Tuffnel Park was further north than Della had ever ventured in London. She had to use the A-Z map she bought when she first moved to London to pinpoint exactly where it was and then pour over the bus and train timetables to try and work out how to get there. It'd be an hour by tube. Longer by bus. It was a strange place for him to suggest to meet, although perhaps he worked or lived near there. Della didn't know. The only address she'd ever had to contact him was via his business manager's office in the West End.

She spent two hours picking out her clothes, trying on almost everything in her wardrobe from the more staid, formal wear she wore for work occasionally through to the latest thing she'd picked up on Oxford Street. Finally she settled on a black and white Prince of Wales check pinafore dress with bright red large buttons, worn over a black roll neck jumper and knitted burgundy tights. Sensible shoes, she didn't know how far she might have to walk. She did her makeup, then washed it off and did it again, and tried to tease her hair into a style which said smart and professional but also cute and modern. She'd had it cut a week earlier in preparation and it was a little on the short side.

At three o'clock she put her long, black winter coat on and put her satchel bag over her shoulder. It was a getting too warm for something as heavy as this coat, but it was the smartest one she had. Nervous butterflies fluttered in her stomach, like she was going to a job interview or on a first date. Maybe this lay somewhere in between the two.

Della stepped into the communal hall of the flats and locked the door behind her. As soon as she'd turned the key, the door to the neighbouring flat opened.

'Oh, hi, Della,' said her neighbour, with more than a little disappointment tainting his voice. 'Are you going out?'

'Yes, why?' she replied. 'Did you want something, Danny?'

Della's block of flats was tall but narrow. There were only two flats per floor, connected by the pale blue linoleum lined staircase. Della lived on the second floor, with Danny the student in the flat next door. Chelsea wasn't a typical place for a student to live. It was expensive, and although this converted Victorian house was tucked away on a narrow side street and the front was very close to the tall brick wall that ran the length of the private gardens opposite, Della wouldn't have been able to afford it without financial assistance from NEMS. Della assumed Danny's father must be a wealthy man, or else Danny had enough incriminating information on the building's landlord to get himself a rent reduction.

'No,' he said, leaning on his door jamb, arms folded, mouth in a sulky pout. 'I thought I heard someone coming up the steps and then your door opened. I thought it might be...'

'Who?' she asked, raising an eyebrow, slipping the door key into her coat pocket. 'I rarely have visitors.'

'Your boyfriend, perhaps.'

'I've told you, Danny, I don't have a boyfriend.' She paused, then added teasingly, 'Beatle or otherwise.' 

Danny tipped his head to one side. 'You do. I've seen him leaving here in the early hours of the morning.'

'Who have you seen leaving?'

'Paul McCartney.'

'You've not seen Paul McCartney leaving this flat in the early morning or any other time.'

'Say what you like, Della, but I saw his car parked outside a week ago. No one else round here would drive an E-Type.'

'Maybe James Bond's moved into the top floor flat.' She smiled and went towards the top of the stairs. 'I've got to go, Danny. See you later.'

'And you were in the paper with your boyfriend,' Danny said, behind her. 'Just yesterday.'

Della hesitated and turned back to him.

'You can't fool me, Della. I know you're probably not supposed to say, but when you're all over the papers that's kinda pointless, isn't it?'

'I'm all over the papers?'

Danny grinned, triumphant, and went back into his flat, returning a moment later with a copy of the Evening Standard. Even as he thumbed through the pages, Della knew what he was going to show her. ''Ere,' Danny said, folding back the paper and then in half again to hand it to her. He tapped the photo. 'That there, is you! Try and deny it.'

WHO IS BEATLE PAUL'S MYSTERY GIRL? said the headline, next to a short article and a black and white smudgy photo of Della, in her wrap around beach dress, leaning on Paul's shoulder with her hand on his bare chest. From the way Paul was sitting, you could miss the fact he was wearing swim shorts. That was probably one of the reasons this photo was doing the rounds again, two months after it was taken. They couldn't suppress it's publication in the US and now it had followed them across the Atlantic.

'This is an old photo,' Della told Danny. 'It's from months ago.'

'But it is you!'

She sighed and took the paper from Danny to closer examine the photo.

'I could call the paper and tell them I know who the girl is. She lives in the flat next door to me. They'd probably pay good money for that info!'

Della flicked her eyes up at him. 'You do that, Danny, and you can kiss goodbye to ever meeting any of the Beatles.'

His face lit up. 'So you do know them!'

She turned on her heel and skipped down the zig zag flights of stairs that led down to the front of the building street.

'I wouldn't really tell the papers!' Danny shouted down to her, coming to lean over the bannister. 'I was only joking!'

'Good!'

'Are you going to meet them now?'

'No!'

'You know, if you ever need anything you can just knock on my door. Like if you want to borrow a cup of sugar or need someone to feed your cat...'

'I don't have a cat!'

'Well, if you got one.'

'Okay, thanks, Danny!'

'You look very nice today!'

'Thank you!'

'Can I meet the Beatles?'

'No!'

'Aww, c'mon, Della! Please?'

She'd reached the bottom of the steps now. She paused to look up at him, peering down through the gap in the flights of stairs, his copycat Beatle hair hanging down around his face. 'See you later, Danny.'

'Hey, you took my newspaper! I haven't read all that yet–'

Della let the door to the street slam shut behind her. She folded the paper and shoved it into her satchel bag. It was better not to give it back to Danny. People tend to see pound signs whenever something involves the Beatles.

Even with the hour tube journey across London, Della arrived at her destination with time to spare. Station Cafe, not far from the tube but quite a distance from what she'd been expecting. It was a workman's cafe, painted green on the outside, peeling in places to reveal yellow underneath. The two large windows that looked out onto the street were fogged up with steam. Della went inside, bought a cup of tea and took a table beside one of them. She rubbed a circle into the condensation so she could see the busy, traffic heavy street outside and wondered if she'd got the right place.

It had dark green vinyl covered bench seating and mint green vinyl covered tables that had been wiped so much the wood underneath was showing through in places. The floor, a black and white checkerboard, looked like it could do with a mop, and the walls were an olive to match the outside. The walls held large framed pictures of movie stars - Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant and Laurence Olivier among them - giving Della an inkling that she was at the right location afterall. It wasn't bad, it just wasn't the sort of place she had imagined she'd finally meet him.

