John Lennon and Jayne Mansfield.

Jayne Mansfield and John Lennon.

Hollywood sex symbol and a loud, foul mouthed, obnoxious git from Liverpool. Who was married, by the way.

It was like one of those surreal dreams. Two things that shouldn't exist in the same world, but here they are together, chatting and giggling (Jayne), smiling seductively and touching his hair (John, believe it or not) and sipping on Martini cocktails with olives in them (both, although John didn't seem to really know what to do with his).

Della wasn't sure how long she'd been in the office with Brian for, but possibly fifty or sixty years, given how much the landscape had altered.

Suddenly the house was full of people, and mostly women by the looks of it. Paul was playing the baby grand piano they had in the room adjoining the circular living room. The connecting French doors now flung wide open and surprisingly loud snatches recognisable and unrecognisable songs filling the house. He'd done that the previous night too, hamming it up to impress the ladies who stood around the piano, watching him. The girl he'd brought back with him was sharing the piano stool with him.

George, as promised, was waiting for Della on the sofa, but he'd obviously been somewhere in the meantime because he'd changed his clothes. He had a white t-shirt on and indigo blue jeans as he lay on his back, bare feet and one leg crossed over the other. He had his James Bond book lying open on his chest and a white telephone receiver pressed to his ear.

And then John and one of Hollywood's most iconic stars were drinking cocktails together. They stood beside the grand, 1930s style stone fireplace, bodies leaning into each other, faces an intimate distance apart like he might kiss her any second. John still had his sunglasses on. He'd worn them all day, inside and outside. He looked a bit daft now it was evening and the light was fading.

Della went over to George but he was so enthralled in his phone call, he barely acknowledged her. Instead, she approached the coquettish Hollywood star and the philandering Beatle.

'John, can I have a word with you?' Della asked, standing beside the two of them, interrupting him mid sentence.

John moved his head to look at her and set his jaw, annoyed.

'Just quick,' Della added, glancing at Jayne. 'And in private. Out here, please.'

She turned her back and led John into the dark corridor which linked the living room to the study at the back of the house that Brian was using as an office.

Or at least she would have done, if John had followed her.

She waited thirty seconds for him to catch up with her and then when he didn't appear, went back to see what he was doing.

Nothing, was the answer. He was still trying to chat up Jayne Mansfield over a Martini.

'John,' Della said, teeth gritted. 'Can I have a word, please?'

'Bandersnatch. You can have that word,' John said and Jayne giggled girlishly, putting her hand in front of her mouth, squeezing her eyes up. She'd get crows feet, doing that.

'What?'

'No? How's about hippopotamus, then? There's a word for you. You can have that one for free!'

Jayne fully guffawed at that in a most un-sex symbol like way, nearly spilling her Martini down the front of her pink dress.

'Stop being a dick,' Della said and taking John's arm, took him, or dragged him given the resistance he put up, into the corridor with her.

'Will you fuck off, Della?' John said, flirty voice replaced with his more familiar Northern English brogue as he pulled his arm free of her. 'If you're going to give me earache about Cyn, you can save it.'

'No, not that, but it's nice to know you do remember your wife. I need to speak to you. It's important.'

'That's Jayne Mansfield there.'

'Yes, I recognise her... face.'

'So this better be a life and death emergency.'

'Have you met that guy with Brian? Who is he?'

'What guy?'

'There's a guy with Brian in his office.'

'So?'

'Well, he's not a businessman.'

John shifted his weight, folding his arms over his chest. 'Do you think I'm queer for him or something? Why would I give a fuck who Brian's latest boyfriend is?'

'No,' Della said, biting her lip to keep her temper. 'No one is insinuating you're anything but a red blooded male. Can you act like an adult for two minutes? I don't care who Brian's... with. I do care if he's bringing them into business meetings.'

John paused. Della thought he was about to say something, something of worth for a change, but instead he pushed his cocktail glass towards her. 'Here. Drink some of this.'

'Why?'

'Go on.'

Della took it from him and drank a mouthful, worried suddenly. Who was that guy? What was John about to tell her that she needed a stiff drink beforehand. The Martini was dry, surprisingly sharp and strongly alcoholic, but Della took another large gulp anyway before handing it back to John.

'What is it?' she asked, hoarse with either the drink or the anticipation or both.

'Dry Martini,' John said, nonchalantly. 'I can't stand them, but it's all she'll drink. Have some more of it for me.'

He tried to give it to her again but Della batted his hand away. 'I don't want your bloody Martini. Tell me who he is.'

'Who?'

'John!'

John sighed, exasperated. 'I don't fucking know, do I? What "business meeting" is Brian having at this time of night anyway?'

Della hesitated to answer and a sick smile grew on John's lips.

'Oh. Right. That's it, then. He's sacked you, has he?'

'No.'

John laughed, unkindly. 'Not yet.'

