'WHERE are the damn Beatles?!' the studio floor manager demanded, bringing his face close enough to Della that she could smell the cigarette smoke - and an undercurrent of alcohol - on his breath.

She took a small step back, keeping her most reassuring smile in place. 'They're coming. They're coming right now.'

'We go live in less than two minutes.' The floor manager's face was getting redder by the second, a mixture of anger and panic and stress. He paced the floor behind the cameras, pushing his rolled shirt sleeves up past his elbows.

The room for The Beatles second Ed Sullivan show was very different from the first. The Napoleon Room at the Deauville hotel didn't have any tiered seating. The rows of chairs for the audience were more or less all ground level, so Della imagined those at the back didn't have a very good view. The audience here was older than most Beatles audiences. Richer, too.

At the front were three large TV cameras on wheeled dollies, driven by camera men gripping two handles to maneuver themselves, and in front of them, the raised platform of the stage. Dressed in a yellow gold and slate grey background, this was where the Beatles would open the show, live to the nation and in less than ninety seconds. However, the two lonely microphones and elevated drum kit without a drummer said differently.

'I know. I'm sorry,' Della said. 'They're on their way.' The floor manager glared at her, so Della added, 'I spoke to one of our road managers a moment ago and he said they were on their way down then. I'm sure they'll be here any second now.'

But it wasn't a moment ago. It was half an hour ago and the four minute journey they had to make on foot from the Beatles' hotel suite down to the Napoleon Room might easily take four hours tonight.

'It's the fans,' she said. 'They're blocking the lobby and the corridors. They can't get through without being mobbed.'

That was what Mal told her on the phone from the hotel suite upstairs. What he'd actually said was, We'll be fuckin' murdered if we try to walk through there! And Mal rarely swore.

After the scenes at the New York plaza, they warned the hotel in Miami that additional security would be required. Della knew the local police force had advised them too. The blasé guy she spoke to on the phone before they left New York told her.

Some idiot had rung the airline and changed their New York to Miami flight tickets from first class to what they called 'Tourist' - an economy class with limited baggage allowance which made travelling with the groups guitars and suitcases and other paraphernalia a challenge. They hadn't discovered what had happened until they arrived at the airport. The airline hadn't thought to confirm this abrupt and wholly unlikely ticket change request with them directly, so Della - who'd only been there to see the other off before flying back to London herself - called the Deauville to check the same hadn't happened there. The last thing they needed was to turn up and find the hotel suite had been swapped for three shared rooms on the ground floor.

'It's likely there will be a lot of Beatle fans hanging around, trying to get inside and trying to reach the boys,' Della told the Deauville's manager on the phone. 'You might want to speak to your security staff and make extra arrangements.'

'Yes, yes, Madam,' he said, with a tittering laugh that annoyed Della. 'We're fully aware of the Beatles popularity, but I can assure you we are more than ready to receive your party. It will be fiiiiinnnnnne.'

It was not fiiiiinnnnnne.

Della had been on some tough tours. Since she'd worked for Brian, she'd dealt with expensive musical instruments being left behind on the pavements outside of theatres (The Big Three), money disputes leading to resignations (The Dakotas), artists frittering away all their hotel and travel budget in the pub (also The Big Three), artists being stroppy about Brian's lack of attention to them (everyone), and disappointed artists whose singles had flopped unceremoniously (poor Tommy and poor Cilla until last week). She'd had experienced Beatlemania back home, with the Palladium show and Bournemouth and other things, but America was nothing like she'd seen before. America was off the chart. And it wasn't even a proper tour .

Thousands of people greeted them at the airport. Handily, some Florida radio station had broadcast the details of the Beatles flight and time of arrival, so more fans had been waiting for them at Miami International Airport than they had in New York. They'd had a police escort from the airport to the hotel, but it was already besieged with fans by the time they arrived.

The Deauville was not ready, far from it.

They had already played in here once today already - a camera and dress rehearsal this afternoon that had experienced a few technical problems. The Beatles had performed their set in front of a 3500 strong audience, with a few fluffed lyrics and dodgy microphones, but otherwise all good. They'd gone back upstairs to await the live evening show and then the fun and games had started.

There had been a ticketing debacle. There had been more tickets issued than there were seats available and the hotel was swamped with people. Getting the first audience out before they could bring the second audience in proved to be a mammoth task. People with valid tickets were refused entry. More people without tickets had turned up anyway, hoping to get inside. It resulted in there being many empty seats in the Napoleon Room, but the hotel lobby, the surrounding corridors and the car park at the front of the hotel were crammed with people. There was no way the band could just walk through it all without being torn to shreds. 

Della glanced towards the door at the side of the stage, willing them to appear, guitars in hand and stupid, embarrassed smiles on their faces. But nothing and no one came.

'Live in thirty,' someone said.

'Where's Brian Epstein?' said the floor manager.

Della would like to know too. Stuck with the beleaguered Beatles probably.

'Please,' Della said, under her breath. 'Come on, please...'

The makeup lady who'd powdered the Beatles up earlier had managed to steal into the studio to watch the show from the shadows. She gave Della a sympathetic, but not very confident, smile. Della shook her head in return.

'Ed, you'll have to fill,' the floor manager said as he raised his hand, fingers spread, for the count.

Ed Sullivan in his dark grey, wide lapel suit, looked panicked for a moment then straightened his face and plastered on his showbiz smile.

'Live in five... four... three...'

The 'two' and the 'one' were mouthed silently. The music played and the audience applauded and Ed Sullivan took a long pause before he started speaking.

'And now, this has happened again. Last Sunday, on our show in New York, the Beatles played to the greatest TV audience that's ever been assembled in the history of American TV. Now tonight, here in Miami Beach...' A pause and a sideways glance towards the side door. It remained firmly closed. 'Again the Beatles face a record-busting audience.'

This was excruciating, but Della was powerless. As far as she knew, they were coming. There was no point in ringing the hotel suite again because they should have left and been on their way. The floor manager shot her one last glare and turned his back, pushing his radio earpiece further into his ear. Della edged towards the door, unsure what she was going to do when she got there. Standing next to it wouldn't make the boys arrive any quicker, though, if they didn't arrive at all, at least she could make a run for it.

In front of the cameras, Ed Sullivan was still filling in, rambling a bit, talking about the weather and anything that came to mind. He grabbed a guy who was standing too close and pulled him in front of the camera to talk about Lipton Tea, the show's sponsor. Della cracked the door open, just slightly so extraneous noise wouldn't pollute the TV broadcast, and peeped through with one eye. No one. Nothing. The corridor outside was empty, but there was a dull hum of people in the lobby and hotel beyond.

'Fucking hell,' Della breathed and let the door close. 'Where are the damn Beatles?'

'Fuck me!' John shouted, climbing gingerly into the swimming pool. 'Who's bloody idea was this?' He swam a couple of yards out into the middle of the pool, then turned around to tread the water, straightening the expression on his face. 'Come on in,' he cooed to the others. 'The water's lovely!'

'Couldn't we do photos on the sun loungers again?' Paul complained, but lowered himself into the pool from the edge anyway, gasping and laughing when the water met his skin.

