Della waited, although she didn't know what for. Even if someone did realise she wasn't with them, they weren't going to turn the car around and come back for her. Really, she was dithering, unsure what to do. Unnerving for Della, who was usually so certain of all her moves.

It had grown properly dark now. A lot of the lights around the stadium had been turned off, making it feel even darker. The sky was black with pin pricks of distant stars, without a cloud in sight, and the temperature was dropping quickly. It'd been warm all day - hot - but standing outside the Empire Stadium in her thin, sleeveless dress and broken heel shoes, Della could feel goosebumps starting to prick her skin. Goosebumps, she suspected, that weren't just to do with the cool night.

People were leaving in droves. Long lines of cars crawled past Della and more were leaving on foot. Eventually she moved, making her way against the stream of Beatle fans, back towards the 'stage door' entrance of the stadium. It was firmly shut, the fire door closed and only possible to open from the inside, and the larger gated entrance barred with a padlocked iron gate.

'Well, this is a bit of a pickle,' Della said aloud to herself, only really to quell the feeling of panic tying knots in her stomach.

She could picture her bag, sitting where she'd left it in the locker-cum-dressing room. When the girl fell through the ceiling onto Ringo and knocked the table over, Della's bag was on top if it. She'd hastily scooped all her belongings back inside and then chased after the girl. The bag would probably still be there, where she'd left it, waiting for her. Maybe if she could find someone, she could describe it and the contents. That would prove that the bag was hers and she must be who she said she was.

It's beige canvas with a flap front and red flowers on it, and inside is my NEMS card on a blue lanyard thingie, and my passport, and my address book with all the phone numbers inside, and my purse with all the money I've got with me...

She wandered back towards the front of the stadium, looking for someone official to help her. No one was there. The building looked closed up. They'd done that quickly, Della never saw anyone. Most of the people had gone; only a few fans were still hanging around, singing Beatles songs, perhaps in the hope the Beatles might return. There was no chance of that. They'd be at the airport already, waiting to board their plane.

That thought sent a shiver through her. It'd been a pain to get into the country earlier today and was just as much of a pain to organise getting out. The plane had a take-off slot. They couldn't miss it, because they might have to wait hours for another one. That probably meant they couldn't wait for her. And that was if she was missed at all.

With a sickening, sinking feeling she realised it was perfectly possible that no one would notice Della wasn't there until they were already in the air, or even later. With the Beatles, the roadies, Brian and his entourage of assistants, the support acts and all the journalists and photographers trailing the tour, they made a large group. Sometimes Della travelled with Brian, sometimes with George and the others. If she wasn't there, they wouldn't necessarily assume she was missing.

There was a bank of four pay phones near to the doors at the front of the stadium. Silver and white with PUBLIC TELEPHONE on top of them. Della crossed to one. There wasn't a door, just three plastic walls for privacy. She lifted the receiver, put it to her ear to hear the buzz of the dialing tone and then placed it back in its cradle.

Her dress was pocketless. If she was wearing jeans, she'd probably have some change in her pockets, but wearing a dress, all her money was in her purse. She could ask the operator to reverse the charges if she could think of where to call. The airport? Would the airport switchboard accept a reverse charge call if she said she urgently needed to speak to Brian Epstein?

Della stepped out of the phone booth. She might have to stop someone and beg them for money for a phone call in exchange for a promise of a full set of Beatles autographs. Real ones too. Not the ones Neil and Mal, and sometimes even Della, had forged.

But the stadium car park had emptied fast. There was only a few cars dotted around and none with owners near them. Even the fans singing the songs had disappeared.

Della had to find someone, anyone, and ask for help. With a moment hesitation, she turned her back on the stadium and started to walk towards the exit. There would be somewhere open, surely. A shop or a petrol station or a bar. Where had all the police officers gone? There were lots of them around earlier.

The road leading away from the stadium was little more than a long, dusty track. Not really a proper road and there wasn't any pavement. Della walked at the side, hampered by the broken heel on her shoes. She'd put them back on her feet. Even with a knackered heel, it was easier to walk wearing them than to walk in bare feet, where she felt every tiny piece of gravel, every microscopic shard of glass.

She walked for about half an hour, all downhill thankfully, until she reached a bend in the road and she could finally see the twinkling lights of the city in the distance. This might be how a castaway felt when they saw the shape of a ship on the horizon.

She was saved, but the lights - and the city - were still quite a distance away. If the plane hadn't already left, it would be taking off soon. Della didn't have the phone number for the house they were renting in Beverly Hills. She hadn't got around to telling Brian about the hotel. Derek would have to do that now.