'It's not about that. It's... I didn't like him. He made me feel uneasy, and Brian asked for his opinion on something. Why would he do that? An outsider?'

'Who's to say who's an outsider now?' John said, cocking an eyebrow. He downed the rest of his Martini with a slight grimace, then pushed past Della to return to the living room.

Della followed him to the doorway. There seemed even more people here now. More girls. Where did all the girls come from? Paul had finished playing the piano and disappeared from sight. Someone had put the record player on and Ringo was dancing with three of the mysteriously appearing women in the gap in the middle of the horseshoe shaped couch.

George was still on the phone, but he'd accumulated a girl too. She perched on the edge of the sofa where he still lay on his back, inching closer to him every couple of minutes in a desperate attempt to get his attention.

He was ignorant of it though, still talking. Who could he be calling? Pattie, maybe, though he seemed a bit too... animated to be having a heart to heart with her. Maybe it was his mother.

The girl moved closer to George again, practically sitting on top of him. She placed a slender hand on his thigh, he lifted his head to smile at her and Della was moving.

'Hey,' she said, loudly, arriving in front of him.

George looked up at her, unperturbed and put his finger up to her, telling her to wait while he continued his conversation.

Della looked at the girl. Blonde hair in bunches. Blue gingham dress that hugged her figure. She gave Della a mirthless smile and touched George's leg again, stroking it this time. George ignored the gesture, but scooted up the sofa a short distance, away from her.

'Georgie,' Della said, digging him in the ribs. 'I'm going.'

George squirmed away from her. 'Hang on, Del. One minute.'

The girl still hadn't given up. Della stood beside George, arms folded and stared at her icily, refusing to look away as the girl glared back at her. A silent battle of wills. Eventually the girl huffed, picked up her clutch handbag, straightened her dress and stalked away in the highest pair of heels Della had ever seen. Fucking hell. This was going to like dating Paul all over again, wasn't it?

She nudged George with her knee. 'I'm going,' she mouthed to him. 'I'll call you later.'

George laughed into the phone at something Della didn't hear. He didn't seem to acknowledge what she was telling him. He just grinned and winked at her.

No, it wouldn't like dating Paul, because George wasn't Paul. George couldn't be more different from Paul. She knew she could trust George, even with all the tarts that hung around every night, trying to shag a Beatle. George wouldn't do that. George wasn't like that.

'Alright, I'll see you later, love...' George said.

Della picked up her bag, left by the side of the sofa. She put it on her shoulder and waved goodbye to him, but George caught her wrist, keeping her there. 'Not you,' he said, then back into the phone. 'I've got to go, love. Let me know when you're on your way, won't you?'

Della frowned. On your way?

'No, "love". It's uh, like how we say "dear" or "darling". Yeah... English. Just the north, I think.' He laughed. Weirdly. Not like his normal self. A bit high pitched, more of a giggle. Who was he talking to?

Finally, after a couple of minutes more jabbering on about bollocks, keeping his hand around Della's wrist, George hung up.

'Sorry, Del,' he said, letting go of her so he could sit up. The book, still resting on his chest, slipped off and fell on the floor. 'What were you saying?'

'I was just telling you, I'm going back to my hotel.'

'Now? What for? We were going to have a party tonight.'

'You're having a party now, aren't you?' Della gestured to the room. 'Who were you on the phone to?'

'Um... It was Pattie. Look, hang on...' George stood and took Della's hand to lead her to the hall, beside the front door, a moderately quieter area. 'What did Brian say?' he asked.

'Pattie's on her way here?'

'What?'

'She's coming? To Los Angeles?'

George creased his forehead. 'No, don't be daft. Why would she be doing that?'

'On the phone, you said...' Della let her voice trail away.

She shouldn't hassle George about Pattie. She still hadn't had chance to talk to him properly about everything. She wanted to tell him that if they were doing this, then both of them needed to be straight with each other. Della wouldn't be like her father. She wasn't going to be the "other woman". He'd have to break it off with Pattie and she'd break it off with Danny. Not that there was much to break off there. But officially, Pattie was George's girlfriend and Della wouldn't normally bother with another woman's boyfriend, but this was George and George was... different.

'I must have misheard,' she said, with a smile. 'Um, Brian... Brian was being odd. He's pissed off with me over the Vancouver thing.'

'Well, don't worry. He'll forget about it soon enough.'

She kept her smile in place. 'Yeah. I'm sure.'

'Don't go then, stay here. It'll be fun. You might as well enjoy your night off. We get precious few of them on tour.'

'No, it's okay. I was... I was going to ring Danny tonight.'

'Oh. You could do that from here?'

'No. No, I can't really. I was going to break up with him.'

George raised his eyebrows. 'Really? What, now? Tonight?

'Well, I've got to, haven't I? There's no point in dragging it out and prolonging it.'

'Yeah, but... over the phone?'