Having just recovered from a nasty bout of flu - or whatever it had been - George probably shouldn't be splashing about in a swimming pool. The Miami sun warmed his skin but at eleven o'clock on a Friday morning, the swimming pool was still as cold as the Irish Sea. Well, maybe not that cold, few things were as cold as that, but this was close.

Nevertheless, George launched himself into the pool, choosing to do it in one fast plunge and then losing his breath with the shock of the temperature, as sharp and painful as if he'd received a swift punch to the stomach.

'I thought Florida was supposed to be hot,' Ringo moaned, swimming doggy paddle circles around George.

'In February?' George asked.

'In any month!'

It was warm here. Not in the borrowed swimming pool of a retired jazz singer George had never heard of, but in general, Miami was very warm. They'd left snow and ice behind in New York. Paris, earlier in the month, had been similarly cold and England never started to heat up until at least May - if you were lucky - but Miami had blue skies, sandy beaches and temperatures in the high sixties, even in February. Still, it would have been nice if they could have borrowed a heated swimming pool.

Although he wasn't sure why, George suddenly thought of his brother and what he'd be doing at this moment. He tried to work out the time difference between here and Liverpool and failed. Early morning, he estimated. Pete would be dragging himself out of bed, putting on a heavy overcoat and trudging off to work, rubbing his hands together and stamping his feet to keep warm.

George had only lived at Arnold Grove for the first five years of his life, but he still recalled, with sharp clarity, shivering under a blanket shared with his brother in the back bedroom. Today he was thousands of miles away from that tiny terrace house, complaining about how the pool in this luxury home wasn't up to spec.

George's reverie was broken by a splash - or rather crash - of icy water over his head, soaking his hair and making him cry out with the shock. It'd been sent by Paul, who laughed at George and splashed him again before he tried to swim away. George lunged after him, planting a hand on each shoulder and pushing his head under the water in retaliation. Paul dived and escaped him, swimming away under the water. George couldn't see where he'd gone until he felt a tug at the waistband of his swimming trunks from behind.

'Gerroff me, yer fairy,' George shouted, fighting with him and trying to kick him under the water. Paul laughed, spluttering through mouthfuls of water. 

'Bloody children,' John said, swimming up behind, in between them. 'Why don't you both learn to act your age?' And then before either could respond, he dunked both their heads under the water.

Around the sides of the swimming pool, the photographers - a little team of five of them - ignored the Beatles grousing and messing around, until an errant wave of water slopped over the side and splashed one of the cameras, left there on a low set tripod.

'Hey!' said the photographer, a flash of anger which he quickly quashed. 'Just... uh... be careful, okay?'

They were from Life magazine. They'd been expecting them to send a photographer to picture the Beatles at the Deauville Hotel. They weren't expecting the minivan load that arrived that morning, bemoaning the crowds of fans that sat or stood on every available inch of hotel floorspace, singing and chanting and generally getting in the way. A friend of a friend knew the owner of the house and the freezing cold swimming pool they were currently occupying; a large, luxurious property on the North Bay Road, with high walls and electronic gates and a view of the ocean. It was a pocket of paradise so perfect it was almost surreal.

The Beatles swam lengths of the pool and played around, splashing each other, dive bombing, and having water fights while the photographers snapped them. After a while, John tired of it and climbed out to go and sit with Cynthia who watched them from the far end of the pool. The remaining three stayed in the water. It didn't seem quite as cold anymore.

Della appeared from the inside house, carrying a large platter of triangular cut sandwiches and wearing a men's dressing gown much too big for her and nearly reaching her ankles. The cord trailed behind her as she crossed to the patio table and laid the food out there.

George swam to the side of the pool. 'Della?'

She turned and frowned when she saw him.

'Take it off.'

Della gathered the dressing gown cord up and tied it tighter around her waist, looping it in a big bow. She glanced at the photographers, currently on the other side of the pool. 'No.'

'Go on, I was only kidding.'

Nine times out of ten, you could say what you wanted to Della. Take the piss, laugh and joke around with her like you would with any mate, with any lad, and then on the odd occasion, she'd take it the wrong way. She wouldn't laugh, she wouldn't join in, she'd sigh at him or get mad or like this morning, get a look on her face like he'd spat on her cornflakes.

'Come and swim with us,' George said, pushing off the side and treading water.

'Maybe later,' Della said. 'I don't want to be photographed like this.'

He couldn't quite remember exactly what he'd said. Something off the cuff, but ill timed, obviously. No one had thought to bring swimming costumes with them. New York had been all they'd planned for. Miami was an afterthought and Della wasn't supposed to have come here at all. Swimming costumes had been purchased with haste from the shop at the Deauville, trunks for the boys, one piece cozzies for the girls, Terry Towelling shirts with the Deauville logos embroidered on the pockets for everyone.

'You look fine,' George said. 'And who cares anyway? It's only us here. We're not bothered what you look like.'

'It is not only us here,' Della said. 'And maybe I'm bothered. Did you think of that?'

She walked the length of the pool, towards Cynthia and John and the top end. George followed her in the water, as far as he could, before he ran into Paul, leaning with his elbows on the bumpy texture tiles that ran round the sides of the pool. George tried to go round but Paul, evidently in a childish mood today, stuck his legs out vertical in front of him, making little flippy kicks with his feet and blocking George's way. He frowned at him questioningly but Paul just gave him a sly, self-satisfied smile in return.

'Della, come on,' George called after her.

She ignored him and picked up some empty glasses, piling them up noisily.

'What are you doing?'

She turned around, glasses leaned against her body. 'Tidying up.'

'You don't have to do that.'

'What's going on?' Paul asked.

'Nothing,' Della said. 'The lady who owns this house has bought loads of food for you. They're bringing it out in a moment. She ordered it from somewhere and they brought all these silver platters full of stuff over in vans. Dry off so you can come and eat.'

'In a minute,' George said. 'Come and swim with us first.'

'Oh, yeah, come in, Del. It's so warm in here!' Paul said, twisting round so he was facing her.

'No, thank you.'

'She thinks she looks funny in her swimming costume. Tell her she looks alright.'

'I don't think that.'

'Show Paul.'

Paul frowned. 'I'm sure you look fab, love.'

'It was a bad joke, Del. I didn't mean it. You know that.'

'What did you say?' Paul asked, a daft grin on his face.

'I don't know. I can't remember.'

That was all it was. A joke. He couldn't quite remember exactly what he said, but he regretted it, because she actually did look alright in her swimming costume. He hadn't been expecting to see her like that; a black one piece cozzie with a deep V plunge, nearly to her belly button and only fastened where it needed to be between her breasts with a single bow. She'd surprised him. Come into the room behind him and said, George, what do I look like in this?

Ask a stupid question and you get a stupid answer.

Della narrowed her eyes at him. 'He said I looked like a blue whale.'

'I did not!' George protested.

'Oh, sorry, it was a killer whale, wasn't it?'

'I didn't say that either,' George said, but Della was already stalking away, back towards the house, as Paul laughed.

'You're an idiot,' he told him.

