7am. George hadn't seen this side of a 7am in a long time, except for the odd occasion when he was just stumbling home from some nightclub. But getting up and showered and dressed and out of the flat by 7am? That was unheard of.

There was one nice thing about this time in the morning. There wasn't a soul around. The only other vehicle he saw on the road was a delivery truck, laden with brightly coloured flowers on it's open back and headed towards Covent Garden. It was usually a fifteen minute drive to Della's, but George managed it in less than ten. He probably could have walked it without too much trouble.

Della lived on a narrow, dog-leg shaped street which had private, high-walled gardens on one side and Victorian red brick townhouses on the other, most of them converted into flats. He parked the Jag opposite Della's building and beside the ten foot wall, taking extreme caution not to scrape the car's side along the wall, or worse, hit the wheels on the small ledge of a curb that had been uselessly left behind when they put the wall up.

This black, highly polished E-Type Jaguar was George's latest pride and joy. A sort of twenty-first birthday present to himself. It'd been delivered to him, brand new and custom built, on the last day of February. Shiny black paintwork with chrome wheels, chrome trim and a stylish black leather interior, complete with a Philips Auto-Mignon record player. It was a shame Whaddon House didn't have off road parking. He could leave it around the back where it was safe enough, but a private garage would be better. He'd have to look into that.

George lit a cigarette, the first of the morning, and careful not to drop ash on the car's luxurious interior, he opened the door - right into the brick wall. George swore and got out to rub it with his hand, like that would make it better. A pinhead sized nick had appeared in the paint on the contour of the door edge. He put the cigarette in his mouth and crouched down to examine it. For fuck's sake. Seven weeks old.

He straightened up and slammed the door with a flash of temper that he instantly regretted. Bloody car was going to fall to bits if he kept treating it like that.

As he moved round the back of the car, the door to Della's building opened. George froze. Too late to dive back into the car for cover, not enough space to duck behind it and hide.

A lad came out of the building, a bit younger than George, Beatle hair, jeans and no top, fag in his mouth but still managing to whistle as he carried a large black bin bag out. He went around the side of the building, a narrow gap there between it and the neighbouring building where the bins were kept. He'd left the front door open behind him.

George dropped his cigarette, stepped on it and crossed to the front door, quickly, lightly, trying not to make a sound and intending to slip inside, unseen. As he walked, the door started to slowly swing shut. George moved into a jog, arm outstretched to catch the door as he reached the step, and then tripped on the row of empty glass milk bottles left there that he hadn't even seen.

They fell over like skittles, rolling, crashing, one fell off the step and smashed, making so much noise anyone would think George had put a brick through a window. As a final act of defiance, the door in front of him closed with a dull but firm, click.

'Bleedin' hell,' George muttered, trying to pick up the milk bottles. This is why he shouldn't get out of bed before 7am.

'Fuck me! It's George Harrison!' said a voice behind him and George cringed.

He straightened up and turned around, one of the milk bottles still in his hand. 'Hello,' he said, to Della's shirtless neighbour. 'Sorry, I seem to have, uh...' He indicated to the broken bottles at his feet.

'Never mind about them,' the lad said, taking the bottle from him and setting it down on the wall of the stoop. 'Someone's always tripping over them and breaking them. I don't know why people leave them there.' He moved around him as he spoke, George moving with him in the opposite direction, circling each other. The lad put his hand on the door, turning his head to it when he realised it was shut and locked. 'Were you just trying to sneak in?'

'Umm...' George said.

'Or just sneaking out?' asked the lad, eyebrows raised and a salacious grin on his lips that George didn't like.

'In,' George said, firmly. 'I was sneaking in. I mean, I was coming in. A friend of mine lives here.'

'Friend, yeah,' said the lad, still with a silly smile. He raised himself up to feel on top of the door jamb and produced a key, holding it up to George. 'I'm always locking myself out too.'

He opened the door and gestured for George to go in before him. George moved past him, keeping a wary distance from him as if he might suddenly lunge at him, and started up the stairs.

'Thanks, mate,' George said, over his shoulder, hoping he'd take the hint but the lad followed, climbing the stairs close behind George.

'She's up,' he said. 'I've heard her moving around.'

'Who?'

'Della, of course. That's who you're here for, isn't it?'

'Do you know her?'

'I live in the flat next door.'

As they reached the second floor landing, the lad slipped in front of George and banged his hand, palm flat, against Della's door. 'Della?!' he yelled. 'Are you decent?!'