'I know it's not nice to do that, but isn't it worse to let him carry on thinking that I'm... interested in him when I'm not?'

George pursed his lips. 'I suppose so. You can't wait until we get home then?'

'Are you going to wait?'

'Wait for what?'

'Wait to tell...'

No. No. She's not going to say things like this to George. She'll let him sort himself out in his own time. It's none of Della's business and she doesn't want to look pushy or jealous. Plus, if she's honest, she really wants George to do it of his own volition. She trusts him enough to know he's not the sort to cheat. If there's one thing George is, it's loyal. So she wants George to decide when and where to do it, without prompting from Della. She wants him to choose her, over Pattie, over everyone, but she wants George to do that on his own.

'Never mind,' she said and squeezed his arm. 'We'll talk about it tomorrow.'

George reached for her, running his hand down her arm then taking her hand. 'Don't go,' he said, smoothly. 'Stay and have some fun with us.'

Fun with George. That made her stomach flip, but there would be time for that later too. When it was right. When it would be perfect. Nothing to dirty up the first time they'd be together.

'It's okay. I think I could do with an early night anyway.'

George frowned. 'What did Brian say to you? Why are you upset?'

'I'm not upset,' she said, breezily and forced a smile to prove it.

She didn't want to admit that Brian was thinking about sending her home. She didn't want to admit that to anyone - but especially to George. He got her the job in the first place. He'd stayed behind for her in Canada. She felt like she was letting him down. Especially now they were on the cusp of getting together. And Brian already thinks she's a distraction for George. Oh, fuck.

'I'm just tired. I'm not in the mood for a party. You... You go and enjoy yourself. Behave, though,' she added, with images of girls in tight gingham dresses dancing in her head.

George grinned. 'Always.'

She lifted herself onto her toes, intending to kiss him, but mid lean-in she was suddenly struck with a wave of doubt. George wasn't leaning in to kiss her back. He wasn't doing anything. She changed her trajectory slightly and ended up meeting him on the side of his mouth, half a kiss on the lips, half a kiss on his cheek. 'Night, Georgie,' she added, drawing back, embarrassed.

George rubbed his face where she'd kissed him and laughed. 'You nearly got me right on the lips then!' he said. 'Shall I ask Mal to drive you? I think he's outside somewhere.'

Della blinked. 'No, it's okay. I'll find him myself. Umm, goodnight, George. See you tomorrow.'

Della escaped quickly, leaving George to his party and closing the door on him without looking back. She paused to light a cigarette. She could already pick out Mal's unmistakable figure at the end of the driveway, smoking and chatting to a couple of the cops they'd hired for additional security there. He'd call a taxi for her, or else drive her himself.

She started towards him, walking quickly but hampered by the pebble driveway under her heels.

She shouldn't obsess about George. She shouldn't over analyse every tiny detail and word uttered. Just go with the flow, relax and trust him, for God's sakes.

But still, she couldn't help but think, Nearly on the lips? "You nearly got me right on the lips." What the fuck? What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

George stepped closer to the mirror, fiddling with his cuffs, trying to pull the billowy sleeves of his shirt straight. 'Your problem,' he said to Della, moving so he could see her in the reflection. 'Is that you wouldn't know fashion if it came up and slapped you in the face.'

'Fashion changes, style endures,' Della replied, lolling on the white sofa in her blue denim jeans, vaguely wondering if the dye was rubbing off on the pristine white fabric. 'Coco Chanel said that.'

'Who's Coco Chanel?'

'Coco Chanel. Chanel Chanel.'

'Well, now you've said it twice I know who you're talking about.'

'The fashion designer. Chanel Number 5.'

'I thought that was a perfume.'

'It is.'

George gave up and continued primping, admiring himself in the large mirror that was fixed to the curved wall of one side of the living room and trying to tuck his oversized, but quite short length, mustard-green shirt into his jeans. Every time he extended his arms, the scooped shaped hem came loose at his sides.

'Whoever sold you that must have seen you coming,' Della informed him. 'How did you manage to go shopping without causing a riot, anyway?'

'We just took the limo into town and–'

'Took the limo,' Della repeated and giggled. 'Listen to you, Georgie. It wasn't so long ago that you "took the bus" everywhere.'

George turned around to her. 'You could have come with us if you'd turned up on time. Where have you been all day, anyway?'

'Well, I was... Like you said, we don't get many days off on tour, do we? I was just taking it easy.'

Not strictly true. Taking it easy was the last thing Della was doing currently.

She'd phoned Danny, half-reluctantly, half-hoping he wouldn't answer, but he did and after at first being snippy with her for not calling him in nearly two weeks, he came over all concerned and asking if she was sure she was alright. News of Della's unscheduled trip around Vancouver had reached home shores.

Then there was a lull, a pause in the conversation as Della grappled for words. George was right, it was mean to tell him over the phone, and meaner still when he'd been sitting at home, worrying about her.