George swam across the pool quickly with fast, confident strokes, meeting Della on the other side as she reached the table and chair by the door of the house. 'Della,' he said, softly. She was turned away from him, clearing plates or something, making a point of ignoring him.

'Don't listen to him, Del,' Paul said, arriving next to George. 'He's a bag of bones in a pair of swimming trunks. What does he know about what looks good?'

'I don't listen to him,' Della said, turning around with an armful of crockery.

Paul smiled at her. 'You know, Della, I've always thought you were a beautiful woman.'

Della stared at him. So did George. Paul pretended not to notice and swam away.

For the first time in weeks, maybe in her life, Della felt truly relaxed. She rested the back of her head against the sofa and closed her eyes, feeling a faint spray of sea fret on her face as the boat skipped across the water. A stiff breeze blew, bringing her skin up in goosebumps, but the sun was warm and the sky cloudless.

She shouldn't be here. She should be back in London, shivering in the fog and rain they were probably having there. Miami, with its sandy beaches and blue water was a different world from London, one Della wasn't in a hurry to leave. She'd put on the beach dress that she'd bought this morning, over the swimming costume that she knew was too revealing. God knows what possessed her to buy it. She shouldn't have let the woman in the shop flog it to her.

'Are you cold?' a voice said to Della's left.

She opened her eyes, unable to see for a moment in the bright light, and squinted at Paul. 'I'm alright,' she said, shielding her eyes from the sun.

'Here.' Paul unbuttoned his towelling shirt and took it off to offer it to Della. 'You're all goose pimply.'

'You'll be cold.' Paul was bare chested underneath. Murray The K, the ever present radio DJ, hadn't collared him yet to put him into one of his Submarine Race Watchers t-shirts. George and Ringo had them on, though John was defiant in his WPGC Good Guys radio sweatshirt.

'I can borrow it back later.'

Della smiled and took the shirt from him, hesitantly, but it did feel nice when she wrapped it around her shoulders. The fabric was warm from Paul's skin. Paul sat down next to her on the sofa, offering her a bottle of beer, neck first. Della took it and sipped it, and though she didn't normally like the sharp taste of beer, this one was mild and refreshing.

They were on a motor yacht called the Southern Trail, somewhere off the coast of Miami's harbour. Not far out, but far enough to be finally away from the fans and the press. For the first time since they'd arrived in America they were truly alone, just the boys, Brian, Brian Sommerville, Cynthia and Della. Well, and the yacht's crew, which they were grateful for as none of them had a clue how to drive a boat, even if Ringo was keen to try. It'd been loaned to them by a wealthy businessman who - Della was told - had invented the "convertible couch", whatever that was.

'This is the life, 'eh?' Paul asked, stretching his legs out in front of him and his arms across the back of the sofa. 'I could stand a bit more of this. I might never go home.'

'That's an idea,' Della agreed. 'What do you think, Cyn?'

A sofa length away, Cynthia sat up, startled. 'Sorry?' she said, leaning towards Della.

'Paul was just saying we could stay here forever.'

'Here?'

'In Miami. In the sunshine. It's a lot nicer than England.'

'Yes, it is.' She paused. 'I think I'd miss Julian too much though.'

'Well, yeah, of course,' Della said. 'We'd have to bring him out here as well.'

Cynthia nodded. She seemed distracted. She'd gone with Della to the boutique shop in the Deauville hotel after they'd arrived yesterday to buy souvenirs and postcards. Della had taken hers back to the hotel she was staying in, but afterwards she'd discovered Cynthia had trouble getting back upstairs to her hotel suite.

The guards hadn't believed she was who she said she was and only after some Beatle fans who were hanging around said they'd seen her photo was she able to get back inside. Della felt terribly guilty for it. She'd had so many problems getting into theatres in the past, she should have anticipated what might happen. She should have made sure Cynthia was alright before she'd left, or she could have at least loaned Cynthia her NEMS ID card. There wasn't a photo on it. She could have pretended to be Della.

'This is nice,' Paul said, playing with the strap on her dress with the hand he currently had wrapped around her shoulders. 'Is it new?'

'Yes,' Della said, although Paul must have known that already. 'Thank you.'

'You know, George is an idiot saying what he said to you.'

She shifted in her seat, inching slightly away from Paul. 'He was only joking.'

'Yeah, but there's some things you just don't say to a girl.'

'What did he say?' Cynthia asked, taking interest.

'Nothing,' Della said.

'Called her a whale,' Paul supplied.

'He said what?!'

'He didn't,' Della said casting a look at Paul.

'George said she looked like a whale in her swimming cozzie,' Paul repeated, taking his arm back so he could sit forward on the sofa to share the gossip, and how did he know so much about it anyway?

'George did?' Cynthia said. 

'No,' Della said, emphatically. 'Not... Not in so many words.'

'Della, don't listen to them. They're just silly boys. I wish I had the figure you do.'

Della laughed and shook her head, embarrassed.

George joined them, taking the cushioned wicker chair at the side of Paul. He leaned forward to take a packet of cigarettes from the low table in front of them.

'Did you really say that to Della?' Cynthia asked. 'Did you call her a... a...'

'If she was still my girlfriend, I'd have to pick you up on that,' Paul said, swigging from his beer bottle, but it didn't disguise the smug grin on his face.

'What are you talking about?' George asked.

'You,' Paul said, clearly enjoying himself. 'Insulting Della earlier.'

George scowled. 'Are you still moaning about that?' he said, directing it at Della. 'It was a fucking joke, Del.'

Della, who was about to tell George she was sorry for overreacting earlier, fell silent instead and glared at him.

'George, I'm surprised at you,' Cynthia scolded. 'I thought you were more sensitive than that.'

Paul laughed and placed his arm around Della's shoulders again, and this time, she moved into him as well, putting her head against his shoulder. 'What are you doing tonight, Del?' Paul asked.

'I don't know,' Della said, watching George. He wore thick framed, black wrap around sunglasses with lens so dense she couldn't see his eyes to tell if he was looking back at her. 'I haven't planned that far yet.'

'How about dinner then? At ours, if you like?'

Della turned to Paul, putting her hand on his chest. 'That would be lovely, thank you,' she said and stole a look back at George. He had his head turned away now, looking out over the sea.

There was a snap and a click and suddenly a man was standing there, a camera in his hands. For a moment, all four just stared at back him, until he raised his camera again and George stood up to meet him. 'What are you doing?! Who are you?!'

Paul stood as well, aligning himself with George, just as shouting erupted from inside the boat.

'What is going on here?!' Brian Sommerville's voice boomed. 'All press were to get off at the harbour! What were– Were you hiding down there?!'

The stowaway journalist and his photographer were taken swiftly back to shore and booted off the boat. They pleaded to stay and tried to refuse to leave, but Brian threatened them with calling the police and reluctantly, they went. Shortly afterwards they headed out on the boat again, but the mood had changed. The others laughed it off but Della was left with a feeling of unease in her stomach, that was caused by more than just the swaying of the boat. She sat at the back of the boat again, but the sun didn't seem so warm and lovely now.