The door to the flat next to Della's, presumably the one belonging to the lad, had been left ajar but he leaned against Della's as they waited.

'So, Beatles, eh?'

George nodded, unsure what the question was.

'Your music's great.'

'Thanks. We... like it.'

'So's your car. I saw it outside. She's a beauty.'

George smiled thinly. 'Yeah. Thanks.'

'An E-type, right?'

The lad stepped towards George, so George moved round him to knock on Della's door himself. He couldn't hear any movement inside.

'You can't knock like that. She won't hear you. The walls are too thick. Either that, or she's deaf.' He rapped his knuckles against the wood of Della's door again, loud and demanding. 'Della?! Answer the bloody door!' He grinned at George. 'Gorgeous car,' he said to him. 'I might get an E-type... one day.'

There was a cacophony of banging doors and stamping footsteps and the door swung open. 'Danny!! What the fuck do you think you're doing?! You'll have that old woman upstairs complaining to the–' Della stopped as she saw George.

'You've got visitors,' the lad said in a sing-songy voice.

'Oh, it's you,' Della said, dully, and tugged the hem of the t-shirt she was wearing down, self consciously. It was all she wore, her legs and feet were bare. 'What are you doing here?'

'I just thought I'd pop round.'

'Is something wrong?'

'No...'

Something was wrong, but with Della, not George. She looked odd. Her hair was uncombed and stuck up in places. Yesterday's makeup was smudged and smeared over her face, all of which George would put down to laziness if it wasn't for the fact her eyes were red and puffy. There were blotchy rings of black mascara and eyeliner round each eye, making her look like a panda that had come off worse in a boxing match. She'd been crying. And recently. Maybe just now.

'Aren't you going to introduce me?' the lad asked, oblivious.

'Piss off, Danny,' Della told him and reached for George, grabbing his wrist to pull him inside as she closed the door on her neighbour.

'What are you doing here so early?' Della asked.

'What's the matter? Why are you crying?'

'I'm not crying,' Della said, abruptly.

Della's front door opened onto the kitchen of her flat. A narrow, long space with cupboards on one side and the sink and cooker on the other. There were black and white tiles on the floor and a small table at one end which Della used for brewing tea and piling up newspapers and magazines she never threw out. She crossed to the table, putting her back to George, pretending to be busy there.

George changed tact. 'Make us a cuppa then, love. I'm parched.'

'I'm sure you could have had one at home. You didn't have to come round here, uninvited,' Della grumbled, and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. 'Disturbing me when I'm trying to cook my breakfast.'

'What are you making?'

She tapped a cardboard carton next to her. 'Poached eggs.'

'Do us a poached egg then too, Del. I haven't had one in ages.'

'I can't,' she said, her voice catching.

George moved closer to her, gingerly, as if he might scare her away. 'Why not?'

'They're not...' She sniffed loudly. 'They're not fresh enough to... to poach...' The last word was a whimper and Della started to cry.

'Well, don't worry. We can have them boiled instead,' George said, but Della just covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with each jagged breath.

Girls crying always had the same, strange effect on George, but it became magnified when it was Della. He couldn't stand seeing sadness like this in her. He felt compelled to get it out of her. Take it away. Make her better.

Maybe because she didn't cry often - not that George saw, anyway - it always seemed worse. He could only recall a handful of times when she had, and mostly when they were children, like when she fell off Pete's bike once and Pete had told her, rather cruelly, that he could see bone through her bloodied knee, or that time Harry's record player got broken and George took the blame, but ended up falling out with Della over it. It had been a couple of days later when Della had very tearfully told him she was sorry that George had finally realised the broken record player and his brother's anger didn't matter after all.

He couldn't recall a single occasion where he'd seen Della cry over her father leaving. Maybe she had when George wasn't there, but judging by the blubbering mess that Della had become in the last couple of seconds, George would bet she hadn't. It was all coming out of her now.

Gently, he placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her to face him. He folded his arms around her and held her there, even as she tried to pull away from him. 'Get off me,' she said, muffled by his chest, making George laugh quietly. He hugged her tighter and eventually felt her sag a little as she gave up her half-hearted fight against him.

'Don't cry, Della,' he said, softly. 'He's not worth it.'

She didn't reply, just gave a small shudder as she tried to stifle her tears, so George kissed the top of her head. Then he kissed her temple. Then the middle of her forehead and the the top of her ear. And then there again, letting his lips linger there as he inhaled the scent of her hair and the perfume that was still on her skin from last night. And with unbidden images of Chinese Dragons painted on black walls, of bare floorboard steps beside the girls cloakroom at the Casbah Club and a crying Della that he had to find a way to comfort, George felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her properly. He even moved his head to do it, eyes closed, intending to kiss her on her lips, but then he realised what he was doing and released her, nearly shoving her away from him with the shock of it.