'The kitten misses you,' Danny said, instanting destroying any progress he'd made with her. 'He still hasn't got a name. Have you thought of one yet?'

'Oh, for fucks sake, Danny. Have you still got it? Why haven't you took it back?'

'It's not an "it", it's a "he", and you can't take him back. He was a stray. Homeless. Do you want me to send him back to the dustbin he was living inside?'

'No, you can take him back to Battersea Cats and Dogs Home, where you got him from.'

'I can't do that, can I?'

'Then keep him yourself if you want to, but I'm not looking after him.'

'Della, he was a gift for you.'

'I don't want him! Who does something like that? You don't give someone a cat as a gift!'

'Not someone. My girlfriend.'

'I'm not your girlfriend, though, am I? We're just pretending.'

'No, we were pretending. And now we're not.'

Della grimaced, bested.

Okay, she shouldn't have slept with Danny. That was a mistake. She'd only done it to make herself feel better and that's something Jack Clarence would have done, isn't it? It was George's fault. George for being so stupidly in love with his stick of a girlfriend. All over each other. Making Della feel lonely and sad and she'd drunk too much and Danny was just there and happy to listen to her complaints and worries and then... one thing had led to another.

They weren't sleeping together though. Not like he made it sound, it wasn't a regular thing. Two, three times at most, and one of those didn't really count.

In fact, she'd intended to tell him it all had to stop the day before she left for the US tour. She would have done if she hadn't been distracted by the "going-away present". He gave her a kitten. A tiny, fluffy, black and white kitten. Danny had pushed him into her arms, the cat had blinked his large, green eyes at her and Della had been horrified.

'Why have you bought me a cat? I'm away from home for half of the year.'

'He's not a cat, he's a kitten. And I'll look after him while you're away. He's cute, isn't he? He's like a teddy bear.'

'I don't like cats.'

'Yes, you do. That story you told me about your cat. The one that died. That warmed my heart. What can I get for Della as a going-away present, I thought. A kitten. Perfect.' He laughed. 'Purr-fect, get it?'

She didn't get it. Not at all. Nothing. She didn't understand why Danny kept telling her she was his girlfriend when she kept telling him she was not. She didn't understand why Brian would bring a stranger into their midsts and she didn't understand why George was acting like he didn't remember kissing her in Canada. It's why she'd kept away from him today. Wouldn't harm him to wonder where she was for a while.

'You missed all the fun,' George continued. 'We went to Burt Lancaster's house. Ringo had this toy gun that he was clowning around with, pretending he was a cowboy. Burt wasn't impressed. He said he'd give Ringo a real gun instead.'

'I don't know if I'd trust Ringo with real gun. He'll end up shooting himself in the foot.'

'Burt Lancaster had a swimming pool, which was outside, but if you dived you could swim underneath and come back up in his front room!'

'That doesn't sound very secure for a Hollywood star.'

'Well, there must have been some way to lock it, or... I don't know. Anyway, it was fab. I'm going to get one.'

'A swimming pool?'

'Yeah. One you can swim under like that. Why not?'

'Well, you live in a flat for one thing...'

'Actually, I bought a house a few weeks ago. It's already got a pool.'

'You're moving? You never told me you were moving. Where is it?'

'I'll move in properly after the tour.'

'Where is it? Still in London?'

George ignored the question. 'Burt had a cinema too. In his house. You'd have loved it, Del. You should have come.'

Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder was a moron. George hadn't missed her today at all. He'd been too busy hanging out at movie star's houses, watching films and splashing around in elaborate swimming pools. He was moving house and hadn't even mentioned it. And now he was more interested in his new shirt than he was in Della. He hadn't even asked if she'd broken it off with Danny.

'You're such a fashion victim,' Della told him, annoyed with him, completely unreasonably. 'That is one ugly shirt. I bet whoever sold it you has been trying to shift it for weeks.'

As usual, George refused rise to it. He could always tell when she was trying to draw him into a squabble. He just said nothing, ignoring her with a lazy, half smile on his face like he knew something she didn't.

'Are you sure that's a men's shirt anyway?' she asked.

He turned around, spreading his arms. 'Of course it's a men's shirt. What else would it be?'

'Looks like a big girl's blouse to me.'

'You're a cheeky fuckin'–' George started but before he even finished the sentence, he'd launched himself on top of Della, tickling and wrestling with her, making her laugh and squeal. Della fought back, digging George under his rib cage and when she could get her arm up, poked him in the soft spot between his shoulder and his collarbone, a weakness on George which always made him hiss and flinch away. It worked this time too, making him recoil long enough for Della to shove him on to the floor, but George took her with him, landing on his back with an 'Oof' as she fell on top of him.

Della sat up to get off him, but George grabbed her wrists, holding them together tightly to stop her moving, keeping her on top of him. He grinned at her, triumphant, then as his smile faded, their eyes met.