Della stumbled on, her exuberance at seeing the city quickly waning as she walked and walked but appeared to be getting no closer to it. She passed a small cafe at the roadside, completely dark and closed up. She considered knocking on it anyway, but it didn't look like anyone had been there in years.

Then she heard it before she saw it. A car engine, somewhere behind her. She stopped and searched for it, finally spotting the glow of headlights coming around the bend at the top of the road. She waved her arms, more like she was trying to direct a plane than flag a car down, but she she was starting to feel quite desperate.

'Stop! Please, stop!' she shouted as the car sailed past her, forcing Della further into the side of the road to avoid being run over by it. Her arms dropped to her sides and her heart felt as heavy as lead as she watched it disappear down the road.

But then, a miracle. The car slammed it's brakes on.

It took a few seconds for her to react but then Della ran - as quickly as her heels would allow - to catch up with it.

It was a large estate wagon with an elongated bonnet and fins at the reverse. It looked like a dark orange in the dim light. Della could make out the shape of three figures inside.

'Hey!' A girl called to her as she neared the car. She leaned out of the passenger side window, dark hair tied up in bunches.

'Hello!' Della called back. 'Wait, please. Can you help me? I'm stranded.'

The girl waited for Della to catch up to her, but then, before Della could start to explain her predicament, she asked with a thick Canadian drawl. 'Hey, aren't you Della?'

Bloody hell, it was annoying when Paul was right. Not that George was going to tell him that, but still, it was annoying just knowing he'd been right.

George wanted to go out and search for Della. He wanted to go back to the concert venue and look for her. Ask if anyone had seen her. Maybe walk around the area and retrace their steps from earlier today. Anything. He'd be happy to be doing anything, except sit here, drinking scotch like prohibition starts tomorrow, and feel like he was more of a hindrance than a help.

But it was impossible. He couldn't do any of those things. He couldn't even leave this stupid room without an escort because he was Beatle George, too bloody famous for his own good.

The plane had took off for Los Angeles before George and Derek had left the airport. Derek was on the phone, calling the stadium, then calling the London office even though it was only early morning over there and no one had arrived yet to answer the phone. George had watched the plane leave on his own, a funny sunken feeling in his stomach.

They waited at the airport, but Della didn't arrive. Derek tried some of the NEMS staff at home, but no one had heard from her. He went to book seats on a plane to take them to Los Angeles tomorrow, and was gone for such a long time that George grew sick of waiting in the lonely private lounge and, unsupervised, went to look around the airport departures lounge in case Della was out there, unable to get through to them.

She wasn't. There was hardly anyone around now. It was after midnight. It still took Derek quarter of an hour to find George again though, grabbing him by his wrist roughly when he did and pulling him to his side like George was an unruly toddler, liable to run away at any moment.

'What part of "wait here" was so difficult to understand?' he snapped at him. 'George, we don't need to lose you as well.'

'I only went to have a look,' George said, twisting himself out of Derek's grip. 'I can't sit and do nothing.'

'You will sit and do nothing, or so help me...'

George pursed his lips. 'Have you got any news?'

'Yes.' Derek flipped through the sheets of paper he held in his other hand. 'A plane tomorrow at half past one. We'll go straight from the airport to the Hollywood Bowl, and cross your fingers there's no delay, because traffic at that time of day...'

Not the sort of news George had meant, but he couldn't be bothered to argue. 'How many seats did you book?'

'Two. First class, luckily, otherwise–'

'No. Three.'

'What?'

'We'll need three seats. For when we find Della.'

'There were only two...' Derek stopped and harrumphed a little. 'Right. Okay. I'll see what I can do.' He turned to go and then added over his shoulder, 'Don't move from this spot, okay? Stay right here.'

George watched Derek walk away until he rounded the corner and was gone, then he went and rested his weight against a railing to look out of the window over the airport runway. It was dark out there. Pitch black. George couldn't see much for his own reflection. He was getting tired. If he allowed himself, he could probably fall asleep just standing up here. He'd drunk more of the horrible coffee, but it wasn't helping. He needed something a little more lively to sharpen his nerves, keep his wits about him.

'Excuse me,' said a small voice at George's side. He turned to find a young girl standing behind him. She was short and petite and staring at him with enormous round, unblinking eyes. 'Are you him?' she asked, breathlessly. 'Are you Beatle George?'

George was exhausted, worried and in no mood for this sort of thing, but she looked so innocent and awed that he gave her a small smile and a nod of his head.

'Oh my goodness! I knew it! You're George! But your plane left already, didn't it? What are you still doing here?'