They looked at each other, Della staring at him with wide eyes. Had she known what he was about to do? Had she felt it too? He waited for her anger, or a sharp comment, but nothing came.

'Um,' George said, grasping for something to break the tension. 'You've got... Your makeup is smudged under your eyes.'

'Oh.' Della put the pad of her thumb under her left eye and wiped it, succeeding in only smearing her mascara more. 'Gone?'

George shook his head. She repeated the gesture, with the same results.

'Never mind. Doesn't matter.' He smiled, weakly. 'I'm sorry.'

There was a pause, then Della said, 'What are you sorry for?'

'For... yesterday. Last night. For your dad and for not listening to you properly... Tell me... Tell me about it now.'

Della stepped back from him with a sigh, resting her weight against the kitchen counter. 'There's nothing more to tell you. Nothing that I haven't said already.'

'Really? That's all that happened? He turned up, gave you an envelope of cash and buggered off again?'

'Pretty much,' she said, flippantly, and pushed herself up to sit on the counter. As she did, her t-shirt rode up so George could see high up the thigh of her leg and the blue fabric of the panties she wore underneath. 'He was nice at first. He was very charming and... Full of stories about Chelsea buns and meeting my mother. He seemed to get a bit misty eyed about that.'

Desire stirred in the pit of George's stomach. He could feel his breathing, shallow and irregular, still thinking about kissing her. There, where she sat, and then perhaps taking her hand and leading her to the bedroom he knew lay on the other side of the kitchen wall...

George shook his head and blinked to wake himself up. What was wrong with him? This is what happens when he doesn't get enough sleep. Della continued talking about her father. George tried to concentrate on her words but he couldn't help but let his eyes wander over her again...

Did she know, when she waltzed around in front of him dressed - or undressed - like this, what she did to him?

He'd always thought not. He'd always assumed that it was because Della felt comfortable with him, she didn't think of him like that, and if he saw a bit more of her than would be normally considered decent, then it wasn't intentional.

And moreover, he'd always believed that Della was blissfully unaware of how much he wanted her.

Had wanted her, he meant. Before. Before Beatlemania. Before Paul.

It was just that since that argument, things had shifted. The argument. When Paul broke up with Della, and Della decided it was George's fault, making a special journey to accuse him of jealousy and spite and of selfishly wanting her to split up with Paul.

She was right, of course, but Della wasn't supposed to know that.

'What?' Della said, sharply, suddenly and George had no idea what she'd just said. 'Why are you looking at me like that? Don't you agree?'

'Uhh...' George said, floundering. He cocked an eyebrow and grinned crookedly. 'I can see your knickers when you sit like that.'

Della sighed at him. 'For fucks sake, George. Can you stop joking around for two minutes? This isn't a joke to me.'

'Yeah, I know it's not a joke. Sorry.'

She slipped down from the counter, pulling her t-shirt straight. 'He showed me a photo of them. It must have been a few years old because they were still quite young in it.'

'A photo of who?'

'Them,' she said, like he was an idiot. 'His kids and... her. His wife. The girl is fifteen, George. Do you know what that means?'

'She's uh...' He was going to make another daft joke then. He bit it back. Della wouldn't find it funny. Then something in his mind clicked, a revelation surprising enough to actually distract him from shameful thoughts. 'If she's that old, then your dad must have left because his other wife was pregnant.'

Della nodded, ruefully. 'Yeah. But she wasn't his wife then. At least, I don't think she was, but I wouldn't put bigamy past Jack Clarence. I don't think we can put anything past him. What a bloody liar he is, George.' She looked around her. 'Do you want a cup of tea? I made it earlier. It's probably gone cold by now.'

She picked up the teapot from the table anyway, and poured it into two mugs, adding milk to both and three heaped teaspoons of sugar to her own. She gave one to George and took her own through to the living room. George followed. The tea was barely lukewarm. He sipped it anyway.

'All these years, all the things my mother has said about my father, and not once did she mention he'd got another woman up the duff.' Della shook her head and sat on the sofa, putting her tea on the coffee table in front of her.

George crossed to the windows and drew back the curtain, primarily to check on his car, but partly to look into the garden behind the wall opposite too. It was possible to see it from this high up. Green lawns, sphere shaped topiary, lots of shrubs and grasses and flowering borders.