The press were getting worse and worse. The Beatles were generous with their time - they'd already conducted numerous conferences and interviews since they'd arrived, posed for photographs everywhere they went, but nothing was never enough.

'He took a photo of us,' Della told Brian Sommerville.

'Don't worry,' he replied. 'I have the name of their paper. I will be contacting the editor as soon as we get back to shore.'

'Yes, but... It was me and Paul. They took a photo of me and Paul together.' And just at the moment Della was tucked into his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. She'd given Paul his shirt back after that.

Brian blinked at Della like he didn't understand.

'It'll be fine, love,' Paul interjected. 'I don't mind.'

'But I do,' Della said. 'First that thing at the press conference, now this.'

'What thing?' Paul asked.

'When you... You said we used to date.'

Paul twisted his mouth and gave a half-shrug. 'I was only clearing up a misunderstanding.'

'You spent two years denying I was your girlfriend to anyone who asked,' Della said, with more bitterness than she'd intended.

'But you're not now,' Paul said. 'So what does it matter?'

'It doesn't, I suppose,' she said, but Paul had already turned and gone, ducking his head so he didn't hit it as he went down the steps into the below deck of the boat.

'If you're concerned, I will telephone the paper as soon we get back to hotel,' Brian promised. 'I'll see if we can't block the publication of that picture. It was taken without permission.'

Della smiled and nodded. Brian patted her shoulder and followed Paul inside. Della twisted around in her seat to look at the retreating shoreline of the harbour. They weren't planning to go far out to sea, just a short tour of the bay and then they'd anchor up somewhere for a while, but Della found herself wishing they could just keep going. Suddenly, she didn't want to stay in Miami. She wanted England and all it's greyness and dampness and press that - for the most part - didn't follow her around.

'It probably wasn't a very good picture,' George said. He sat two chairs away, beer bottle in hand. Della hadn't been aware he'd been listening. She turned to face him. The sun was behind him and Della had to shield her eyes and squint see him properly. 'You were in the shade and he didn't have a flash,' George continued. 'I bet it will come out too dark.'

'Well, I hope so,' Della said. 'The last thing I need is Brian having another fit.'

George smiled. 'Sommerville or Epstein?'

'Epstein. Brian Sommerville doesn't seem to think it's a big deal.'

'Well, it's probably not, in the long run.'

George moved seats, coming one closer to Della. As he did, he took off his sunglasses and offered them to her. Della took them and put them on gratefully. One thing she didn't think to buy from the hotel shop was sunglasses.

'You're not Paul's girlfriend now,' George said, sitting back. 'Once the press realise that, they'll lose interest. I don't know why they're so interested in the first place. That's probably the second most frequent thing we're asked, behind if our hair is real. What kind of girl do you like? When are you going to get married?'

'You're the most eligible bachelors in the country at the moment,' Della said. 'Well, except for John.'

George exhaled. 'If you say so.'

'That's why they're so interested.'

'Them and everyone else.'

'Everyone else?'

'Girls,' George said, like it was bothering him. Della highly doubted that. 'Fans, y'know. They don't let up for five minutes.'

'I'm sure it must be awful for you. Being pursued by attractive women day and night.'

George smiled. 'It is.'

'Yeah, I bet you even have to let some of them catch you.'

George moved a bit closer to her still, lowering his voice. 'They catch Paul too,' he said, his dark brown eyes studying her. 'A girl called Jill caught him the other night. He invited her to Miami with us.'

Della shook her head. 'Why are you telling me that?'

He shrugged. 'I thought you might want to know.'

'There's nothing between me and Paul now.'

George gave a single nod and looked away from her.

'There isn't, George,' Della said, more softly. 'I appreciate you telling me... but you don't need to worry about that.'

Pink. Everywhere was pink. Shades of red and white mixed in, but mostly the whole of the Deauville restaurant was pink. There were pink and red roses on every pink table, pink balloons hung in bunches in the corners, pink and red hearts cut out of paper and pinned to every available surface, pink confetti and streamers on the floor, tables and chairs like a parade had been through. Della was green; green dress, green shoes, green bag. Her hair had already taken on that reddy tinge it had when she'd been in the sun. She clashed terribly.

The restaurant was nearly empty. The only other diners were a mature couple, sharing a small two-person table as Some Enchanted Evening played softly in the background. The flickering flames of candles between them threatening to set fire to the large pink paper heart above the table, but they didn't seem to notice. The man wore a formal looking suit, black, thin lapels like a dinner jacket, over a white shirt. The lady, grey hair in a small beehive on top of her head, wore a black sparkly dress.

Della looked down at her own dress. She didn't think of dressing for dinner. She hadn't brought any suitable clothes for Miami. Everything she had she'd bought from either the Deauville's shop where she got the towelling shirts and the swimming costumes and a small beach boutique situated in between the Beatles' and Della's hotels. She hadn't expected something so formal. She'd come in the wrap around beach dress she'd worn all day.

She turned to remark this to Paul but hesitated. He'd changed his clothes, she realised. He'd been in jeans earlier. Now he wore a casual, deconstructed navy blazer over a white cotton polo, top two buttons undone. The white soft leather loafers they all wore on the boat still on his feet, as he stood, hands in trouser pockets. He smiled at her charmingly. Worryingly charmingly.

'I'd forgotten it was Valentine's day,' Della said.

'Perfect night for it, isn't it?'

'I should have put something better on.' She indicated to her dress, smoothing the front of the skirt. 'This frock is a bit casual for in here. I didn't expect it to so... dressy.'

'You look lovely, baby. Just as you are.'

Baby?

'Good evening, lovebirds!' A waiter appeared, leather bound menus in hand and wide, ersatz smile on his face. 'I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting.'

'Quite alright,' said Paul, putting his arm around Della's waist.

'Mr McCartney, can I say how thrilled we are that you've chosen our restaurant to celebrate Valentine's night with your lady friend. We're simply thrilled.'

'Oh, we're not–' Della started.

'Well, you know,' Paul interrupted and patted Della on her back. 'We're staying here anyway.'

'Mr McCartney, if you'd like to follow me, I'll show you to your table.'

The waiter led and Della and Paul followed. Paul kept his hand on the small of Della's back, guiding her, even though she didn't really need guiding. The waiter pulled the chair out for Della to sit, blabbering on about tonight's specials and wine lists and lighting the tall, white candles as Paul sat down opposite on the small two person table. The waiter handed them the menus and then left, backing away from them as if they were royalty.

Paul gave her another flash of a smile and then made a show of studying his menu. 'Seafood,' he said. 'Hope you don't mind. Almost all of the places down here are seafood, being next to the ocean. I couldn't remember if you liked it.'

'Yes, it's fine.'

'And I know it's only one of the hotel's restaurants, but I thought it would be easier than faffing about with finding somewhere else to go and then arranging a military escort to get there. But it's quite nice, isn't it? Quiet enough.' 

Della closed her menu and leaned over the table towards him. 'Where's everyone else?'

Paul blinked at her like he didn't understand the question. 'Umm, well, they went to Sgt Bresner's home. You know, the guy who's been looking after us? I went too, but I came back before them. Well, I suppose they might be back by now too. They were going to watch a comedy show or a singer or something...'