Della took Danny's paper out of her bag and laid it on the table to read while she waited. The article about Paul was short. It didn't say much apart from the photo had been taken in Miami in February. The journalist couldn't have looked into it very deeply. It wasn't a secret that Della worked for Brian Epstein, and a lot of the Evening Standard staff reporters knew her name even if they didn't know her personally. A quick phone call to the newly opened London office would have solved the mystery. Maybe that was the point though. These sort of articles just liked to whip up scandal and intrigue. She would mention it to Brian and see he wanted her to–

As she raised her head, he was standing there. Grey herringbone Chesterfield coat, brown felt trilby, eyes scanning the room, even though there were only a handful of people in the cafe. If he was gripping his battered old brown suitcase, it would feel like barely five minutes had passed since he walked out of their home in Liverpool. Eventually his eyes settled on Della and he smiled, so warmly that her nerves evaporated instantly.

He strode towards her, removing leather driving gloves as he went. She was struck by how tall he was, with strong, broad shoulders and chiseled features. He still had a bit of the army officer about him. It was in his looks, his demeanor and how he moved; confident and forthright. He dropped his gloves onto the tabletop and removed his hat to reveal dark brown hair, cut neatly in a short back and sides.

'Adela,' he said, voice deep and bizarrely familiar as he smiled down at her. He'd aged, a few creases around his eyes and mouth, but not so noticeably given that it was fifteen years since she'd seen him in the flesh. Della's father was still a handsome man.

Della stood, a lump in her throat, unsure what to address him as. Jack? Mr Clarence? Daddy?

'My God, look at you. You're all grown up,' he said and opened his arms to her, inviting her to embrace him, but as she stepped forward he caught hold of her hands in his, holding them together in front of him as he touched his cheek to hers in an air kiss. 'You must be twenty years old now.'

'Twenty-one,' she corrected, her voice coming out as a squeek.

'Twenty-one,' he repeated with wonderment and squeezed her hands. 'I can't believe I have a twenty-one year old daughter. My darling, you're beautiful!'

Della smiled and bit the side of her cheek so hard she thought she might draw blood. Fucking hell, don't cry, she told herself, blinking to get rid of any tears that might have formed in her eyes.

He released her and gestured to the seat. 'Shall we sit down? Do you want a drink? Something to eat?'

'Um, I'm fine. I've only just got a cup of tea. I haven't been here long.'

'Sit there then, darling and don't move! I shan't be a moment.' He unbuttoned his coat, folded it in half and put it on the seat. He straightened his grey salt and pepper blazer, gave her a dazzling smile and strode over to the counter.

Della sat down again, folded up her newspaper and shoved it back into her bag. She felt slightly dazed. She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting but this was good, wasn't it? He seemed warm and enthusiastic and genuinely pleased to see her. She kicked herself for not doing this ages ago.

A few minutes later Jack returned with a tea tray laden with a teapot, cups, saucers and little plates with iced Chelsea buns. 'I brought some more tea anyway,' Jack said, unloading the tray. 'And these buns were always your favourite when you were a little girl. Are they still now?'

'Yes,' Della smiled. 'Yes, I still like them. Thank you.'

Jack picked up his hat and gloves and dropped them on top of his coat before he sat down opposite her. 'I used to take you to a little cafe on Williamson Square in Liverpool every Saturday morning to have tea and Chelsea buns. Well, I had tea and you had milk or orange squash. Do you remember?'

Della nodded, although the memory was foggy. No wonder. Her mother had spent nearly fifteen years eradicating Jack from Della's mind. No one would never mention his name - except occasionally when Evelyn got drunk and maudlin. Any trace of him had been removed from the house, and Della been afraid to ask about him when she was a child. She must have forgotten so much about her father.

'My darling, it's striking,' Jack said. He reached across the table, put two fingers under her chin and lifted her head so he could study her. 'You look exactly like my mother did when she was young.'

'Do I?'

'You're the absolute image. I have a photograph of her around your age in my office and if we changed your clothing and hairstyle, then it is you, Adela!' He took his hand back. 'Adela Clarence. You were named after your grandmother.'

'Yes, I know.'

'We chose your name to honour her. A gesture, as she hadn't wanted me to marry Evelyn in the first place. Can't say it worked all that well.' He laughed, loudly and heartily. Della couldn't help but smile too. 'My mother was always as stubborn as a donkey.'

'Is she... still living?'

'Oh, yes,' he nodded. 'She's a tough old bird. I imagine she'll outlive the lot of us. She's retired now, of course. She lives in Hove, near to Brighton. She's been there since my father passed away.'

'Oh, I'm sorry. I hadn't heard.'

Jack shook his head. 'It's a long time since now. Eleven years.'

Della nodded and sipped her tea. In the space of a few seconds she'd gained a father and a grandmother and lost her grandfather. It was enough to make her dizzy.

'What is she like?'

'My mother?' Jack sat up, brightening. 'Your grandmother, of course. Well, she's still as stubborn as ever. A bit short tempered and cantankerous in her old age, although I think she was short tempered and cantankerous in her younger age too. She was always one to speak her mind, regardless. She has four, very fat tabby cats. I think she prefers the company of them to people. She's always asking us to bring the children to visit and then when we do, she can't wait for us to leave again.'

'Oh,' Della said, feeling the world spinning around her even faster. 'You have more children?'

'Yes, two. A girl and a boy.'

A brother and a sister.

'Janet is fifteen and Timothy just turned twelve two weeks ago. I should have a photo...'

He put his hand inside his blazer pocket and took out a fat wallet, then laid a small, slightly creased photo in front of Della. In sepia brown and orange tones were a young family, standing somewhere grassy, behind them was rolling hills of countryside. The girl was dark haired, like Della, and tall and skinny. The boy was dumpier, with a chubby, round face and fair hair, like his mother who stood behind the children, next to Della's father. Jack's second wife. The one he left Della's mother for. Something suddenly fell into place. Something that Evelyn, in all the years of drunken rants about Della's father, had never mentioned to her.

If Janet, Della's half-sister, was fifteen now, then Jack's second wife was already pregnant when he walked out on Evelyn and Della. The new information left her a little breathless.

'It's a very nice picture,' she managed to say, passing it back to Jack.

'Its a few years old now,' he said, tucking it back into his wallet. 'I think we were in Wales there, one summer. So, tell me about yourself, Adela. Sorry, you prefer "Della" now, don't you? It confused me when you sent your first letter. You signed your name Della Milton.'

'Well, Della is just short for Adela, really, and my mother changed my name to Milton after you, um... After you had gone.'