'Do you have to do that in here? Don't you have a bedroom of your own?' John came in and flopped onto the opposite end of the sofa.

Della scowled at John, but George just laughed. 'That what you've been doing then?'

'What? In your bedroom?'

Della struggled to her feet, straightening her shirt which had come untucked during the fight. She could feel her cheeks burning like John had actually caught them doing something they shouldn't. How daft was that? She turned her back so he wouldn't see and take the piss.

'Are we going then, or what?' John asked.

George stood. 'Yeah, we're going.'

'Going where?' Della asked, suspicious.

'Out. Tonight, coming with?' George said, sitting down on the couch. 'Just to a club for a drink and whatever else.'

'What club? That's not been arranged, has it? I don't remember it being on the itinerary.'

John tutted. 'Christ, George. Don't tell the enemy all our plans.'

'Della's not the enemy,' George told him, mischievous grin growing on his face. Then back to Della, 'Not everything needs to be pre-planned, does it? We just fancy going to a club tonight. You know, like normal human beings for once.'

'It does need pre-planning. You have to plan for security. You know that. You can't go out. You'd be mobbed.'

'No, Jayne says it'll be fine. She knows this club. It'll be private and quiet.'

'Can't you invite people over instead? Have a party here again.'

Both Beatles groaned, like she was trying to force them into some terrible chore.

'We've had parties here the last two nights,' John said, distaste in his voice.

'So have another one. We can control things here. We can control who comes in and who doesn't.'

'You get stir crazy trapped in a house all the time,' George said. 'The same four walls around you all the time.'

'Four walls? This is a mansion! The press are calling it Beatle Manor. You could fit almost all of Upton Green inside this one building!'

George sighed and pouted and slouched down on the sofa, dejected. Putting it on a bit, Della thought. Poor little spoiled Beatles. Not allowed out to play.

'Has Brian okay-ed it?'

George lifted his eyes to John and a look passed between them. Of course he hadn't.

'Well, that's it then. There's no way he's going to let you go. You'd need bodyguards, route plans and all sorts.'

'Della, we'll be fine. We're going to a nightclub to watch a band. We're not invading a small country,' George said. 'You don't have to come if you don't want to.'

'Brian won't even know,' John added.

'He'll know,' she said, just as Brian strode through the living room.

'What will who know?' Brian asked, pausing, suspicious.

Della looked between George and John. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Just a practical joke they're planning to play on someone.'

'You and your silly jokes. Will you boys ever grow up?' Brian gave them a small shake of his head. Neither of them replied, avoiding looking at him. Guilty as sin. 'I'm leaving now. I'm sure you have everything you could want in the house, but you can always send Mal or Neil out if you need to. Goodnight.'

'Night, Brian,' George said. John said nothing, but Brian didn't seem to notice. Brian walked to the door. 'Della, a moment,' he said, without looking back, just as he stepped through it.

'Now look what you've done,' Della said to them both as she followed Brian.

'Where have you been all day?' Brian asked, when she joined him in the hall. She kept calling it a hall. It was more of a reception room with a polished marble floor, wide staircase with ornate bannister at one end and separate cloakroom at the other.

'It was my day off today.'

'Yes, I'm aware. I thought you'd be with the boys, that's all. Can you be here early tomorrow? I want everything to go without a hitch in Denver. There's been some more... nasty letters.'

Death threats, he meant. That, in itself, wasn't unusual. There had been crackpots sending letters and the like almost since the start of Beatlemania, but there had been an unexplained increase regarding the Denver show. A letter had been sent to the promoter there, made up of cut out newspaper letters. It was almost comical, like a movie ransom note, but the message wasn't funny at all. If you know what's good for you cancel Denver engagement. I'll be in the audience and I'll throw a hand grenade instead of jelly babies. And signed Beatle Hater in the same cut out letters.

But they didn't cancel shows because of threats. They couldn't. It would only encourage the lunatics. Most threats were empty; malicious and upsetting, but empty. This one, however, had been reported to the FBI.

'Don't tell the boys,' Brian added. 'There's no point in concerning them.'

She nodded.

'Bright and early, Della.' He turned his back to fasten a cufflink on his shirt sleeve.

'Um, Brian? Do you have a minute?'

'I'm just about to go out to dinner,' he replied, without turning around. 'We're meeting George Martin. Won't it wait?'

'Um, well, not really. I don't think so.'

He straightened his back and turned around to face her again. 'Is it regarding what we were discussing yesterday?'

'Yes. You see, Brian, I don't think I am a "distraction". George and I...' She stopped as the door to the downstairs cloakroom opened and that guy, the Stranger, stepped out. He gave her the same smile as he had the previous evening, sickly, insincere and self satisfied, as he walked towards them, Brian's sports jacket in his hands.

'Hi, uh... Della, was it?' he drawled, a strange American accent which didn't quite fit Southern California.