'So it's just us two?'

'Yeah, they ate at Buddy's house. It's alright, isn't it? Just me and you for dinner? Like the old days.'

Della had to strain to remember a single time she and Paul went out for dinner as a couple. They'd gone out with friends, with the other Beatles or occasionally Paul's family, but very rarely on their own. 'Yes,' she said, anyway. 'I... suppose so.'

'What do you fancy?' Paul said, returning to his menu. 'Apart from me, of course.' He flicked his eyes up again. 'That was a joke.'

'I realised.'

He turned a couple of pages over. 'I think I'll have the fish,' he said and grinned. Della frowned. 'It's all fish,' he explained, tapping the menu. 'See?'

Della looked down at her own menu. 'Yes. Very good. Very funny.'

'Well, it's not if I have to explain the joke to you.'

Della shook her head. 'I'm just surprised they've let you out on your own. I thought you pretty much couldn't go anywhere these days without a bodyguard and a–' She stopped as her eyes settled on the unmistakable shape of Mal Evans, sitting side on to Della and Paul at a table on his own by the door, reading a newspaper.

'They let us out every so often,' Paul said. 'I get time off for good behaviour.'

'Mal's over there. Why don't we ask him to join us?'

Paul twisted round in his seat to look at him, as if he was surprised to see him.  'We don't need to do that, do we?'

'You've got him sitting there on his own. He could have gone to the comedy show with the others. The least we could do is invite him over.'

'He's a big lad, you know. I'm sure he doesn't want to play gooseberry.'

'Why would he be a gooseberry?'

'Good evening, Sir. Madam.' Another waiter appeared, white cloth draped over one arm as he presented a large green bottle to them. 'We thought you might enjoy a bottle of Bollinger. This is one of our finest champagnes.'

'We didn't order that,' Della said.

'No, Madam. With the compliments of the Deauville Hotel.'

Without pausing for a reply, the waiter popped the cork and produced two champagne glasses. Paul swept his up as soon as it was placed under his nose, sipping and Mmm-ing appreciatively. 'Ah, that's lovely, that,' he told the waiter, shaking his glass for a top-up.

'Are you ready to order, Sir?'

'Della?' Paul asked, eyebrows raised.

Della looked down at her menu, still on the appetisers page. 'Um, sorry, I haven't looked...'

'Another two minutes if you wouldn't mind,' Paul said and the wine waiter practically bowed to him as he backed away. 'Try some of the champers,' Paul said. 'It's quite nice.'

With a short sigh, Della sipped it. It was nice. Not sharp and sour like the champagne Della had tasted in the past at weddings and christenings.

'It's hard to get out of that habit, isn't it?' Paul asked, looking round the restaurant.

'What habit?'

'Being poor. Y'know, automatically sending away the expensive plonk because you think you can't afford it. It's funny sometimes, you just think, Oh! No, I can afford it now.'

'You can maybe. Brian doesn't pay me well enough to drink champagne.'

'Us, I mean. We can afford things like that now.'

'Well, that bottle was free anyway. The waiter said so. '

Paul laughed, but Della hadn't been joking. He smacked his lips together and took another swallow of champagne, draining his glass. 'The other night in New York, we went to a steakhouse. You weren't there. You were with George, I think. When Mal got up to pay at the end of the meal, they wouldn't take the money. John said when we hadn't got two ha'pennies to rub together, no one wanted to know. Now we actually do have money for things, it's all compliments of the house and oh, no, we couldn't possibly expect you to pay!'

Della softened and smiled. 'Everyone just wants to bask in your reflected glory. You deserve it though. You've done so well, Paul, and this week's been incredible.'

Paul just smiled modestly.

'I like your new song too.'

'Which one?'

'The one you were playing on the boat earlier.'

'Oh, Can't Buy Me Love. We wrote that in Paris. Recorded it there too, though it'll probably need a bit of polishing when we get home.'

'It'll be on the next album then. Maybe a single?'

'Yes, maybe. Paris is a beautiful city, have you been?'

Della shook her head. 'I bet you didn't get to see much of it. You don't get the chance to look round the places you play these days, do you?'

'We saw a bit of it. Did some tourist things,' Paul said. 'It's a very romantic city.'

Della laughed. 'So romantic, you wrote that song there!'

Paul frowned but they were interrupted by the waiter again, wanting to take their order. The restaurant was still quiet and they were drastically overstaffed. Four waiters with nothing to do had been hovering in the vicinity of their table since they'd sat down. Of course, that could just be the magnetic pull of a Beatle.

Della still hadn't read the menu. She ordered the first thing she saw, despite the waiters suggestion she and Paul shared a platter of oysters. Paul seemed quite keen on the idea until Della nipped it in the bud with a swift, 'Urgh, no, oysters make me sick!' even though in truth, she'd never eaten one in her life.

Paul was behaving very strangely. Was this supposed to be a date? When he'd asked her to dinner, she assumed he meant join them for dinner at the hotel along with everyone else. She'd only answered quite so enthusiastically to see what kind of reaction it provoked in George. He'd annoyed her over that stupid joke. But it was Valentine's night, and she couldn't help but wonder if she'd got hold of the wrong end of the stick. Or maybe Paul had.

Della and Paul were still a couple last Valentine's Day. She had to think to remember what there were doing. Nothing. Paul had been in Liverpool, playing a Valentine's dance, and despite that he'd still forgotten to send her a card or flowers. Della had been at home in London. How dramatically things can change in a year.

'Why wouldn't I write that song in Paris?' Paul asked, as soon as the waiter stepped away again.

'What song?'

'Can't Buy Me Love.'

'Well, not I just mean, it's not all that romantic a song, is it?'

Paul blinked, slightly offended Della thought. 'Don't you think so?'

'It's a good song,' Della said. 'I like it a lot. It's just... you know, a break up song.'

'It's not a break up song,' Paul said, defensively. 'It's about... It's how material things, possessions, diamond rings... money, still can't buy you true love. You can buy whatever you want with money, except for love.'

Della pressed her lips together. 'Well, I guess you'd know a lot about that now,' she said, a little more sharply than she'd intended.

'Yes, I think I do,' Paul sniffed. 'I mean, I wrote it, didn't I?'

'I mean with all your money and your adoring fans. And your... champagne. Free or otherwise.' She turned her head away, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to see the expression she didn't think she could keep off her face. 'Women throwing themselves at you in nightclubs. That sort of thing. Money can buy you that.'

'I'm sorry for that, Della,' Paul said, his voice level and serious.

She took a deep breath and turned back to him. 'Shall we talk about something else?' 

'I'm sorry for that night and letting you... Well, I'm sorry it happened, because you're right. It was what we had, wasn't it?'

'What was?

'You didn't want me because I was a Beatle. You were with me before all that, before fame and money and whatever else. What we had was real.'

Della frowned. 'I suppose.'

'I regret treating that so casually. It's what was on my mind when I wrote it.'

Della rolled her eyes. 'Oh, Paul, it was not.'

'How do you know?'

'I very much doubt you were there in Paris, in your luxurious hotel suite, nibbling on caviar, sipping your bloody champagne, and pining away for the penniless pauper girlfriend you used to have before you got rich.'