'Don't,' Della said behind him. 'I can't face the daylight yet.'

George let the curtain drop and turned around. 'Maybe she didn't know,' he said, crossing to sit next to Della. 'Could your mam have not known the other woman was pregnant?'

'I doubt it.' Della took the cigarette packet from the coffee table, took one and tossed the box to George. ' I think it's probably why she finally kicked him out. I think she knew he was cheating. I think there could have been more than one.'

George put his teamug down and took a cigarette from Della's packet, feeling in his pocket for a lighter. 'You could ask her about it.'

'Who?'

'Your mam.'

'Don't be ridiculous, George.'

George lit his own cigarette, then leaned forward to light Della's for her. She took a deep drag on it, held it, then exhaled the smoke in a sigh.

'"My girl" he called her.'

'His wife?'

'His daughter. Janet. "My girl wants to be an actress" he told me. She's his girl, and I'm... nothing to him. Nothing at all.'

George didn't know what to say. There wasn't anything he could say. The conversation dropped and they sat in silence for a couple of minutes, sipping cold tea and smoking cigarettes while Della stared into the middle distance.

'Come out with me tonight,' George said, patting Della's knee. 'Let's go out. We'll get absolutely out of our heads stinking drunk and we'll call Jack bloody Clarence every name we can think of.'

Della smiled. 'Aren't you filming on Saturday morning too?'

George shrugged. 'It's just dubbing at Twickenham or something. Nothing too tricky.'

'Well,' Della straightened her back and scratched her neck. 'I have to come to the filming today anyway. Ed Sullivan is coming to do that interview with you this afternoon and Brian wants me to be there, so I could hang around after and when you've finished filming, we could go straight out then.'

'Yeah,' George said. 'Do that. We'll go for something to eat and then to the Ad Lib. Or if you don't fancy that, there's a place in Mayfair that might be alright. I've only been once, but the music was good.'

Della smiled. 'Either. Whatever you want to do. I don't mind.'

'I'll see if Pattie had a preference then.'

The smile, quite possibly the first he'd raised in her all day, faded as quickly as it'd appeared. 'Pattie's coming?'

'Well, um, I suppose... I mean, we see each other most nights, so...'

Della nodded. 'Things must be getting serious.'

'Not really.' George shrugged. 'I haven't known her long.'

'Long enough, evidently... You know, George, I don't think I will go out tonight after all. The way I feel at the moment, an early night is probably best. I'd just end up drunk and depressed.'

George frowned. 'Don't you like Pattie?'

'It's nothing to do with that.'

'You're always saying I pick rotten girlfriends, but Pattie's different. She's very sweet and kind and shy–'

'And pretty.'

'Yes, she's pretty too, but that's not... I'm sure if you spent just five minutes talking to her, you'd see that she's actually quite smart and caring.'

'I'm sure I would, but it's kind of difficult to have a conversation with her when you've got your tongue in her mouth permanently.'

George grinned, embarrassed. 'I suppose we were acting a little...'

'Rude? Selfish? Disgusting?'

'I'm sorry,' he said, sincerely, but secretly, a little gleeful as well. 'It won't be like that tonight.'

He'd known he and Pattie had been acting a little... over the top last night, but it was hard for him to be totally remorseful. Pattie had started it, which was unusual because it was typically always George who had to take the lead, but then when he saw the irritation it'd produced in Della, it'd only egged him on.

If she'd been annoyed by them last night, then it was only a taste of her own medicine and not even an ounce of what George had had to endure while she was dating Paul. He'd had to sit there and watch while Paul kissed her, or touched her, or danced with her. And what about the room he and Paul shared when they had the flat at Green Street? Did Della think George had enjoyed that?

'Still, I think I'll give it a miss.' Della leaned and stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. 'I don't want to play gooseberry again.'

But there was an edge to Della's voice that spoke of more than just annoyance. Was there a hint of jealousy there? Or was it just wishful thinking, again? He'd fallen in this trap before.

'I could see if Pattie could bring a friend. A fella. For you.'

'Well, I didn't think she'd bring him for you.'

'Is there something else?' George asked, cautiously.

Della shook her head, then she blinked a couple of times and twisted her body to face him. 'George...' She faltered.

'What?'

Della wiped her mouth and took his hand. 'You know, you mean a lot to me.'

He slipped his fingers in between hers. 'You mean a lot to me too.'

'Yes, but... I've never been that good at telling people what I feel. Even you.'

'Oh, you always let me know how you feel,' George joked.

