resigning held more dignity than being fired, and it was better than being sent home in disgrace.

But she couldn't. She could bring herself to say it. She loved her job. She loved the chaos and excitement of the tours. She loved working for Brian - well, usually. She wouldn't go. Not without a fight.

'I will need to give this some consideration,' Brian said, but he was looking at Diz now, studying him with a half-smile on his lips and a softness in his eyes that Della had definitely never seen in Brian before.

Yeah, I'm the distraction.

'Take tomorrow off, Della,' he said, addressing her but not looking at her. 'We'll talk about it again later.'

Some snaps:

The Garden Party on 24th August 1964.

Where's your tie, Ringo?!

Mal speaking to Ringo. Neil stood behind John and George. Brian behind them by Ringo too.

Brian with Alan Livingston of Capitol Records, who was hosting the party.