Paul smiled and reached for the champagne bottle to top-up Della's glass and refill his own. 'I don't eat caviar.'

'And that's the only thing incorrect I said?'

He nodded sagely and Della laughed, despite herself. 'Paul,' she said, sobering. 'Why did you ask me to dinner tonight?'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Why did you accept?'

'I don't know. I didn't think it would be... quite like this.' She gestured to the restaurant. There were a few more people coming into eat now. The waiters were seating them on the lower level, away from Paul and Della.

Paul gave a half shrug. 'You've got to eat, haven't you? And it's nicer eating with a pretty girl for company.'

Della pursed her lips. 'I think we've already established that you're not short of pretty girls who would be willing to eat dinner with you. Why did you ask me?'

'Well, alright.' Paul exhaled. He sat forward, taking a couple of sips from his champagne glass and leaning his elbows on the table to do it. 'I was going to wait until the end of the night, but I was thinking... we should get back together, Della.'

Della laughed nervously, even though she wasn't sure she got the joke.

Paul smiled and said nothing.

'You can't mean that...'

'I do.'

'Why?'

'Does there need to be a reason?'

'Well, yes, I rather think there does. What's changed?'

'That's just the point. Nothing has changed. Except I've come to my senses.'

Della frowned. 'Four months ago you dumped me because I "deserved someone better" and you had "this Beatles thing to deal with."'

'Well, yes, but...' Paul sat up straighter. 'That was wrong.'

'So I don't deserve someone better now?'

Paul laughed. 'I am better now. I'm sorry, love. I was having an off day.'

'An off day? An "off day" where you ended our relationship.'

'Yeah... I was tired. All those fans chased us down the street after the Palladium. We'd been touring for weeks, playing almost every night. It was a crazy time.'

'I seem to remember it was something more to do with you wanting to shag other girls. And it's no less crazy now. In fact it's worse.'

'No, but I'm... seeing things clearer.'

Della opened her mouth to argue, but paused. She'd thought about this scenario before. She'd imagined him saying things like this to her many times, particularly when the hurt from their split was still fresh and raw. Della, my love, I've made a terrible mistake, please take me back...

A waiter arrived with a prawn cocktail starter for them each, served in bowls that looked like brandy glasses. He plonked Della's down in front of her and took a lot more care serving Paul's, bantering with him to Paul's amusement and requesting an autograph for his teenage daughter, which Paul dutifully signed on the waiter's order pad.

Whenever she'd played her favourite Paul fantasy over in her head, it always ended the same way. Sometimes she'd accept eagerly, sometimes she'd torture him and make him wait, but always, always, she took him back. But now she was confronted by it, she wasn't so sure. It'd taken Della a while to get over Paul, and though she hadn't really acknowledged it, she had to think that maybe she was over him. When did she last think about him in that way? When did she last conjure up the image of him begging her to take him back? Not for weeks. It didn't even cross her mind when Brian asked her to join them in New York.

The waiter finally left, clutching his autograph, and Paul turned back to Della. 'How's the food?'

She glanced down at her prawns, untouched. 'What about George?'

Paul shook his head. 'What? What about him?'

'When we broke up, you kept talking about George.'

He crinkled his forehead. 'I don't think I did, did I? I don't remember mentioning George. Why would I talk about him?'

'Well, that's it, I don't know. You kept saying I should be with someone like George and not like you.'

Paul scratched his forehead. 'No, I don't think... Oh, uh, I think George had said something to me about you, but I think I just misunderstood him. I think he was talking about something else. You'd have to ask him. I mean, you've straightened everything out with George now, haven't you? All friends again?'

Della nodded and Paul smiled.

'So there's no problem then is there? No one to stand in our way.' He picked up his fork. 'Tuck in then, love. Don't let it get cold... or warm. Is it supposed to be cold?' He speared a prawn and popped it into his mouth, smiling at her as he chewed.

'You look nice.'

That's what George had said, so really it was unfair that Della was still in a sulk about it. She said she wasn't, but she was. She didn't give him proper replies if he spoke to her. He'd tried to talk to her on the boat, but she got all defensive when he told her about Paul. And now she was avoiding him. She could have come out with them tonight. Instead she'd chosen to go out with Paul. On a date.

'You're sure I don't look like a killer whale in this?'

See? She said it, not George. It was Della.

'Well, you know. Just don't fall asleep on the beach.'

'What? Why?'

'Because when you wake up, they might be trying to drag you back into the ocean.'

Okay, it was that part she'd objected to. George had been smiling when he said it. Smiling to show he was kidding around. But Della didn't smile. She didn't laugh. She had a look on her face of hurt and embarrassment, mumbled something about it being all they had in the shop and tried to leave. George had caught her wrist and pulled her back to him, telling her he was just joking, but then they'd called him outside for the photos and since then she'd definitely been... off with him.

The thing was, she did look good in it. She'd worn a dress over it for the rest of the day. Some weird folded thing that she tied on her hip and that George would tell her looked like a tablecloth, except he'd learned his lesson. He wouldn't have expected daft jokes would upset Della so much. She hadn't been bothered before. Maybe it was because she didn't want him showing her up in front of Paul.

All those cold nights at Arnold Grove that he remembered so vividly. They'd stopped when the moved to Upton Green and Della had come into his life. Sharing a bed with Pete had been a never ending tug of war for the blankets, but Della had always snuggled up to him. They'd kept each other warm. George was regretting telling Della she didn't need to share rooms with him now he wasn't sick anymore, not least because he now had a new roommate in the form of Murray the K, the DJ. Louise had gone home so he couldn't use that as an excuse to get rid of him and George couldn't slip out and go and find Della either because she wasn't staying at the same hotel.

After the mix up with the plane tickets at the airport, Brian had asked Della if she would stay with them for Miami, but the Deauville was full. Word had gotten round that it was the Beatle hotel and every room had been booked out. Della was staying at another hotel further down the coast. They'd stayed out until two or three in the morning last night but when they got back to the hotel George had been unable to sleep. He'd lain there, listening to the snoring of his unwanted roomie, and wishing he had Della back, sleeping next to him.

It wasn't just the stupid joke this morning. If he thought about it, Della had been a bit distant with him since the morning they went to Washington on the train. Since he said she didn't have to stay with him anymore.

'–George?'

George blinked when he heard his name, and shook his head. 'Sorry, what?'

John, sitting in front of him but twisted around in his seat, sighed at him. 'Christ, George. I've been talking to you for five minutes.'

'About what?'

'About that cock.'

He jerked his head towards the front of the room. George lifted his head, surprised to find the stage empty. They'd been watching a stand up comedian. It must be the interval. George hadn't been paying attention. The comedian had picked on the Beatles for jokes, but not given them any opportunity to respond. All one way. He wasn't very funny. It'd been more amusing to watch John squirming in his seat, seething about it.

'What did you say?' George asked.

'Never mind. Fucking hell,' John said, annoyed. 'What's up with you anyway? You've had a face on you all night.'

George twisted his mouth. 'I haven't. I'm fine.'