'Uh, yeah,' George coughed. 'The others went on to Los Angeles already.'

'Why haven't you gone with them?'

'My... friend is missing. She was at the concert, but she's... I don't know what's happened to her. She's lost, so I've stayed to look for her.'

'Really? A girlfriend?'

'Well, she's a girl, who's a friend...'

'GEOFF!' the girl suddenly bellowed, spinning round. 'Geoff! It is him! I told you it was! Bring the stuff over! He says his girlfriend is missing!'

That young, innocent, overawed girl who George thought was a simple Beatle fan turned out to be a not-so-overawed young woman, who wasn't a Beatle fan but a radio producer of some sort for a local station who had been at the airport, covering the Beatles departure. When she yelled, two men rushed over; one clutching a large microphone, one with recording equipment that he carried on his shoulder, headphones slung around his neck.

'Frank's already gone,' he told the woman, messing with dials on the box recorder.

'Screw Frank,' said the woman, grabbing the microphone from the other man. 'I'll do it it myself.'

'Hey now, hold on,' George said, as she stuck the mic under his nose. He took a small step backwards, looking round for Derek, wishing that Mal had stayed with them as well.

'This is Cindy Barrett for KBVZ Radio. I'm here with George Harrison of the Beatles, who we've just been lucky enough to bump into at Vancouver International Airport. George has been left behind by his bandmates as his girlfriend is currently missing. George, what can you tell us?'

'Uh, well, no, I can't...'

'Who is the missing girl, George?'

George was about to say he couldn't speak to her, but isn't this what they needed to help find Della? A bit of local media coverage couldn't hurt. Maybe someone listening would know what had happened to her. Maybe even Della herself might hear it.

'Della,' George said. 'Her name is Della Milton and she works for us. Well, she works for Brian Epstein, our manager. She was at the concert tonight, but she hasn't arrived at the airport. She's missing.'

'Delia?'

'Della. Della Milton. D-E-L-L...'

'And Della is your girlfriend? Is that why you've stayed to find her while the other Beatles have travelled on? Why have the Beatles decided not to stay the night in Vancouver?'

'Um, no, Della's a friend, but not a... She works for Brian Epstein.'

'How was the concert tonight?'

'Well, okay, but...'

'We heard there were riots. Why do you think the Beatles have this effect on otherwise perfectly normal and balanced teenagers?'

George exhaled, frustrated. 'So the girl, the one I'm looking for, she's called Della and she's...'

'Excuse me, what's going on here?' Derek arrived at the edge of the group. 'Can I help you?'

'Wait your turn, buddy,' the sound guy said.

'Now, just a minute,' Derek said, shoving his way through to reach George. He put himself between George and the radio woman. 'Who are you? What do you think you're doing?'

George could see an uncharacteristic pinkness rising in Derek's cheeks. Unflappable Derek Taylor, stuck in an airport with an uncooperative Beatle, searching for a missing NEMS staff member, and starting to get into a flap about it. George would laugh if it wasn't for the fact the whole situation was really, really not funny.

'This is Derek,' George said. 'He works for Brian too. I guess we all do.'

'I'm George's manager, pro tempore. Locum tenens, if you will. If you want to speak to him, you need to speak to me first. What radio station are you from?'

The radio people stared at him. 'Do you speak English?' the sound guy asked.

'Look, move away,' Derek said, shooing them with his hand while simultaneously trying to shepherd George in the opposite direction. 'We're not giving interviews. George is not speaking to you. Move away please, before I fetch security.'

Reluctantly, the radio people left and Derek marched George back to the private departures lounge. 'What did you think you're doing?' he hissed at him. 'Brian will hit the bloody roof if he hears that!'

'It was for Della,' George said. 'I thought it might help find her.'

'What would possess you to do a thing like that? The place will turn into a media circus if they all get wind of it.' He sighed and shook his head. 'We need to get out of here. We can't wait around here.'

'Where could we go?'

Derek thought for a moment. 'The hotel. The one we were supposed to stay with. We'll go there. I can make phone calls from there as easily as I can from here.'

'But what about Della? What if she comes here?'

'We'll leave a message at the desk for her,' Derek said, then added when he saw George's frown, 'She's not going anywhere, George. I have her passport.' He patted the bag with red flowers he was currently carrying around on his shoulder everywhere, which would also amuse George under normal circumstances, but the sight of the beige knapsack with pretty red flowers just made him sad instead.

'Derek? What do you think has happened to her?'

He hesitated before he answered and the pause make George's stomach turn over.

'I'm sure she's just missed the cars,' he said, with a crooked smile. 'She's probably on her way over in a cab or something.'