Maybe Della could call herself Clarence again now? Now she'd reconnected with her father. Legally, her name was Clarence. It said it on her rent book for the flat, it said it on her payslips from NEMS, but Adela Clarence had always felt like a stranger before. Now that she had found her family again, she could start to be Adela Clarence again too.

'Yes, that sounds like something Evie would do,' Jack said, with a sigh. He pushed his wallet into his inside jacket pocket and kept his hand in there, feeling for something. 'How is she?' he asked, taking his hand out again, empty. 'Evelyn.'

Della sat up straighter. 'She's well,' she said, choosing her words carefully. 'She... still lives on Upton Green in Speke.'

'Does she still work as a nurse?'

'No. She changed to being a locum a few years ago and she works in a nursing home now.'

'Did she marry again?' he asked, blasé, like it didn't mean anything him.

'No, she never remarried.'

That made him smile, nonetheless, and he turned his head to look out of the window. 'Evie was a stunningly beautiful woman,' he said, with a pensive tone, surprising Della. 'She was only seventeen when we met. She was a bridesmaid at the wedding of an army pal of mine. Everyone was getting hitched then. It was wartime. You didn't know if you were coming back so you'd better do it now. We were due to leave for North Africa two days later. I was in the British Eighth Army, under the command of good old Monty.' He looked back at her. 'Did you know that?'

Della shook her head. She wasn't sure which part he was asking about, but all of it was news to Della. Evelyn had never told her how she'd met Della's father. She'd never told her anything except what a bastard he was, and that was plainly a lie.

'I had two wonderful days with her and then I had to leave her for that dusty hellhole. All I could think about was Evie. I swear I only survived the second battle of El Alamein because I knew I had to get home and marry her. I'd already proposed to her. Less than forty-eight hours after we'd met.'

'That's... so romantic,' Della said, enthralled, her mouth full of Chelsea bun.

He laughed. 'Not really. It was a terrible scandal. I was twenty-seven and Evie was an underage girl from working class Liverpool. My father didn't speak to me for three years and my mother would only refer to her as "the tart".'  He grimaced. 'Sorry, my darling. It was a long time ago now.'

'Yes, I understand. It's okay.'

He nodded, lips pressed together. 'Well, give Evie my regards when you see her next, won't you?'

'I will,' Della said, but she would do no such thing. She couldn't ever mention this meeting to her mother. It would be the worst betrayal in Evelyn's eyes, the final nail in the coffin of Della's relationship with her mother. But it left her confused. Jack was charming and warm and kind. He didn't seem to bear Evelyn any ill will, whereas all her mother had for him was hatred and contempt. Evelyn had always told Della that Jack was solely to blame for the breakdown of their marriage and the breakup of their family, but now she had to reconsider. She couldn't believe this man, who spoke so fondly of meeting and falling in love with her mother, could have done half of the things Evelyn accused him of.

'What does Evie think to you living in London?' Jack asked. 'She used to hate it whenever I had to go to London for work.'

'Um, she's happy for me. She's not been to visit me yet, but I go up to Liverpool every now and then.'

A lie. A complete, barefaced lie, but Della couldn't bring herself to tell Jack about how she'd fallen out with her mother - or why. Maybe she would later, when they'd met a few times more, but not now. She couldn't say it now.

'Liverpool is a long way from London.'

'Four hours on the train.'

'I mean, it's a long way from home for a young girl. What brought you to London?'

'Oh. Well... my job is here. We've just opened an office in London, but before that it was all Liverpool based and Bri– my boss needed someone who was living in London and... I travel a lot, actually. We've just came back from New York a few weeks ago.'

'Really?' Jack said. 'I thought you said you worked for an entertainments manager?'

'Um, yeah, I do. He has... Some of his artists are trying to break into America.'

Jack raised his eyebrows. 'Impressive. No mean feat I would wager.'

'Yes, it's quite... difficult.'

'Had much success?'

'A little.'

'I was going to ask you the name of the manager you worked for. I thought I might know him or perhaps I've come across him. The theatre world can be quite small sometimes. Who does he manage?'

'Umm...'

Della looked around the cafe. At a table behind Jack were two schoolgirls, reading a magazine together. They lifted it up and on the cover was a close up photo of Paul. BEATLES! SECRETS OF THEIR FILM! said the strap line. Outside the cafe window, a red double decker bus pulled up. On its side was a slightly ripped, four foot picture of Cilla Black. ANYONE WHO HAD A HEART, said the yellow writing. OUT NOW ON PARLOPHONE. The waitress behind the counter switched the coffee machine off and in the vacuum of silence left in its wake, the radio sang out, I'll give you all I've got to give if you'll say you'll love me too...

'I don't think you would have heard of any of them,' Della said.

'What's his name?'

'He doesn't really deal with theatre. He's more... popular entertainment.'

'Oh,' Jack said, flatly. 'I see.'

She didn't know why, but something in the back of Della's mind told her not to reveal who her employer was. Or who the artists he managed were. Maybe it was just habit. They routinely denied everything. It was a knee jerk reaction now. Deny now and find out what someone was actually asking later.

'But theatre is my first love too,' Della added. 'I'd love the work in the theatre one day.'

Jack sat up, suddenly stiff. 'Well, it's not easy. It takes years of hard work. It took me fifteen years to be an overnight success. Of course, the war got in the way of my career somewhat.'

He had his head turned away as he spoke and Della suddenly realised he suspected she was trying to get a toe in the door via her famous father. And here she was, sheltering Brian Epstein and the Beatles from him. It would have made her laugh if it didn't also make her panic that she was about to lose her father again, thirty minutes after finding him.

'No, uh, I mean, one day. One day I would like to work in theatre. I'm quite enjoying the work I do now, for the time being.'

Jack turned back to her. 'Do you act?' he asked, still hostile.

'No, backstage. I could only do the backstage. I couldn't be an actress.'

He gave a short nod. 'Like me. I acted a little when I was younger, but my forte is definitely behind the scenes, shall we say.'

Out of habit, Della put her hand to her neck, feeling for her pendant. The Comedy-Tragedy one George gave her. She still wore most days but she'd taken it off earlier to put her jumper over her head and forgotten to put it back on.

'Your grandmother was an actress, you know. My girl wants to be an actress too. It's all she talks about, although she's more besotted with film stars than walking the boards. She keeps asking my mother for advice, but I don't think Granny is much help to her.'

'That's Janet?' Della asked, the name sounding foreign on her lips. Janet. Della's half-sister.