John studied him for a moment. 'Bloody nora, it's that girl again, isn't it?'

'What girl?' George said, attempting nonchalance, but feeling like he was falling short of it.

'She's out with Paul and you're sitting here stewing about it. Fuck, George, you and Paul are going to have to have a punch up about it or something. We're not going through all that again.'

'Who's having a punch up?' Ringo asked, leaning over the table in between them.

'No one,' George answered.

'Paul and George, over that Della bird.'

'Where is she?'

'Out with Paul,' John said.

'Oh,' Ringo said, a slight frown on his brow. 'What? Like out out? I thought she was with you now, George?' 

'What?'

'Well, you've been sleeping together for the last week,' Ringo said and George stared at him until Ringo began feeling uncomfortable. 'Everyone knows you were sharing a bedroom and that,' he said, glancing sideways at John. 'We all just assumed...'

'Well, unassume,' George said, grumpily.

'Ignore him, Ring,' John told him, turning his shoulder to George. 'He's just sore that he swapped a nice, pretty thing like Della for a stinking old fella like Murray the K. I'd be pissed off too.'

'John,' Cynthia tutted at him, sitting on the other side of him.

'I'm just saying, love,' John protested. 'Which one would you rather share a bed with?' He leaned over the table to Ringo. 'She's alright that Della bird, too, eh? Nice rack on her, don't you think?' John cackled a laugh and stole a look at George for his reaction.

'Shut up, John,' Ringo told him as the lights dimmed, heralding the beginning of the second half of the comedy show.

'If you're so bothered about it, why don't you go and have it out with him?' John said to George then turned round in his chair to face the front again.

George leaned forward and poked him in the shoulder with two fingers. 'There never has been and never will be anything between me and Della,' he said, losing his nerve slightly when John glared at him, annoyed at the poke. 'Just drop it, will you?'

'That,' John said, 'is the biggest joke I've heard all evening.'

Della's hotel was a short walk from the Deauville, about twenty minutes at strolling pace, but as Paul insisted on seeing her safely there, they had to sneak out of the hotel the back way, through the kitchens, then wait outside beside the smelly, industrial sized bins for a taxi to collect them. Mal accompanied them, or rather accompanied Paul, then waited at the end of the car park, holding the taxi and keeping a watch as Paul ambled up the driveway to the hotel lobby enterance with Della.

'Thank you for a nice evening,' Della said, when they reached the front doors. 'You'd better leave me here, before someone recognises you and another hotel is deluged with Beatle fans.'

'Aren't you going to invite me in for a coffee?' Paul asked cheekily, leaning on the door, seemingly casually, but Della suspected it was designed to block her way inside.

Della smiled. 'My room doesn't have a kettle. Besides, Mal is waiting for you.'

'Maybe we could do it again?' he offered. 'Go out for another meal before we have to go back to England?'

She nodded. 'Yes, maybe,' she agreed. 'If there's time.'

As the night had wore on, the "date" had become easier. Maybe it had more to do with the champagne, but Della had warmed to Paul's company. It was easy to fall back in with him, he'd always been easy to talk to. Soon she and Paul had been chatting and laughing about their shared past, the lengths they'd gone to to sneak around and hide their relationship from the fans. Suddenly everything that happened seemed absurd and hilarious.

The waiters had opened large french doors that looked out on the beach and the ocean beyond, allowing a warm breeze and the smell of the sea air to flow around the restaurant. The music was pleasant and the food delicious. They were interrupted on a couple of occasions by autograph hunters. As the restaurant filled, it was inevitable some people would recognise Paul. He signed napkins and scraps of paper and to her surprise, he made a point of introducing 'my very good friend, Della,' to each one.

Afterwards, Paul suggested they join the other Beatles at the Deauville, but Della declined, pleading an early start in the morning - although she didn't actually have very much to do. The plans were for the Beatles to spend most of the day rehearsing for the show and someone had suggested they take up the invitation to go back to the house with the swimming pool. Other than that, there wasn't anything to do. 

'I can always make time for you,' Paul said, smoothly. 

Della lifted herself slightly on her toes and kissed his cheek. 'Goodnight, Paul,' she said, friendly but firm, and slipped past him. 'I will see you tomorrow. Tell the others I said goodnight, will you?'

'Della?' Paul said, as she opened the door to go into the hotel.

As she turned back to him, he kissed her. A hand on each of her arms, keeping her there and his warm lips against hers. She resisted at first, surprised, and then –rightly or wrongly– she kissed him back. He moved his hands to the small of her back, locking his fingers together there as he pressed his body against her. Eventually, the kiss broke and Della paused, letting the feeling linger for a moment before she opened her eyes.

He was smiling lazily at her. 'I've wanted to do that since New York.'

She doffed his arm. 'Paul, you always were such a beautiful liar.'

'It's not a lie.'

'For the first few days of this trip you didn't say a word to me. You wouldn't even remain in the same room as me!'

'Well,' Paul turned his head away, bashful. 'That was stupid. Almost as stupid as letting you go in the first place.'

'Oh, yes, but you did, didn't you?' she teased. 'Why is that?'

'I don't know. I must have lost my mind.'

'Mmm,' she said, cynically and tried to break out of his embrace. He wouldn't release her.

'I don't think you're taking me seriously.'

'Oh, I am.'

'Do you really want to know? Why I broke it off?'

'I already know.'

'Do you?'

'So you could shag around, guilt free.'

'Della, no.' He looked hurt, but it didn't seem genuine. She plumped for the other reason she'd pondered since their break up but hadn't dared say allowed, even to herself.

'There was someone else. You'd already met Jane.'

He frowned like he didn't know who she was talking about. 'I hadn't.'

'You told me at your twenty-first birthday party you'd "escorted" her home.'

He shrugged. 'I'd met her once, maybe a couple of times before. We hadn't done anything. '

'Well,' Della pulled away from him again. This time, Paul let her go. 'She's your girlfriend now.'

'Not really.'

'Yes, really. She is, Paul, and yet here you are, escorting someone else back to her hotel room, on a clear, starry night, and asking her if she wants to... Actually, I'm not entirely sure what you're asking me?'

'I'm asking you to come back to me,' he said, in such a way that it made her stomach twist. 'And you haven't given me a proper answer yet.' He looped his arms around her again, firmly this time and pulled her closer to him, aiming for another kiss, but Della moved her head back, avoiding  his mouth. 'I want us to go back to how we were before,' he added, earnestly.

'Good God, I don't.'

'Oh,' Paul said, and blinked. 'Right.'

He let her go, stepping away to put himself side on to her, hands on hips and a perplexed, slightly shocked expression on his face. Poor Paul, Della supposed he was quite unused to hearing "no" from a girl these days.

He looked at her sideways. 'Quick but brutal, eh?'

She laughed. 'You don't want that either though, surely? All the skulking around, keeping distances from each other, denying you know me so that you don't appear too "attached" for your legions of fans.'

He shook his head. 'It wouldn't be like that now.'

'Why wouldn't it? I read only a week ago an interview with you in 16 magazine or Rave or some such thing, where you stressed how Jane and you are "just good pals" and "she's a great girl". I'm sorry, Paul. I don't want that anymore.'