'But wouldn't she be here by now if she was? Wouldn't she have arrived ages ago?'

Derek blinked twice. 'Come on. We'll go to the hotel. It'll be more comfortable there.'

It was more comfortable. Too comfortable, because parked on the chaise lounge inside the regal looking suite on the sixth floor of Hotel Georgia, George had started feeling quite sleepy. He had nothing to do. Derek had gone to use the phone downstairs in the hotel lobby, which made George anxious because there was a perfectly good phone up here in the suite, and he wouldn't let George go and look for Della himself. Only after they'd arrived at the hotel did George realise his luggage and all his belongings had gone to Los Angeles with the rest of the band, leaving him without so much as a toothbrush.

Or a guitar. He missed his guitar.

It would have kept his mind, and his hands, occupied while he was waiting because that was all George could do. Wait.

Derek had left Della's bag on the floor beside the chaise lounge. George picked it up and held it on his lap. It was surprisingly heavy. There was something immoral about opening and looking through a girl's handbag, but maybe if he just took a peek inside, it'd give him a clue as to where she might have gone. He couldn't, for the life of him, think why Della would waltz off into the audience like that.

Hesitantly, George opened the bag and put his hand in, drawing out whatever he found and laying it on the seat next to him. A coin purse, tissues, pens, the postcards she'd written on the plame - one to Danny that George read and then dropped onto the floor by his feet. Then her passport, a comb, bits of makeup, various papers folded up, and the largest item in the bag - the book on Della's father. Jack Clarence: A Life in Theatre.

That's all there was. Nothing unusual. No indication as to what Della could have been up to when she went into the crowd at Empire Stadium.

George took the book out, weighing it in his hands. It had been secondhand when Della bought it, but it'd gotten a lot more tatty since she'd been reading and rereading it. Pages were creased, the spine was bent back and the dust jacket had little tears in places. There was a photograph of Jack on the cover, an old one from when he was younger - maybe a few years older than Della was now. George had never particularly noticed before, but she looked like him a little, around her mouth and nose. She had the same eyes. The same colour hair.

He thumbed through some of the pages. Couldn't have been anything to do with her father, could it? She was talking about him again on the plane but George struggled to remember exactly what she said. He realised, with a twist of guilt, that as Della had been going on about her errant father so much recently, George had started to tune it out when she brought him up.

He put the book on the floor and stood up to pace the room, wandering over to a square glass decanter sitting on a silver tray on a triangular corner table. He poured himself a generous measure of scotch from the decanter into a tumbler glass. The raw, fiery taste of the alcohol would wake him up, maybe it would help him think. He threw it back in one, grimacing, and then topped the glass up.

On the other side of the room was a TV. George turned it on, but most stations had closed down for the night, so he switched it off again in favour of the transistor radio on the sideboard. He twisted the large tuning dial, searching for news, listening out for his own short airport lounge interview, or maybe for reports about an unidentified dark haired girl.

He found neither, but there was lots of news about the concert.

'A night to remember - and forget - at Empire Stadium tonight, with riotous scenes at the Beatles concert...'

George switched channels.

'Beatles, Beatles, who's got the Beatles? All anyone was asking earlier was where the fab four Brits would be staying while in Vancouver. We can exclusively reveal the pop group have already left the city, breaking the hearts of their young fans...'

Not quite all of them. Click.

'Personally, I hate their music...'

Thanks. Click.

'Make sure you're dressed Beatles style with Eaton's Beatle Bar! We have Beatle wigs at the low, low price of $9.95. All kinds of casualwear - Beatles style...'

Click.

'The audience, mostly adolescents and pre-adolescents, were in a state of almost complete loss of emotional control. Many of them had yielded to a violent hysteria. The Beatles and their buildup acted as a trigger for an emotional explosion. These youngsters have powerful emotions and they are uncertain of everything.'

George found his glass was empty again. He fetched the decanter from the corner table and returned to the chaise lounge with it to listen to the two men discussing the scenes of "violent hysteria" at the concert with disgust and disdain. They mentioned several people had been hurt, some twisted ankles, a few broken bones and the mention of a girl with a "head trauma" that they never spoke about again.

'What girl?' George asked the radio. Could that have been Della? Did she have a head trauma?

Since the end of the concert, everytime George closed his eyes he saw the girl in the white and green striped dress. The one who had looked a bit like his old girlfriend, Marie, and ended up being trampled by her fellow concert goers. But now, as he settled back against the armrest of the chaise lounge, pulling his feet up and closing his eyes - just to rest for a moment - that striped dress had been replaced by a white one with big blue dots. The girl's blonde curled hair had changed into neatly cut, straight brunette hair, pinned up. And her face had become Della's, calling out to him, George! Please, George!