She gave a small nod and then when Brian cast her a disparaging look, answered, 'Yes. Della. Hello again.'

'Pretty name.' Diz helped Brian into his jacket, brushing imaginary dust and dandruff off the shoulders for him as he fastened it. 'This jacket look fabulous on you, Brian,' he told him.

Brian smiled, head bowed as he pulled his shirt cuffs through the jacket sleeves, and even though it was a simple compliment, Della was certain his cheeks flushed pink. 'Della, it will be a busy day tomorrow. And Cincinnati the following day. The next suitable pause in the tour will be New York. We can discuss these matters further then.'

'Brian–'

'New York. You have my word,' he said, dismissing her.

She watched Diz as they crossed to the front entrance door together. He opened it, holding it for Brian. If it wasn't for him, perhaps she'd insist a little more ardently that Brian listen to her now, but she wasn't going to talk to him again in front of that man. She shouldn't have allowed that to happen yesterday, even if Brian didn't seem to care. They were usually very cautious about anyone outside of their organisation overhearing business things or the like, Brian included. It was perhaps the main thing that put her on edge about Diz so much.

'Have a pleasant evening, my dear,' Brian said, and stepped through the door. Diz gave her another smirk before he closed it behind them both.

It was that too, wasn't it? It was that which made her so uneasy. The way that Brian behaved around him.

'Sod it,' Della said, returning to the living room. 'Sod it all, let's go out tonight. Where do you want to go?'

Stupid girl.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl.

She rubbed her dress in time with each word, and really, she shouldn't because it was making it worse. 'It's only water,' an apologetic George told her but there must have been something in the glass with it because it was leaving a strange white residue.

This was a mistake. What was she thinking indulging this? Only because Brian had pissed her off by refusing to listen to her. Because he had that fucking fella with him. Well, that's that. She might as well go back to her hotel and pack her suitcase now because when he hears about this, Della will be on the next plane to London. And he will hear about it. It's going to be in all the papers tomorrow.

But it wasn't even that which Della was so angry with herself for. Yes, she shouldn't have let them go off to a nightclub. Yes, she shouldn't have done it without at least telling Brian. But at the end of the day, the boys weren't prisoners, and who knew what tomorrow might bring. All they wanted to do was have a normal night out. Relax and have a few drinks. Watch a band and maybe have a dance or two.

Nope, sorry, not possible.

Della had learned three hard lessons in the thirty minutes they'd been inside the Whisky a Go Go on Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood. And if she didn't know them before, she certainly did now.

       1. Never trust Jayne Mansfield.

Unlike a lot of the characters she played in movies, she was no dumb blonde. She was sly and wiley and knew exactly what she was doing. The club manager has personally guaranteed our security, she'd said. There won't hardly be anyone there. They're keeping all the riff raff out. It's going to be quiet and Johnny Rivers is playing, it will be just swell.

One of those things was true. Johnny Rivers and his band was trying to fight his way through the set, but no one was paying much attention to him.

They took two cars into town. George, Ringo, Derek, Della and Bess Coleman in one, with Mal and Neil in the front. Della wore a purple pencil dress that Bess had brought with her for Della to borrow, save her going back to her hotel to get changed. That was the dress Della was currently in the process of ruining. It was probably dry clean only, too.

John and Jayne had the other car to themselves. Thank God. If they were bad last night, they were worse today. John and Jayne had spent the day together, evidently, missing out on the Burt Lancaster excursion. Paul and his new girlfriend had elected to spend the night at the Beatle Manor instead.

When they arrived at the club, the street was swarming with people. Far from "quiet" and "secure", Della rather suspected they'd been set up. Jayne Mansfield was a master self-promoter. The originator of the 'Oops! My bikini top just popped off all on its own!' stunt. Of course she wasn't going to go to the trouble of meeting the Beatles without letting the world know about it. She'd made a good pretence of hiding her face as they ran the gauntlet to the club's entrance.

       2. The Beatles just can't have a normal life anymore.

They might crave the mundanity of a "normal life", the freedom of being able to go out where they wanted, when they wanted to, but that was not possible any more. Even without the help of the Mansfield publicity machine, when the Beatles appeared somewhere, word got around pretty fast.

It was as just chaotic inside the club as it was outside. By no means quiet, the club was full of people, with other celebrities among them also trying to get through to the boys for a slice of reflected glory. A table had been reserved at the back of the club, a booth seat along one of the walls. Ringo, George, Jayne and John squashed in around the back of it and the rest of them sat opposite, but they were constantly being jostled and shoved by people, photographers among them.

They'd had a few drinks before they went out. Everyone was a bit tipsy. It didn't take much for tempers to start fraying.

'Hey, back the fuck off,' George warned one who refused to stop snapping photos. He gave George a rictus smile and disappeared into the crowd.