'And that's the only reason?' Paul asked. 'Del, it doesn't need to be secret anymore. We've... We were trying to get to the top before, now I think we're there. John and Cynthia aren't a secret anymore. They're married and the world hasn't fallen apart. The record sales haven't been knocked. I don't see any reason why we would need to keep quiet about us still.'

He stepped closer to her again. Della took a small step back.

'You have a girlfriend, Paul.'

'Who? Jane? Jane and I aren't serious. We've been out maybe three... four times. I'll tell her it's over.' He glanced up at the floors of Della's hotel. 'Invite me inside and I'll call her now, transatlantic, and tell her it's all off.'

Della smiled and shook her head. 'I'm not inviting you inside.'

'Why not?'

'Because as soon as you get up there, you'll try to kiss me and I might let you and then you'll think everything is a given.'

Paul licked his bottom lip. 'And why is that so bad?'

'Paul, I...' She sighed. 'I can't. It's not you, it's...'

Paul put his head on one side. 'It's not you, it's me?' He stepped closer to her again, placing his hands lightly on her hips.

'No,' Della put her hands on the biceps of his arms, keeping him back from her. 'It's not you, it's your fans.'

Paul laughed.

'It's not funny. I can't be your girlfriend knowing how they... throw themselves at you everywhere you go. I couldn't stand it, Paul. It was bad enough when we were dating.'

'It won't last forever.'

'What won't?'

'Beatlemania. It can't, can it? We're top of the charts now, but what's a pop career these days? Four, five years if you're lucky?'

'I don't know. It feels like it could be everlasting now.'

'There are no thirty year old pop stars though, are there?' Paul said, bringing her closer to him. 'Del, believe me. It'll probably all be over in a couple of years and then things will be... normal again.'

'You think so?'

Paul sighed. 'What if... What if we wait til then? If neither of us are attached to anyone, when all this is done and dusted and the Beatles are a distant memory, would you want to get back together then?'

Della smiled. 'Maybe.'

'Well, don't promise anything you can't back out of.'

She laughed. 'It sounds like a good idea, Paul. When the Beatles are over, we'll get back together.'

Paul nodded and released her. 'It's a deal,' he said, a little sadly, but smiled, then he kissed her, just once, just chastely on her lips and skipped down the steps, heading back towards where Mal was waiting. 'Don't forget about it, Della!' he called back to her.

'I won't,' she shouted back, but already, Paul was gone.

Eventually they cut to a commercial. The audience clapped politely, but a little subdued. They'd been expecting the main act and were confused that they hadn't received it.

'Get Epstein down here now,' the floor manager demanded, through gritted teeth.

Della nodded. 'I would if I could.' 

She turned her back on him, unsure what to do. They would be back live in less than two minutes. To Della's left stood the comedy duo, Marty Allen and Steve Rossi, waiting and ready to go on. The makeup lady caught Della's eye and jerked her head towards the doors, telling her to make her escape. Della smiled to her. She was joking, but thirty seconds more and Della was going to run for it.

The doors at the top of the Napoleon Room flew open. Flanked by a large number of Miami police officers, the Beatles burst through. The audience applauded them as they strode confidently through the crowd, waving, carrying guitars and drumsticks. Della nearly applauded too. She looked for the floor manager to crow victoriously, but he was on the other side, telling the cameramen to ready themselves. They were back live in thirty seconds.

The Beatles shot past Della towards the stage. Paul put a hand on her shoulder as he passed. He twisted his next around to see her reaction, not stopping, and Della grinned at him. Paul smiled back.

As the Beatles plugged their guitars into amps, the music for the show intro played again and curtains hurriedly shut on them. Ed Sullivan rushed through his intro, perhaps sensing that if the audience were denied their precious Beatles for much longer, there would be violence.

The curtain, still swaying from being closed, swooshed open again. Girls squealed and screamed and Della had to bite her lip to stop herself from joining them.

John, Paul and George stepped up to their microphones. Ringo hit the drums and– 'She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah...'

Slick, professional, intuitively together. Not a bead of sweat on a forehead or a single dropped note. No one would ever know anything had gone awry.

They wore the new blue suits. High fastening and unusually designed with black velvet collars on a bright blue tonic, which would look good even on black and white TV screens. John had his new Rickenbacker 325, delivered directly to him at the Deauville two days earlier with the compliments and eternal thanks of Rickenbacker. George had his usual Country Gent Gretsch and Paul, his Hofner Violin bass, of course.

Della looked around for Brian and couldn't find him. Maybe he'd be watching from the suite upstairs. The song ended and the Beatles took their synchronised bow, then Paul and George stepped backwards from each other and John came round to stand in between them both so they could all three share the same microphone.

'That boy... Took my love away...' They began without a word, not a pause, just a smile shared between the three of them. Relief, probably, that they hadn't fluffed the lyrics, but their harmony was perfect. They were perfect.

George was usually always in the middle between John and Paul, but for this song he stood on the right, directly in Della's eyeline.

Maybe it was the song or maybe the stress of the last week; the shows and the fans and the travelling and the arguments, or perhaps it was sheer relief that the floor manager no longer wanted to strangle her, but tears filled Della's eyes. She wasn't a cryer. Not often anyway. Maybe it was just because it was a really beautiful song.

A hand appeared in front of her nose, brandishing a handkerchief. 'Don't spoil your mascara, honey,' said the makeup lady, standing next to Della now.

Della laughed and took the tissue to dab her eyes carefully. 'Thank you. Sorry.'

'You English are funny people. You're always apologising for everything.'

'Sorry,' Della said again and laughed. 'It's the song. It's lovely, isn't it? They play it so well.' Della watched George. He smiled as he played, and though she was a little too far away to tell and through the bright lights it was unlikely George could see her properly, Della was sure he winked at her.

The woman pressed her lips together. 'My god,' she said. 'Your man. He's so fine.' She shook her head, as if this was something regrettable.

'George?' Della asked, confused but strangely happy at the comment.

She frowned. 'I thought you dated Paul, honey? I read it in a magazine. He's the bass player, isn't he?'

'Oh,' Della laughed. 'No, we used to date. A long time ago now. The press are trying to make something of it, but we were never that serious.' 

'Well, he is goddamn handsome, honey. I have never seen such a fine looking young man.'

'You're not the only one of that opinion,' Della said, nodding, but she wasn't watching Paul. She was watching George. 'He's very good looking.'

It was the oddest thing. Two nights ago, she'd turned Paul down because she couldn't stand the thought of dealing with all his adoring fans, but when she looked at George, she didn't... feel like that.

George had his fair share of crazy fans too, but somehow it didn't seem so overwhelming. Della wouldn't mind putting up with that  - or with anything - for George.

She'd realised it a few days ago, at that horrible British Embassy party. But then, maybe it was before that. Or maybe she'd always known. It scared her a little at first, it made her nervous, it was probably why she'd been picking petty fights with him ever since.

Because George was the one she wanted.

Because George was the one she loved. She'd always loved him.

And if Della and George were together, then that would be fine, wouldn't it?