'Janet, yes. She's just getting to that age. She's discovered boys exist and they're all she talks about. Pop stars and movie stars. She has an awful boyfriend who looks like a member of that band that you can't avoid these days. The Beatles. I think she's too young for boys, but her mother insists it's innocent.'

'Does she like the Beatles?' Della said, coughing a bit, feeling guilty. They'd finished the Chelsea buns. She piled the empty plates up as an excuse not to look Jack in the eye.

Jack nodded. 'How about you?'

'They're... They're okay, I suppose...'

Not confessing her link the Beatles could be awkward to explain later. But Jack was used to dealing with famous people. He had some very famous actors in his plays. He'd understand.

'No,' Jack said, with a smile. 'Do you have a boyfriend?'

'Oh, I see,' Della laughed and added, hesitantly, 'Um, kind of...'

Jack put his head on one side. 'You either do or you don't, my darling.'

'There is someone. We've been friends for a long time, but it's only recently that it's been... Well, it's nothing serious...'

Jack ran his hand over his jaw, as if he was feeling for stubble there, but there was none. He was impeccably cleanly shaven. 'It's that boy, isn't it?' he said, brow furrowed in an effort to remember. 'There was a little boy who lived across the way, same age as you. I can't recall his name.'

Della felt a constriction in her throat. 'It was George.'

'George,' Jack repeated. 'Yes. Is it him?'

Della nodded, unable to hide her smile.

Jack laughed. 'Well, that's lovely. How sweet. Evie was always convinced the pair of you would grow up and get married. What does he do now? Does he live in London with you?'

'He lives in London, but we don't live together. He's a... musician.'

Jack rolled his eyes. 'What young man under the age of thirty isn't? What does he play?'

'Guitar.'

'Good luck to him then.' Jack swallowed the last of his tea. 'Does he manage to make a living at it?'

'Umm, yes. He's very talented. He's always... busy.'

Jack let his empty cup drop onto the table with a clatter and considered her for a moment. 'Adela, it's all very well following your dreams when you're young, but should there come a day where you're thinking of marriage and a family, ensure you're with a man who can provide for you adequately. Listen to your head rather than your heart. That was the mistake I made. Love and romance doesn't put a roof over your head or food in your stomach.'

Della smiled. Fatherly advice. This was wonderful.

'George works hard,' she said, modestly. 'He makes money, and I'm working too.'

Jack paused, then he returned her smile. 'It seems you're a well turned out young lady, my darling. You're a credit to your mother.'

'Thank you.'

He straightened his back and checked his watch. 'I'm so sorry, I'm going to have to run. I have to get to the theatre.'

'Oh, alright then,' Della said, disappointed. The time had flown.

Jack stood to put his coat on.

'Maybe we could do this again?' Della asked, watching him. 'Next week or...'

Jack reached for his hat and gloves. 'Uhh,' he said and scratched his forehead. 'You're a smart girl, Adela, so I will be straight with you. Helena doesn't know I'm here. She wouldn't be very pleased if she knew I was here, with you, so I don't think it will be possible for us to meet again.'

'Who's Helena?'

'My wife.'

'Oh. She... So, she doesn't...'

'She would be upset. Very upset.'

'But I...'

'As such, I can't see you again and it's probably best if you stop sending me letters. You have to understand, my family must come first.'

Something from the pit of her stomach shot up into her chest, hot and burning like acid. 'Then why did you come here?' she snapped, before she had time to censor herself. 'Why did you come if your wife would disapprove? Why does she even have a say? It's nothing to do with her.'

Jack blinked at her in utter surprise, like no one had ever said an angry word to him before.

'I am your family too. I was your family first. I am your daughter.'

He looked abashed. 'Yes, of course you are. I don't deny that, Adela, but I'm sorry. I can't have you in my life.'

'Then why... why did you agree to meet me, Dad? Why did you even reply to my letter in the first place?'

Jack sat down in his coat. He put his hand on Della's arm. 'Don't be hurt, my darling. I wanted to come and see you today. I have often thought of you over the years. I have wondered about you and how you were.' He shook his head and exhaled. 'Whatever you may think, I didn't forget about you. I sent money to your mother until you came of age.'

Della pressed her lips together and gave him a short nod. 'Until I came of age.'

'I, uh...' He reached inside his coat and blazer, into the inside pocket. 'I also wanted to give you this.'

He took out a fat, white envelope, the seal sellotaped shut. He placed it on the table top and slid it over to her. Della looked at it but didn't touch it. Jack put his gloves on, then got up to fasten the buttons on his coat. He stood there for a moment, maybe waiting for Della to look up at him, but she wouldn't. She kept her eyes on the envelope in front of her.

'It wasn't easy, Adela,' he said, eventually. Still she wouldn't look him in the face. 'Leaving Evie and you is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.'

He stepped forward, hesitated, then put his hand on Della's shoulder, a quick squeeze and then he was gone, walking away from her, towards the door. Only then did Della look up at him. He put his hat on as he reached the door, covering his dark mahogany hair, the same shade as Della's. He put his hand on the door and then, without a single glance back, he was gone, out of Della's life once again.

She exhaled, only now realising she'd been holding her breath and lowered her eyes to the envelope on the table.

'Do you want anything else, love?' A waitresses appeared to clear the table, piling the empty cups and saucers onto a wooden tray.

'No, thank you. I'm going in a moment. Could I have the bill please?'

'No need, love. Your father paid for everything. He was your father, wasn't he?'

'Yes.' Della nodded. 'He was.'

The woman gave her a kind smile and left, teacups rattling as she walked.

Della picked up the envelope and before she gave herself time to think about it, she ripped it open. Inside was a single piece of lined paper, folded in half, and a thick wedge of banknotes, held together with an elastic band. Without taking them out, Della thumbed through the money. There must be at least five hundred pounds.

Extracting the notepaper, Della shoved it, crumpled up, into her pocket and left the envelope with the money on the cafe table.

She had no idea of the time as she crossed London, though it had grown dark. Her mind was a blur of thoughts as she caught the bus back to the inner city and then the tube to Covent Garden. It was only as she emerged from the tiled square block of the station that the clock over the market caught her eye and she realised she was already ten minutes late.

She dashed down Long Acre towards Leicester Square, having to hop off the curb more than a couple of times to dodge around people, still distracted by the confusion Jack Clarence had wrought on her. Why did he come - why did he respond to her letters at all if he didn't want to know her? He'd seemed so friendly and happy to see her at first, only to dismiss her with a few words and an envelope stuffed with banknotes. The money was an insult. Is that why he thought she'd sought him out? Because she wanted money from him?