What would Brian do? Della asked herself, as someone elbowed her in the back of the neck. She sat on a small stool, opposite George. Neil, to her left, looked uneasy and nervous, glancing around the crowd, probably wishing they'd brought some of those American cops they'd hired to guard the house along. Brian wouldn't stand for this treatment. Della knew that much. He wouldn't put up with this fiasco.

'I'm going to speak to the manager,' she told Derek, on her right. 'This is unbearable.'

'Della, wait,' Derek said. 'I don't think–'

But she was already on her feet, fighting her way through the masses.

Whatever Derek was about to say, he was probably right because Della couldn't find a manager. The best she could find was the head bartender, who shook his head and shrugged his shoulders when she complained about the unruly crowd and the photographers. But at least he took their drinks order finally, promising to send it over to the table.

She couldn't face shoving her way back through right away. She decided to step outside for some fresh air and a soothing cigarette. And there, she learned her third lesson.

      3. Sometimes, a kiss is just a kiss.

'Excuse me, are you Della?'

Della exhaled the smoke from the first drag on her cigarette and turned around.

'That was a stroke of luck. I only just got here. George told me to look for you. I'm meeting him. He's expecting me. Did he tell you?'

Her first thought was that it was another one of those girls. Those Beatle-obsessed fans like Susan in Vancouver who had delusions that they held some kind of personal relationship with one or more of the boys. She was trying to think of a way to let her down gently when the girl stepped into a shaft of light, emitted from the sign above the club, and Della realised she might actually be telling the truth.

'You are Della, ain't you?' asked the girl, uncertain, as Della had yet to respond. She wore a fitted black dress with a boatneck collar and a side split to its skirt. She was dressed very differently from when Della had seen her, but her bright blonde, pixie-ish hair style and triangular smile that put dimples in her cheeks were unmistakable.

She held a small vanity case in both hands, in front of her. The kind you might take with you as an overnight bag. Della was staring at it as she replied, 'Yes, I'm Della...'

'Oh, great,' the girl enthused, looping her arm through hers, uninvited. 'I thought I was gonna have trouble getting inside.'

'You're meeting George?' Della asked, struggling to make sense of it.

'Strictly on the QT.' She smiled and then winked at Della. 'I don't want to create a scene. He doesn't like a lot of fuss and attention either, does he? He's a boy after my own heart.'

A light flashed. It took a few seconds for Della to register it'd been a camera bulb, but the girl was right on it, stepping past Della, nearly pushing her out of the way in her haste.

'What kinda rotten picture was that?!' she demanded. 'At least get me on my best side, darling!' She threw her hands up in the air and the photographer snapped another photo.

'Joey! Jo! Give us a smile!' another voice shouted and the girl pivoted slightly, keeping her pose, so the other photographers hanging around outside of the Whisky a Go Go could take her picture too.

Della shrank back into the shadows, though it didn't matter. No one was interested in taking a photo of her. The girl was the star. She was an actress, dancer and singer on the rise. Well, that's what the interview she read in Playboy yesterday said. Joanna "Joey" Ridley hadn't been completely naked, but near enough. She'd posed on a four poster bed, pink satin sheet covering her only from the waist down, with a feather boa around her neck and Beatles 45s spread out around her on the bed. Della didn't think anything to it at the time, she'd only scanned her eyes over Joey's interview, but now the words came back to her.

Who's your favourite Beatle?

Why, George, the quiet one, of course! He's so handsome! I love the strong and silent type!

Will you meet up with the fab four when they're in town next month?

A girl should never kiss and tell, but I'm certainly hoping our paths may cross again...

When Joey had finished her impromptu photoshoot, Della took her inside with her. Her heart sank further with every step as things fell into place; George's insistence they come here tonight but his vehement objection over having his photo taken, his apparent amnesia over the kiss he gave Della in Vancouver, the phone call yesterday that he told Della was "Pattie" but he was clearly arranging meeting someone here in America.

The crowd had thinned slightly, not by much, but enough for them to get through to the Beatles table without being too hampered. Neil had collared a couple of bouncers from somewhere and they were keeping most of the club's other patrons back a pace.

'Jo!' George greeted her enthusiastically when he saw them and stood up, nearly pushing the table over as he did. 'You must be psychic, Del,' he told her. 'I was just going to ask you if you wouldn't mind going to look for her!'

Della managed a weak smile and returned to her stool, surrendered by Mal, as a quick game of musical chairs went on round the other side of the table. Joey flung her arms around George's neck then air kissed him on both sides of his face. 'M-Wah! Mmm-Wah! How are you, lover?'

George didn't do anything. He wouldn't in public, he was too smart for that, but as Della watched him talk to her, whispering things in her ear that made her giggle, Della knew.

The Martini cocktail she'd ordered was waiting for her on the table. She'd ordered it because she didn't want to appear vulgar and provincial in front of Jayne Mansfield, but she dearly wished she'd gone for a double whisky, neat. She drank the cocktail in two gulps.