George snapped his eyes open. He must have drifted off for a moment, because the radio was playing some sort of music now. He picked up the decanter to top his glass up again but found there was only a drop left in it.

He shouldn't drink. It had failed to wake him up. If anything, it was making him more sleepy. And giving him nightmares.

George put the decanter and glass down and rolled onto his side, putting his head against the armrest, wishing for a cushion but too lazy to get up and find one. Too tired. And maybe a bit too pissed now as well. Shouldn't have drunk that stuff. What help was he to Della like this?

'–George?'

Derek, right in front of George's face suddenly. George sat up with a jerk and an involuntary snort, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand when he realised he might have been drooling.

'Any distinguishing marks, George?'

'What?'

'Della. I need to give a description to the police. I can't just say brown hair, brown eyes. That narrows it down to about half the population. Did she have any birthmarks? Anything like that?'

George shook his head, dazed. 'Why are you talking to the police? What's happened to her?'

'George,' Derek said, testily. 'Birthmarks. Come on, they're hanging on the phone.'

'No,' George said. 'No birthmarks. She hasn't got brown eyes. They're hazel. Like greeny. And dark... mahogany brown hair, but it's a bit red at the moment.'

Derek stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. 'Mahogany. Right. Thanks, I'll tell them that.'

'She wears a necklace,' George said. 'It's like the theatre masks thing. Comedy and tragedy.'

'Her necklace! Yes, that will do.'

Was she wearing that necklace today? George couldn't remember. He tried to think back to when they were on the plane. Was she wearing it then? Her dress had a high neckline, but she wasn't wearing that on the plane then, either. Why didn't he pay more attention?

'I don't know if she had it on,' George said, but Derek was gone. He looked round, but he was alone again. 'She had a white dress,' George told the empty room anyway. 'White with blue spots. And her hair was tied up. The back of the dress was a V. She looked nice in it. Pretty.'

She'd looked beautiful, actually. That's what he'd thought when he watched her go down the steps at the side of the stage and disappear. He'd pushed that thought from his mind at the time, not allowed himself to think it, because he tried not to think about Della like that nowadays. But that was wrong, wasn't it? Why shouldn't he think Della was beautiful? Why shouldn't he tell her that he thought so too? Why shouldn't he tell her all the things he thought about her?

He might not have the chance now.

She was out there, somewhere. A beautiful, young girl, lost and alone in a foreign country. God knows what could have happened to her. He should have been looking out for her. He should have been looking after her. He should have made sure she was alright, because he saw her disappear and then she didn't even enter his mind again until they were at the airport and it was already too late.

Anything could have happened to her, and if it had, George would never forgive himself.

The girl held Della's hands in both of hers with a surprisingly strong grip, pulling her closer to her through the gap in the front and back car seats, hampered by the chair in her way. 'This is very, very important,' she said, slowly.

Della nodded. 'Yes, I know. I will tell–'

'Tell Paul that Susan in Vancouver loves him,' she said, enunciating each word deliberately, like Della might have difficulty understanding her.

Della smiled tightly. 'Yes, I will. I promise. And I will send you all their autographs too.'

'You don't have to bother with that,' the driver of the car, a boy in his twenties said, and the girl - Susan - let go of Della temporarily so she could punch him in the arm.

'Shut the hell up, Chuck!'

'Ow!' he said, rubbing the fleshy part of his arm. 'That's the last time I take you to a concert!'

Chuck was Susan's older brother, Della had gathered. Susan and her friend, Annie, who sat meekly next to Della on the back seat of the car, were certified, card carrying "Beatlemaniacs". They couldn't have been very old - sixteen or seventeen, maybe. Chuck was supposed to chaperone them at the concert tonight, but not being a Beatle fan - and gosh, wasn't it nice to meet someone who wasn't a Beatle fan for once - he had dropped them off at the stadium and gone to meet his girlfriend instead. When he'd returned to pick them up, he'd had trouble getting through all the traffic headed in the opposite direction. It had made him late, and that was very fortunate for Della.

'I have both your addresses,' Della said, kindly. 'I promise I will get them both to write letters to you. Paul to you, Susan, and–' She turned to Annie. 'Ringo, for you?'

Annie nodded, smiling shyly.

'Listen, Della,' Susan said, grabbing her hands again, digging her nails into Della's palms. She was a little alarming. She spoke to Della like they were old friends, like she'd known her all her life, but it was even stranger the way she talked about Paul.