Della smiled, weakly. 'Not about... some things. And recently, I've been thinking about... well, things...'

GONNA WRITE A LITTLE LETTER, GONNA MAIL IT TO MY LOCAL DEEJAY–

Music, loud as an aeroplane engine. Not Chuck Berry, but George's own voice, disorientating him for a few seconds as he was unable to locate the source. 'What the–'

Della had already leapt up. She climbed over the back of the sofa instead of going around it and banged her fist on the wall. 'Danny!!' she shouted. 'Shut the fuck up! Switch it off, you're not funny!'

'Who is that guy?' George asked, having to shout the question.

'Danny. He lives next door. He thinks I work for the Beatles. He's a FUCKING–' Bang. '–MORON!'

'Oh,' George said. 'Where did he get an idea like that?'

'Ignore him. He's just trying to get us to go round there.' She slapped the wall again. 'DANNY!! It's not even eight yet!'

She waited, but the music continued, just as loud. George checked his watch. 'Del, I'm gonna have to go.' He stood and went round the back of the sofa to her. 'Come out tonight though,' he said, taking her hand. 'Please? You won't be a gooseberry, I promise. We'll make it a double date.'

'I don't want to go on a date with a stranger.'

'Why not? It might be fun.'

'Because... Because I can't. I already have a boyfriend.'

George frowned. 'Who?'

'Um, it's... Danny, actually. Danny.'

'What?'

'He's my boyfriend. That's why he's making such a racket. He's probably wondering what we're doing in here. I'll tell him to shut up.' She swept out of the room.

'Della?' George called after her, confused. He went after her, catching up just as she was hammering on Danny's front door. 'What?' he asked. 'When did this happen? Why haven't you–'

The door opened and Danny stood there, wearing a red, white and blue striped t-shirt now. 'Oh, hi again,' he said innocently, a lopsided grin on his face and stuck his hands in his jeans pockets.

'Turn the music down,' Della said.

'Just a minute,' Danny said, facetiously. 'I can't hear you. I'll turn the music down.' He stepped back into the flat, leaving the door open.

'Really?' George said in a hushed voice. 'Him?'

'What's wrong with him?'

George opened his mouth but the music volume abruptly dropped, leaving a vacuumous silence.

'He's really nice when you get to know him,' Della said, wryly. 'Sweet and kind and shy.'

'You never said anything about him last night. Or... anytime before now.'

Danny returned, stupid grin still on his face. He could have only been about eighteen. Nineteen, perhaps. George wouldn't have said he was any older. He was tall, a bit gangly and had a Beatle haircut, dark, thick fringe that covered his eyebrows.

'I've told him,' Della said, stepping closer to Danny, putting her hands on his hips and threading her thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans. She looked up at him and gave him a small shake. 'George. I've told him that we're dating. He wheedled it out of me.'

There was an odd look on Danny's face for a moment, then he smiled. 'Oh, good. Well, it's about time, Della.'

Della turned around to George again as Danny wrapped his arm around Della's shoulders. George saw her stiffen for a second then she smiled, a little forced.

Danny pulled her closer to him, so her head was next to his. 'Sorry about the music, mate,' he said.

'S'okay,' George said, still bewildered. Almost as an afterthought, he put his hand out to him. 'I'm... George.'

Danny laughed. 'I know,' he said, and released Della so he could shake his hand. 'Daniel Lockridge-Scott.'

'That's your name?' Della asked, twisting her neck to look at him.

'What did you think Danny was short for?'

'I meant the surname.'

There was something... off about this. George looked at Della, but she wouldn't meet his eyes. 'I'm surprised you haven't mentioned uh, Danny before, Della,' he said. 'How long have you been...'

'For ages,' Danny said at the same time Della said, 'Not long.'

She shot him a look. Danny just smiled and snaked his arms around her waist.

'We haven't been dating for long,' Della said, carefully. 'But we've known each other for ages. Since I moved into the building.'

'Right.' George nodded. If she was just going to lie to him, then George had better things to do. 'Well, I'd better be going, Del. I have to get to the filming.'

'Filming?' Danny said, chirpily. 'Is that for the new Beatles film? Can I come?'

'No, you bloody can't,' Della told him. 'And do what? Stand with all the screaming girls?'

Danny shrugged. 'I could help out.'

'You're a biology student. What do you know about filmmaking?'

'Economics.'

'What's economics?'

'I study economics, not biology.'

'Oh. Did you... change it?'

Danny smiled. 'No.'

'Bye, Della,' George said and escaped down the stairs.