How stupid she had been. She felt so embarrassed. Thank God she hadn't said anything to George. Thank God she hadn't said anything to anyone. She just wanted to go home now. Back to London. Back to her own bed in her own flat, where she could crawl under the duvet and stay there until at least 1975. Her own bed and duvet where Danny would probably be waiting for her. Maybe she should think twice about breaking it off with him. He was the sort of boyfriend that was fit for Della. Not someone like George. A Beatle, who dated models and movie stars and Playboy centrefolds. Some of the most beautiful women in the–

As Della lifted her head, John was watching her. That's all she needed. One wisecrack from that prick and she might shove his stupid sunglasses up his nose. He was wearing wayfarers again, inside a bloody nightclub. But maybe he wasn't looking at her, after all. His face was expressionless and she couldn't really tell what he was looking at behind those dark lenses. He gave her a flash of a smile, gone as quickly as it appeared.

There was another flash, a more visible one, and then once more, brighter. It left Della blinking and dazzled in its wake, which is probably why she didn't see George get to his feet, shouting something unintelligible at the photographer responsible, and why she definitely didn't see him pick up the water glass. He threw its contents towards the photographer but most of it ended up all over Della, down the front of her dress, in her lap and a bit on her hair.

'Della, shit! Sorry, love!' he cried, as she jumped up. 'Don't worry, it's only water. I'm sorry!'

Della waved him away, and Bess who tried to accompany her to the ladies loo, with a, 'No, I'm fine. I'm alright. I can do it myself, for fuck's sake!'

She'd have to apologise to Bess for that when she went back to the table.

The ladies room didn't have hand dryers, only white paper towels which disintegrated as she rubbed the purple fabric of her dress. She should have probably let it air dry instead. She'd tried wetting it further to get rid of the white residue, but it'd just made the stain more pronounced.

Della walked, or rather waddled, back to the table, trying to cover the dark, damp marks on the skirt of her dress with her hands. As Della approached, a man blocked her path, a bouncer in a grey suit, who were evidently guarding the Beatles table a little more enthusiastically now.

He didn't speak, he just stood in the way, solid like a brick wall. She moved to go around him and he blocked her again. Della stepped back, glaring daggers at him. She in no mood for this tonight. She was approximately twenty seconds from grabbing whatever was close to hand and braining this bastard with it.

'Let her through! She's with us!' John yelled over.

The bouncer glanced round at him and reluctantly allowed Della past. She was certain people like him got some perverse pleasure from denying people but she couldn't even muster a smirk for him as she shoved through.

'Della!' George shouted, lifting himself up without actually standing. He was pissed now, she could tell. Half a smile on his face, glassy drunkenness over taking his eyes. 'You alright, love? Come and sit here.' He tried to shuffle one way and then the other, but with Ringo on one side and Joey the Starlet now firmly ensconced between George and Jayne, there wasn't an inch of space around him. 'Uh, here,' George said. 'Sit next to Jo. Shift up, John.'

Della shook her head. Could she leave? Could she just go back to her hotel? She couldn't, not really. Not until they decided they'd had enough and retired to Bel Air for the night. She'd brought them here. She'd better not leave them now. Even Mal and Neil were drinking. Della wouldn't. Not anymore. Not tonight. Someone had to stay sober, didn't they?

'Come 'ed, move up.' George was still trying to rearrange the seating plan.

'You can sit here,' John said, sounding a lot more sober than his bandmate. He shuffled closer to Jayne. She laughed throatily and batted her false eyelashes and John grinned leerily in return, but Della was grateful for the change to avoid sitting next to George's bird and sat down.

'Ta,' she said, quietly to John, but he either didn't hear or he ignored her. George had forgotten about her anyway now. Clearly, in more ways than one. He had his arm around Joey's shoulders, or more accurately, neck, pulling her into him.

'The guy's rough trade,' John said, and it took a moment for Della to realise he was addressing her. 'A hustler, who's managed to latch on. Do you know what I'm saying?'

'Which guy?' she asked, still watching George flirting. He planted a kiss on Joey's ear.

'The one Brian's picked up from somewhere. The gutter, probably. The fuckin' sewer.'

Della looked at him. 'Why would he have him there? In the office? Listening to everything.'

John shrugged. 'Who the fuck knows?'

'I don't like it, John. It gives me a... bad feeling.'

'Well, he'll be gone soon.'

'Will he?'

'We will be. We have Denver tomorrow. Then Cincinatti, then New York. Other end of the country and fucking hustlers like him...' John glanced round at their companions and lowered his voice, leaning closer to Della. 'All the Hollywood hustlers and all the Hollywood whores will be miles away from us.'

He leaned back and took a furtive glance at George's girl to emphasise his point.

'Don't worry, Della. We'll be on the other side of the country and everyone in LA will still be in LA. We'll leave them all behind.'