'I need you to tell Paul that I'm sorry, I don't know what went wrong. He was supposed to leave word for me so I could get backstage.'

'You tried to get backstage?' Chuck laughed. 'Are you crazy, Suzie? They're not going to just let you in!'

Susan shot him a dark look, but otherwise ignored him. 'Paul and I were supposed to meet tonight. It was all arranged. He should have been waiting for me.'

Like that. Like she knew Paul. Like he knew her. Della wasn't exactly the first person Paul would tell if he had a secret girlfriend in Canada, but she still thought she would have known about it before tonight. But the way Susan spoke, with such confidence and conviction in her words, Della nearly believed her.

'You've never even spoken to Paul McCartney,' Chuck said, earning himself another punch in the arm. Della took the opportunity to take her hands back and sit on them. 'You're delusional, Suzie!'

'Ignore him,' Susan told Della. 'Just pass the message onto Paul. He'll know who I am. We're... We're in love. We're just meant to be. I know we are. I feel it in my bones.'

Della had heard about girls like this before, but she'd never actually met one in the flesh. Larry Kane, one of the reporters on the tour, had christened them "The Beatles-Obsessed". More extreme than just the regular fans, the Beatles-Obsessed seemed to hold certain beliefs about the boys that were just... nuts. They were convinced that their Beatle of choice was in love with them, or that they would fall in love with them, if they could just get close enough to be seen. Others went as far as claiming they were already a girlfriend, or even the wife, of a Beatle. One or two had claimed they were pregnant by a Beatle, despite never even being in the same room as him. They were, quite clearly, a few grapes short of a bunch.

'I should go,' Della said, diplomatically. 'It's really late. I'm sure your parents will be wondering where you are too.'

'That doesn't matter,' Susan said. 'This is all that matters. Paul. The Beatles. Nothing else.'

'Yes, um... Well, thank you for the lift. I think you may have saved my life tonight.'

'You sure this is where you want me to drop you?' Chuck asked, leaning over the steering wheel to look at the illuminated building they were parked next to. 'I could take you to a police station, if you want?'

'No, here will be fine. Thank you, you're very kind–'

'Didn't you used to date Paul?' Annie piped up suddenly.

'Shut up, Annie!' Susan said. 'You're always saying stupid things!'

That was patently untrue because Anne hadn't said more than a handful of words throughout the whole journey. Della hadn't been able to assess Annie in the same way as Susan. She'd been very quiet, though she hadn't taken her eyes off Della for a minute. She'd been staring at her like she had two heads everytime Della had looked at her. But it'd been Annie who'd recognised Della from the roadside, from pictures in a magazine, she'd said, though Della didn't know when a photo of her could have been published in a Canadian magazine.

Della moved her eyes back to Susan. 'Oh,' she said, carefully. 'No, Paul and I are just friends. I've known Paul a long time, but, um... George is the one I'm closest to. We grew up together.'

'See, Annie? I told you!' Susan said, satisfied. 'Paul wouldn't want her.' She turned back to Della. 'No offense meant. I just know what Paul likes, that's all.'

'Umm, yeah.' Della leaned forward and put her hand on Chuck's shoulder. 'Thank you, honestly. I really appreciate it,' she said, quickly and jumped out of the car.

Della could have easily stayed and questioned Susan some more. She was fascinating, in a kind of morbid way. Asking Susan about her "relationship" with Paul was like when people slowed down to look at a car crash. You know you shouldn't, but it's hard not to.

It was still utterly bizarre that the Beatles had reached a stage where they had obsessive fans like Susan. When people talked about the Beatles - about Paul, John, George, Ringo - Della couldn't reconcile those people with the boys she knew. The Beatles were like an entity which was completely separate and different from them. Especially George. She couldn't think of George, the kid she'd known practically all her life, the boy she used to climb trees with, or run away down to the Oglet Shore with, as a world famous guitarist, heartthrob of teenagers everywhere. That just wasn't... Della's George.

She hadn't noticed how chilly it'd gotten until the car pulled away, leaving her alone on the pavement outside the hotel. It'd been so warm in America for the last week or so, she seemed to notice any drop in temperature all the more keenly.

The Hotel Georgia was the one the Beatles had been booked into before Brian decided they'd leave for Los Angeles tonight instead. The doorway was lit up, but most of the rooms upstairs were in darkness. It must be two o'clock in the morning now. It'd taken an hour for them to find it, after Chuck took a couple of wrong turns. It was a good thing Della hadn't had to walk the whole way because the journey into the city by car had been forty minutes.