Maybe she had known all along what he would do. Hadn't her mother always told her? It's why it'd taken Della more than two years to muster the courage to contact him. In her heart of hearts, she had expected the meeting with her father to be traumatic. It's why she'd arranged it prior to her date with George.

Since they'd returned from America this had become a regular occurrence. Every Thursday evening, they met up, always in different places to avoid the fans anticipating their behaviour and providing George didn't have a recording session or he wasn't busy filming for the upcoming Beatles movie. The film was about half way through now, but things would be easier for a few weeks more, before touring started up again.

They went to restaurants and clubs, or Della would go to Whaddon House and cook dinner for George - and sometimes Ringo - or else he'd come to her's instead. It was George's car, not Paul's, that Danny had seen parked outside Della's flat. Her embarrassingly modest flat, in comparison to the luxurious trappings of George's new Knightsbridge apartment.

Were they dating? It felt like they were on a date sometimes. Neither had voiced it, but Della had started referring to it as a "date" in her mind. They always had a good time. It was fun being with George. They laughed and talked. He'd ask her opinion and advice on this or that. They'd listen to music or watch a band or go dancing. Occasionally they'd go for a walk, hand in hand, if they could find somewhere quiet and there were no fans hanging around.

But he hadn't tried to kiss her.

Admittedly, she hadn't tried to kiss him either, but she'd given him plenty of opportunity to make a move. She would pause as they said goodnight, leaning in a little too close to him. She'd gaze at him over their two person table in the romantic lighting of a restaurant. She would snuggle up to him on the sofa when they watched the telly and he'd stroke her hair.

But that was it. It never went any further.

Della thought she understood why. It was the whole Paul thing. After the stuff she'd said to George when her and Paul's relationship fell apart, of course George would be cautious. He'd be afraid of how she'd react if he did try something. Never mind flirting and touching his hand and unending pauses with her head tipped towards him in the hope his lips might meet hers. Della would have to be straight with him. She had to tell him what she wanted in no uncertain terms. There was no point in being coy.

She reached Leicester Square and headed for one of the darker side streets, leading away from the bright lights and bustle of the square. On the next street over was the Ad Lib club, an exclusive soul club situated over a theatre. It was one of the latest in places. They'd probably end up there after dinner.

Anyone else would miss George but Della spotted him right away, waiting in between the darkened arches of a building, the collar of his jacket pulled up to obscure his face. She started to jog towards him, but it became a run. George flicked a cigarette away and stepped out of the shadows to meet her, but Della ran towards him at full pelt. George caught her as she crashed into him, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder as she nearly knocked him off his feet. He grabbed her and held her tightly to prevent himself falling over backwards, laughing as they swayed and stumbled. Della didn't laugh. Della made a strangled sort of sob as she tried to bite back an unexpected wave of tears.

'Hey, what's the matter?' he asked, trying to hold her back from him, his hands on her hips. 

'Oh, George, it was terrible! A nightmare. It couldn't have been any worse,' she gushed, drawing her head back but keeping her hands on the biceps of his arms. 'Thank God you're here. I'm so glad we were meeting tonight.'

George prised her off him gently, folding her both her hand in his. 'Del, your hands are freezing. Come inside. They're just getting a table already.' He led her towards a brightly lit restaurant, next door to the building with the archways, as Della tried to stop her emotions bubbling over. He dropped her hand so he could open the door, holding it for her to step inside.

'It was so bad. Gosh, I wish I'd never done it now,' Della said, as they moved into the reception and bar area of the restaurant. There were two other sets of couples sitting at the bar, waiting for tables.

'You look nice,' George said, looking her up and down as Della removed her coat and straightened her dress. Della managed a small smile in return. George looked like he'd come straight from filming in his dark grey suit, black roll neck and obligatory suede Chelsea boots on his feet.

'Do you want a drink?'

'Yes. A large one,' she said, folding her coat over a nearby barstool. 'Whisky and coke. In fact, no coke, just ice. I need a stiff drink, it was that dreadful.'

George raised his hand for the barman's attention, ordered the drink, then turned around to lean his back on the bar, elbows on the bartop. 'What was? The tube?' he asked. 'Weren't on strike, were they? They said something about strikes on the news.'

She frowned. 'No, the... meeting. This afternoon. I went to see– I don't even know what to call him now. Jack, I suppose.'

George's face fell. 'Ah, fuck, Della.' He stood up straight. 'Sorry, love. I completely forgot you were meeting him today.'

'It was bloody ludicrous, George. All this time, ever since I moved to London, I've been trying to pluck up courage to actually contact him and...' Her voice trailed away as she registered the grimace on his face. Something more there than just sympathy. 'What?' she asked.

'I'm sorry. I didn't know it was today. I wouldn't have brought–'

A tall blonde girl arrived beside them. Rudely, she moved in between Della and George, forcing Della to take a small step backwards. Instead of shrinking away from her like he usually did if he was unexpectedly accosted by a fan, George's arm went around her very tiny waist and he hugged her to him.

'Della, I'd like you to meet Pattie Boyd,' he said, his eyes dancing. 'Pattie, this is Della.'

Della blinked, confused, as the girl smiled sweetly at her. 'George has told me so much about you,' she said.

'Has he?' I can't remember him ever mentioning you...

'I'm sorry,' George said, again, but the dopey grin on his face didn't look very sorry. 'I wouldn't have done this tonight if I'd thought.'

'Done what?' Pattie asked, brightly.

'Della went to meet her father today. She hadn't seen him in years, not since he and her mother split up.'

'George!' Della said, appalled.

'It's not a secret, is it?'

Pattie gave her a sympathetic smile. 'My parents separated when I was younger too. I know just how you feel.'

'I don't think you do,' Della replied, frostily as the barman brought her drink.

'Del...' George said, questioningly.

'Excuse me, sir. Your table is ready,' a rather pompous looking, tuxedo clad waiter interrupted, red leather bound menus in his hand. 'If you would like to follow me.'

Without waiting for a response, he strode off into the main dining room. George dropped his arm from around Pattie's waist and took her hand instead and Della was struck by the urge to run for the door. Instead, she took the whisky from the bartop and threw it down her throat in two gulps. It made her wince.

'I'm sorry,' she said, dropping the glass back on the bar. She scooped her coat up and stepped away from them. 'I didn't mean to crash your evening. You two have a lovely meal. I'll... Um, I'll see you next week, George, or... at the end of the month for the NME thing, if... if not before. Nice to meet you, uh... Pattie, was it?'

'Della, no, wait–' George stepped in front of her, blocking her exit. He dropped Pattie's hand. 'Love, you go through. We'll be there in a moment.'

Pattie hesitated, glancing suspiciously at Della, then gave George a warm smile. 'Don't be long, dear.'

Pattie walked away, following the waiter who'd returned to retrieve them. George followed her with his eyes, or specifically he followed her legs and arse in the tight pink pencil dress she was wearing. Della turned her head away and would have left through the opposite door if George wasn't gripping her arm at the elbow. When Pattie was out of view, George turned back to her with a questioning frown on his face.

'You shouldn't leave her on her own too long,' Della said. 'She's very pretty. The waiters will be drooling all over her.'

It was just a mean thing to say, but George took a worried glance in the direction she'd left anyway.

'Del, are you alright, love?' he asked, gently. 'Why are you upset? What did your dad say?'

Della rolled her eyes. You could always count on George. She wanted to pick a fight with him but no. George just has to be concerned about her instead.

'Come and sit down and tell me about it.'

'No. No, I don't want to be a third wheel. You go back to your date.'

'It's not a date,' he said, and Della looked at him. 'I'm sorry, it's shitty timing but I brought her to meet you. I wanted you to meet her.'

'Why?' she asked, in a small voice.

George laughed quietly. 'Why do you think? Come on,' he said, tugging her towards the dining room. 'We'll have a nice evening and it'll take your mind off things. I think you'll really like Pattie.'

What kind of girl, then? Blonde hair, blue eyes, big tits?

She might not have quite the "big tits" the fifteen year old George Harrison had dreamt of, but she wasn't bad. Certainly not flat chested. And long blonde hair, check, dazzling blue eyes, check. Add to that charming, skinny, beautiful, educated, worldly... Oh, God. No wonder George gazed at her so dewy eyed like he did, hanging on her every word, caressing her knee and thigh and higher up, under the table, where he thinks Della can't see.

'Want another drink?' George asked.

It took half a minute for Della to realise he was talking to her, seeming as he was unable to tear his eyes from Pattie for more than two seconds. He did, for long enough to pour more wine, the last of the bottle.

Their table had two long benches either side, big enough to seat six, though you wouldn't know that by the way George and Pattie sat squashed together opposite Della and Mal. Between the four of them, they'd finished three bottles of wine - although Della hadn't seen Pattie drink very much of it. The more booze that was swallowed, the more flirtatious Pattie and George were, and the more surly Della became.

George has mentioned her, Della realised with a sinking heart. More than once. Quite a lot, if she thought about it. Della hadn't taken any notice. George talked about a lot of different people. He'd mentioned the girls - the models - who had walk-on parts in the Beatles film. Della hadn't been to the filming.  

Maybe she'd chosen to ignore it. Ostrich syndrome.

Mal escaped before dessert, under the guise of a taking a phone call, then he'd stood chatting to the maitre d' for the last half an hour. The restaurant was almost empty now. They were the last table. Mal was smart. Della should have thought of an excuse to leave the table too. She'd already been to the toilet so many times, people will start to think there's something wrong with her. Instead she was stuck here, watching these two clowns trying to feed each other.

Pattie fed George a profiterole on a fork, giggling as they made a mess of it. She lost the choux pastry off her fork and picked it up with her fingers to pop it into his mouth, tracing her index finger over his bottom lip, George 'mmm'-ing as he licked the cream off her hand. He glanced round, noticed Della watching and smiled bashfully, embarrassed.

'Hey, maybe next week you could find someone to fix Della up with?' he said to Pattie.

'Hmm?' Pattie said, as if she'd forgotten who Della was.

'A double date,' George said. 'You must know someone? That'd be fun, wouldn't it, Del?'

'Sure.' As much fun as pulling my teeth out with a pair of pliers.

'I'll have a think,' Pattie said, not taking her eyes from George. She was practically sitting in his lap now. 'I know one or two single men who might be interested.'

Think all you like, I won't be here next week.

'We could do something special,' George said, a dog with a bone once he got an idea into his head. 'Go somewhere, perhaps? We could go to Brighton for the day, or to–'

'Aren't you in filming next week? You have to go to Isleworth on Thursday.'

'Oh yeah, I do,' George said, regretfully. 'Well, maybe the week after then, or on a Satur–' He was cut off as Pattie fed him another profiterole, chased by a quick kiss on his lips. A kiss that turned into something much more lewd and impolite.

Yes, love, I get the message, Della thought. He's your man. You don't have to keep marking your territory. She was going to stand up and pee on him next.

'Del, you've been on your own for too long,' George told her, after he'd finished seeing how far he could get his tongue down Pattie's throat. 'You deserve a nice fella. Someone better than your last one, eh?'

Della forced a smile.

'Della used to go out with Paul,' he told Pattie.

'Paul?'

'Yeah, our Paul. For a couple of years, before we made it big. Didn't you, Del?'

'For my sins.'

'Paul McCartney?' Pattie asked Della, as if this was hard to believe.

Della nodded. 'We split up last year.'

'Oh. Gracious, I had no idea Paul had a steady girlfriend before Jane.'

'I wouldn't say we were exactly steady,' Della said, but Pattie and George were distracted, pawing at each other again.

Della dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter, but they didn't even react, lips attached to each others like they were somehow magnetised. If nothing else, it was bloody rude when they had company with them. There had been times when she was still dating Paul that the three of them had gone out - Paul, Della and George - and not once did Paul and Della grope and snog each other all night to the exclusion and embarrassment of the third person.

The waiter came over and gestured to ask if they'd finished. Della nodded and he cleared the plates, apparently without George noticing as he looked round for his a moment later.

'You look nice in this, love,' George said, his fingers playing with the daisy lace trimmed shoulder strap of Pattie's dress. 'Pink must be your colour.'

Pattie giggled. 'You said blue was my colour last week.'

'Oh, well, you can wear any colour you want. You're a rainbow.'

'You're a rainbow too,' she said, pushing herself against him, hands slipping under his blazer lapels to caress his chest.

'You're a rainbow,' George echoed, leaning in to kiss her.

You're a rain––? What was this drivel he was coming out with? Was Pattie slipping something in his drink to make him dumber and dumber by the moment? What an idiot he sounds - and looks - leering at her with that daft, dreamy expression on his–

Oh God, he's in love.