This was all she could think to do. She'd spoken to the manager of this hotel on the phone a few times over the last couple of days, discussing whether the Beatles would stay there or not. She knew he called Mr Wilson, and currently he was the closest thing Della had to a friend in Canada. Chuck had kindly offered his parents house as a refuge, or to take Della to a police station, but she thought she'd try the mercy of the manager of the Hotel Georgia first. Going to the police was bound to attract attention and then Brian would be even more upset with Della.

Rehearsing an explanation for the hotel reception duty manager, Della went inside. She was exhausted, fractious and if she thought about what a mess she was in for too long, she would probably break down in tears, but despite all that, she hadn't thought she was quite at the hallucinating stage.

Bathed in a dreary halo of orange light from the lamp he was next to, someone who looked very much like Derek Taylor stood with his back to her. He leaned his elbows on the top of a high desk, ear attached to a phone receiver, jotting notes on a pad next to him. There was a man behind the reception desk with his feet up on it, arms folded over his chest. He didn't even look up when Della came in.

'Adela Milton, yes,' Derek said into the phone, sounding tired, over wrought. 'A... D... E... L... A. Dark brown hair, about five foot six or seven. She has a pendant that you may be able to identify her by... Well, she might be unconscious, I don't know–'

'Derek?'

He swung round so quickly he nearly pulled the phone off the desk with him. It made such a clatter that the guy behind the desk - who Della could now see was dozing in his chair - jerked awake and nearly fell over.

Derek widened his eyes at Della. 'Never mind,' he said into the phone. 'It doesn't matter. Forget about it. She's been found.' He hung up. 'Christ, Della! For God's sakes, where have you been?'

'I, um... Well, I kind of got stuck...'

'You didn't think to call someone? I've been ringing round everywhere!'

'This is the girl you've been looking for?' the man behind the desk asked.

'Yes. Thank you,' Derek said, stiffly. 'Thank you for the use of the phone.' Derek took Della by the elbow and led her towards the lifts at the end of the lobby. 'Good gracious, Della. I was calling hospitals then. I was starting to think something really had happened to you. Why didn't you contact someone?'

'I hadn't any money, and I didn't know any of the phone numbers. That's why I came here.'

Derek called the lift and Della followed him meekly up to a suite of rooms on sixth floor suite, filling him in on her adventure but playing it down, as it was only now, with relief flooding through her, that she realised how scared she had been.

'You didn't all wait, did you?' she asked, as they walked along the red runner carpet of a wide corridor.

Derek gave her a pointed look. 'No,' he said. 'They've all gone on to Los Angeles already. We have a plane tomorrow afternoon.'

'So it's only you here?'

'And George,' Derek said, a little gruffly, turning his head.

'George? George waited for me?'

'Waited for you? He would have had the Canadian Mounted Police out searching for you if he had his way. He wanted to comb the streets himself.'

'He shouldn't have stayed,' Della said, but she was unable to suppress a smile. 'He should have gone on with the others. How on Earth did he get Brian to agree?'

'He didn't agree, exactly. George didn't give him much choice. Della,' Derek took her arm, stopping her. He lowered his voice. 'What is it between you and...'

Della shook her head as if she didn't know what he meant.

'George,' he finished.

'Where is he?'

Derek jerked his head towards the heavy wooden double doors they'd arrived beside. 'You don't have to answer me,' he said. 'The only reason I ask is... I'd like to know if there is anything I need to prepare for.'

'What would you have to prepare for?'

Derek sniffed. 'Press. Media interest. The potential of a scandal breaking when they uncover certain... facts. George is rather publicly linked to another woman.'

'I thought he and Pattie were still towing the "we're just good friends" line?'

'Not so much in the teen magazines.'

'Oh.' She smiled. 'Well, you don't have to worry, Derek. There's not going to be any scandal.'

'It's nothing to do with me who you date or don't date, Della, but he's already informed the media you were missing and it was–'

'We're not dating,' Della said, laughing like the very idea would be absurd. 'Don't be silly.'

'He got very upset about it all.'

'Upset?'

'George got it into his head that you could have been hurt. He says he saw you go into the audience and... Well, it was rough out there tonight. He point blank refused to get on the plane to Los Angeles. Threatened to quit the group if they tried to make him. Brian is not pleased, to say the least.'

'Oh, the bloody fool.'

'When I wouldn't let him go out and search the streets for you, he took to drinking scotch, neat. He's probably passed out on the other side of this door. The way he was behaving, I thought it might be because...'

'What?'

Derek pressed his thin lips together and gave a small shake of his head. 'Never mind. It's none of my business. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked.'

'No. It's fine,' she said flippantly, but she had a funny, bubbly feeling in her stomach. 'It's... George and me are close. But we're like family. We're like brother and sister, I suppose. I guess that's why he was so worried.'