Why hadn't she thought it before? George was head over heels in love with this girl. Completely gaga. Della had never seen him like this over anyone. Suddenly she felt sick. Suddenly she had to leave.

'I think they want to close up,' Della said, grabbing her bag from next to her on the bench. 'We should go. Let's go.'

She got up and marched for the door without waiting for a reply. Behind her, George shouted her back. 'Della? Del, hold on! We can't just go! We haven't paid the bill yet!'

They caught up with Della in the bar area. The waiter had stolen her coat when she sat down earlier and he had to go into a back room to fetch it. Della couldn't escape quickly enough. She would have thought about leaving it behind if it didn't have her house keys in the pocket.

'We could go to the Ad Lib,' George said, brightly, as he helped Pattie with her coat; a thick, wooly thing with shaggy fur trimmed collar and cuffs. Just like it's owner, Della thought, unkindly. 'It's only a stone's throw from here.'

Della buttoned her own coat slowly but still managed to finish a lot sooner than George, dancing around Pattie, trying to help her with her two button fastening. This was a bad day. A really bad day. There was no point in extending it any longer. She wasn't that much of a masochist.

'You two go on. I think I'm going to get a taxi.'

George's face crumpled in disappointment, a lot more crestfallen than Della would have supposed he'd be. She'd assumed he hadn't really wanted to come here tonight. Clearly, he would have preferred it if it was just the two of them, and if Della didn't go to the club they could skip it all together and go straight to bed. They'd been practically shagging each other all night in front of her anyway.

'Aw, no, come on, Del,' he said, crossing to her. 'You've got to come.'

Della thought she saw a flash of pique in Pattie's face as he abandoned her for Della. She moved her eyes to George and shook her head.

'Come 'ed, Queen, come wiv uz,' he said, exaggerating his Scouse accent. 'The night is young and it's not often I can take two pretty girls out, is it?'

There was definitely a frown on Pattie's brow at that comment. Even if George didn't want it to be just the two of them, Pattie plainly would. Della stifled a sigh.

'No, it's fine. I'm... tired. It's been a long day, after seeing Jack this afternoon as well.'

Jack. He was Jack already in her mind then. Not Dad any longer.

'Oh, shit, Della. Sorry. You haven't even told me what happened properly. Come with us and we can tell me about it.'

'What and shout it to you over the music? No, another time, George.' She said that a little briskly, but her patience was starting to wear thin.

'Okay, if you want to go, then go,' George said, losing his exuberance too. He'd moved back to Pattie's side, taking her hand. 'Mal will find you a taxi.'

'No, you don't have to bother. I'm going to ring for one and bill it to Brian. He won't mind.'

'We'll come to the phone box with you,' George said, tersely.

'I can call from here.'

He chewed his cheek, annoyed. 'Right. I'll go and find Mal and pay. I'll ask them to call one for you, shall I?' He shot Della a scowl, then turned to Pattie and placed a kiss on her forehead. 'Won't be a sec, love.'

George went through the narrow archway to the front desk to settle the bill. Pattie and Della looked at one another, suddenly neither had anything to say in the vacuum left by George.

'You're a model then,' Della said eventually, as the silent chasm between them became unbearable.

'Yes,' she smiled.

'That's... nice. Must be... fun.'

'What do you do?' Pattie asked.

'What don't I do,' Della said, and instantly regretted it as Pattie blinked her big blue eyes, uncomprehendingly. George had already told her over dinner what Della did for a job anyway.  'I work for Brian,' she said. 'George's manager.'

'Oh, yes, of course you do. Sorry.' She cast her eyes around the room. 'For, um... How long have you worked for him?'

What is it about small talk that is so excruciatingly painful?

'Since 1962.'

'Right from the beginning.'

'Yes, since they started having to come to London, really.'

The conversation dropped. Where the hell was George? Had Mal forgotten his wallet? Were they making them do the washing up?

'Do you think you'll do anymore acting?'

Pattie tittered a laugh. 'Oh, no, I don't think so. I'm not an actress. Dick asked if I might do something for his next film, but it'll only be extra work again. A walk on.'

'Sounds very glamorous, all the same.'

'Hmm. Well, it's never as glamorous as it seems.'

'No. I suppose it's not.'

As Della spoke George finally returned with Mal in tow. George went to Pattie's side immediately, throwing a warm smile at Della, all miffed-ness forgotten.

'Ah, good. You're getting along alright,' he said.

'Of course we are,' Della snapped. 'We don't need you to mediate for us, you know, George. We are capable of conversation without you.'

'I told you Della was lovely, didn't I?' George said to Pattie, ignoring Della's surliness. Pattie smiled weakly, unsure what to say. George shook his head. 'You'll just have to take my word for it.'

'Bugger off, George.'

George grinned, keeping his eyes on Pattie. 'She's really a lot more loveable once you get to know her.'

'Have you paid?' Della asked, turning her head to Mal.

'Uh, yes–' Mal said, hesitantly, probably wondering why Della was snapping at him.

'You don't need to wait with me then. You three get off.'

'Really? You're not coming?' Mal said, obviously not thrilled with the prospect of playing gooseberry with George and Pattie either.

'Della hasn't many girl friends, you know,' George told Pattie, making no effort at all to bugger off.

'Thanks, George.'

'Friends who are girls, I mean,' he continued, oblivious of Della's glare. 'It might be nice if you two went out somewhere. For a coffee or shopping or something.'

Oh my God, George, please shut the HELL up!!

'I'm going to be busy in the next few weeks,' Della said, sharply.

'You can't have that much to do. Not while we're busy filming...'

'We have the tour. Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand, remember?'

'That's not until June.'

'We still have to prepare for it. We do a lot of work beforehand, you know. You don't turn up at the theatre and they just let you play–'

'Alright, alright. I'm sure you have an afternoon free sometime, don't you?'

'We can play it by ear,' Pattie interjected, clearly as enamoured by this arranged play-date as Della was. 'Shall we get on our way, George?'

George sighed. 'Okay. You'll be alright waiting on your own?'

'Perfectly alright.'

He moved to Della's side again. 'Good to see you, as always,' he said perfunctorily and he'd normally kiss her cheek but maybe aware of Pattie's gaze, he just put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed her quickly.

'Nice to meet you,' Pattie said, as George returned to her.

'You too,' Della said.