Derek tried not to react but his left eyebrow twitched, very slightly. She'd seen him do that when some oink asked a question he didn't like, or when he was asked to do things he was uncomfortable with.

'Believe me, Derek. That's all it is,' Della said, and squeezed his arm. She put her hand on the door handle. 'I'm not about to cause you any trouble. Any more trouble, at least. I'll deal with George. I'll wake him up and get him to bed. You shouldn't have let him have the booze. He'll be hungover and grumpy all tomorrow now.'

She was attempting to reassure Derek, but she knew she couldn't wipe the stupid grin off her face. She couldn't help it. The thought George did all that for Della made her heart jump. For the last few weeks, Della had tried hard to set aside her small crush on George. He'd been so smitten with Pattie, it felt like he didn't have time, or room in his life for Della anymore. It was touching to know he still cared about her.

Della opened the door and went inside the impressive hotel suite. There were four bedrooms and two bathrooms all linked by the large lounge in the middle, where George was currently sleeping on a chaise lounge. His head lolled over the top of a hard, steeply sloped armrest while his feet dangled off the opposite end of it. He slept with his body twisted, half lying on his side, not looking at all comfortable. Spread out around him and on the floor appeared to be all the contents of Della's handbag.

She went and crouched down in front of him, lightly touching his shoulder. 'George?' He didn't stir, so she patted his cheek. 'Georgie? Wake up, love.'

His eyelids flickered and then he opened his eyes, squinting in the light as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He pushed himself up, sucking in air like he'd been underwater.

'You soft lad,' she said, mock sternly. 'Why didn't you go with the others to Los Angeles? How are we going to get you there in time for the Hollywood Bowl tomorrow now, eh? Brian's going to–'

'Della, you're here,' George half-said and half-sighed. He put his hand against the side of her head, sliding his fingers into her hair and then, drawing her closer to him, he kissed her.

Just a quick kiss, but a kiss nonetheless, and not quite the sort you would give to someone you thought of as a sister. It was square on her mouth, his lips on hers, lasting maybe six or seven seconds before he broke away from her, his eyes closed.

'...to... to kill me when...' Della stuttered, attempting to finish what she was saying. She lost her train of thought.

'I'm sorry I don't pay attention to you,' George said, eyes still shut.

'What?'

He half opened his eyes and smiled at her, lazily. 'Are you alright? Where have you been? Are you hurt?'

'No, I'm... fine,' Della answered, aware of how Derek was staring at them from where he'd just closed the hotel suite doors. She straightened up. George was holding her hand. When did he take her hand? George looked at the floor. 'I think we should probably go to bed.' She tugged his arm and George allowed her to pull him up.

'Yes, good idea. Lets go to bed.'

'Which room is yours?'

'Ours,' George said, casually. 'Pick whichever you want. We'll sleep together tonight.' It was more of a statement than a question.

George looked round and noticed Derek watching them. 'Derek, Della's here!' he said, happily. 'She's alright. Isn't that fab? You are alright, aren't you?'

Della nodded.

A phone, sitting on the table beside the door, started to ring. Derek turned his head towards the sound and stared at it for a couple of seconds before he seemed to understand what it was. He picked up the receiver. 'Hello?... Oh, just a moment. I'll check.' He held the phone away from him, covering the mouth piece. 'It's, uh... It's Pattie,' he said. 'She wants to speak to you.'

For a moment Della thought he meant her, but it was George Derek was indicating to. Of course it was George. Why would Pattie want to speak to Della? She couldn't possibly know already that her boyfriend had just kissed her. He did do that, didn't he? George just kissed her. Casual as you like, as if he did it all the time.

'Shall I say you're asleep?'

'No, it's okay,' George said, letting go of Della's hand to amble, a little unsteadily, towards Derek and the phone. 'I couldn't get through earlier to tell Pattie we wouldn't be here,' he told Derek as he took the phone from him. 'We weren't going to be here, but now we are, aren't we?'

George turned his back to speak into the phone. Derek hesitated for a second then crossed towards one of the bedrooms, passing Della.

'I'll be in this room if you... uh, want, anything,' he said, stoically. 'We have a plane at half past one tomorrow. Make sure you're up early...' He paused to cast a glance at George, who was giggling into the phone now and rubbing his neck where he'd been sleeping on the chaise lounge armrest. 'Uh, I suppose I'll see you both in the morning then,' Derek said and after another pause, turned away.

Della knew she should say something, but what exactly, she hadn't a clue. For once, Della didn't have a single word.