'Next week then,' George added over his shoulder, as he guided Pattie towards the door, Mal following. 'I'll call you beforehand though.'

Della nodded and then finally they were through the door and gone. She exhaled a sigh of relief as she repressed the urge to cry; whether that was from the echoing trauma of meeting her father or the horrible evening she'd just had to endure or a combination of both - she couldn't say.

Giving them a good minute or two to get down the road and around the corner, Della waited, then stepped outside herself. Taking up a spot in the darkened archways to light a cigarette, she examined her feelings.

'George...' she sighed. She felt toe-curlingly embarrassed and foolish for even thinking that something could happen between her and George. She forgot - often - that he led a very different life to Della's now. George was internationally famous, ridiculously so. He was a pop star and a Beatle, of course he would date a model. Blonde and beautiful and she spoke with that cut glass accent. A woman far more fitting as a Beatles' girlfriend. Why would he want someone like Della when he could have his pick of women like that?

She exhaled a cloud of smoke. This was going to be the end for their friendship, she could see it coming. George had girlfriends in the past, but no one like this. This was serious. He wouldn't intend it, but they'd drift apart. His priorities would change. She would see less and less of him, until they were reduced to sending a card at Christmas and bumping into one another at the weddings of mutual friends.

'Oh, Georgie...' she breathed. 'What will I do without you..?'

'Hey.'

Della yelped in surprise and George emerged from the darkness, as if she'd summoned him there by saying his name too many times.

'Don't sneak up on me like that!' she scolded as George laughed.

'What were you doing? Talking to yourself?'

'You nearly gave me a bloody heart attack!'

'Give us a fag.'

'Haven't you got your own?'

'I left them with the– With Pattie.'

What was he going to say? The girlfriend? The missus? Why would he modify his language for Della's benefit? Della offered him a cigarette, then lit it for him.

'Is that what you came back for? To cadge a cigarette?'

He smiled. The glow from the streetlights cast erie shadows across his face. 'What did you think of Pattie?'

Della forced herself to pause before she replied in order to reign in any catty remark that might be on the tip of her tongue. 'She seems very nice.'

'Nice,' he repeated, teasing.

'Lovely. She's very... sweet.'

'Do you like her then? Because it didn't really seem that you did...'

'Do I like her? What does that matter? You like her. Clearly, she likes you too...'

George's smile dimmed. He stepped closer to her. 'It matters a lot, Del. What you think is important to me.'

'Is it?'

'Of course. I can't have my best friend and my girlfriend not getting along, can I?'

Girlfriend. That stung unexpectedly sharp.

'Yes, I like her,' Della said, quickly. 'I'm sorry if I've been out of sorts tonight. Just with Jack and everything. I mean I've only just met her so–' Her words were cut off as George hugged her unexpectedly, holding her there even when she pulled back. 'Mind what your doing with that lit cigarette,' she complained. 'Don't singe my hair.'

'Minding,' George said, but still wouldn't release her and after a couple of seconds, Della allowed herself to relax in his embrace. 'Sorry, love. Sorry I fucked this up,' George said, somewhere near her ear and for a moment she thought he meant something else entirely. 'I forgot you were going to meet your dad today. I wouldn't have brought Pattie to meet you tonight if I'd thought. Did it really go that badly?'

'No, it was worse,' she said into his chest.

'What happened?'

She pulled back again and this time George let her go.

'He doesn't want to know me,' she said, resignedly. 'He came and drank a cup of tea and said how much I looked like his mother and then he gave me an envelope stuffed with banknotes and told me not to contact him again.'

George's eyes widened. 'Della...'

She shrugged, trying to appear like she didn't care. 'I wish I'd never bothered, George. Honestly, it was such a bad idea. Yesterday I had a father, albeit an absent one, but he was still out there, somewhere. He was still my dad. And today, I don't... I don't have anything. No father and no...' She turned away from him but George reached for her, stopping her.

'I don't understand. Why doesn't he want to know you?'

'Something to do with his new wife. His new family. I suppose they're not so new now. His daughter is fifteen years old. My half-sister.' She raised her head to him. 'I have a half-brother too. He's twelve. They're called Timothy and Janet. They don't know I exist.'

'What did you do with the money?'

'I left it on the table. A tip for the waitress.'

George smiled, sadly. 'Probably shouldn't have done that.'

'I wasn't going to keep it. I wasn't going to allow him to pay me off like that. It's not why I contacted him. I didn't want money.'

'I know, love.'

'That's what he thought. That's what he thought I wanted from him.'

'You don't need money though. Didn't you tell him what you do for a living?'

She shook her head. 'I said I worked for an entertainment artist manager. I didn't say it was Brian Epstein. Likewise, he asked about you and I said you were a musician, but I didn't say you were a Beatle. He hadn't put two and two together.'

'I'm sorry, Della. He doesn't deserve you as his daughter.'

She smiled, thinly. 'Looks like my mother was right about him all along.'

A black taxi came to a stop beside them and rolled the window down. 'Taxi for Milton?'

'Milton, yes, that's me,' Della said and flicked the end of her cigarette into the gutter.

'Del, don't go home,' George said. 'Come and have a drink with us.'

'I'm not really in a party mood, Georgie. You'd better get back to Pattie.'

She opened the door to the back of the cab and turned back to say goodbye to George, only to find him right behind her. He grabbed her and pulled her into him again and for a split second she thought he was going to kiss her on her lips but he changed his trajectory and ended up kissing her lower cheek, a little awkwardly. He straightened and kissed the top of her head a couple of times, hugging her to him.

'You're worth ten of Jack bloody Clarence,' he said. 'A hundred of him! Who the fuck is he, anyway? You don't need him. Sod him. You've managed this far without him.'

'I know,' she said, but it was muffled by his chest.

'I love you, kidder,' he said, drawing back from her but holding her arms, shaking her a little as if he was trying to convince her. 'And you are the...' He searched for a word. '...the best person I know. So forget about him, Della. Please. You don't need him.'

'I love you too,' Della replied and George finally released her, stepping back from her.

'I'll call you tomorrow,' he promised and then he was gone, leaving Della to climb into cab alone.

The taxi turned around in the middle of the road when Della give the driver her address, doubling back on itself and passing George as he headed back towards the Ad Lib, collar pulled up again now to hide his face. Della waved but he didn't notice her.

'Is that your boyfriend, darlin'?' the driver asked, eyeing her through the rear view mirror.

'No, ' Della said, as the taxi cab turned onto Charing Cross Road. 'He's just a friend.'