Friday the 24th of October 1958

I brushed down the pretty light blue frock that Maggie 'Margret' Walters insisted on giving me. It was probably the most beautiful thing I had owned in all my life. Maggie had become more of a friend or sister than anything over the weeks that I had babysat her young daughter. It felt wrong wearing someone else's clothes but I was blessed by the kindness shown.

I did not support the idea of going to a party but Paul was very insistent. I was not one to say no to Paul McCartney ⎯⎯ within reason of course.

He helped me pick my shoes and suggested how to style my hair and I was very grateful for his help. I would have been so lost if he hadn't guided me. I did not have any makeup whatsoever but I was sitting against the edge of the tub chatting to George whilst he put Vaseline in his thick, voluminous hair, shaping it into an Elvis-like quiff with one of Paul's combs.

"That's rather a lot of Vaseline, it'll look greasy," I said with a soft laugh. From the reflection of the mirror, I could see how George sent a look of daggers my way.

Paul came into the bathroom, dousing nice a dress shirt, tie and pants. Paul clapped before speaking, startling both me who was waiting on George ⎯⎯ who still looked like a teddy boy.

"Are we ready to go?" Paul asked checking his wristwatch.

Paul's eyes casted to me, sweeping over my appearance. I felt myself blush, trying to act cool as I stood up from leaning against the bath tub and brushed down my skirt.

Together the three of us trudged down the stairs calling out a quick goodbye to Paul's dad Jim, who reminded Paul of our cerfew. The walk wasn't too bad. I was starting to get familiar with Liverpool which was nice. I wasn't as much a lost puppy, asking people for directions or asking Paul to walk me places.

The house was old and ridiculously fancy almost a little bit gothic with its stretching up endlessly into the sky. I could almost see why Paul made the choice for us both dress to impress. I'm not sure who this person was in Sefton Park but I imagined it was one of John's art friends from the Liverpool Art College.

George was ahead of both Paul and me and he looked around before he clamered over the iron rail fence. I tried to hide the look of astonishment. Was it really that hard to just walk through the front door?

"Over the fence, love," Paul asked me with a gentle encouraging smile.

"Pardon?" I asked, growing more and more confused.

"Come 'head, lar, I've got ya," George promised with a hand reaching over from the other side.

I hooked my kitten heel over the stone, trying not to snare my skirt. Paul was behind me trying to keep me steady and George was already grabbing onto my wrists to make sure I didn't fall over. I don't think I would've needed their help as much if I was wearing flat shoes or a petticoat under my dress.

George helped me down, my heels clicking against the pavement, although, he was still child-like in his appearance not just quite that sharp looking teenager in photographs ⎯⎯ he had the strength of someone much older. He absolutely saved me from spraining my ankle.

"Thank you, Geo," I said with the most grateful smile I could muster. I noticed in the darkening light that George blushed.

"We weren't invited were we?" I said aloud to him whilst I could hear Paul talking to himself.

"It depends on how yer look at it," George said seriously and it was absolutely clear that we were in fact party crashers.

Paul managed to clamber over the fence all alone but I giggled when he exaggerated how George would not help him but help me and rubbed his ass. He must've hurt himself.

"Oh don't be a wuss," I said laughing.

Paul's face scrunched up into a petty frown, almost hurt in a joking kind of way. I was surprised how much this expression on his face was photographed over the years. I couldn't deny the blessing it was to see it in person.

Paul took my hand in his, taking the lead and leaving George to follow after us. Paul walked around the side of the house, opened the back door into a dim corridor following the sound of the party and leading me into the living room.

It was a party riddled with John's artsy college friends I realised. A lot of them wore drainpipe trousers with the cuffs flicked up with dressier shirts and girls with pretty floofy dresses. A record player echoed an Elvis tune that was so loud I could barely hear myself think. Most were lingering in little groups, drinks in hand, although, there were a few dancing about on the makeshift dance floor.

I had no idea where we were or whom's house this was. I don't think George even cared and Paul had let go of my hand, kissing my cheek and toddled off somewhere upon our arrival.

I stood next to George and the two of us were a little lost. At least I had a buddy. I did not recognise anyone in this room. Talking to John was a reedy guy glasses nestled upon the bridge of his nose. He seemed awfully familiar but without the extensive knowledge of the Beatles my grandmother had ⎯⎯ I felt rather unsure about a lot of things. I was glad John was too engrossed in his conversation and this dark haired girl who walked across the room that he paid no mind to me or her friend that followed after her.

"Who is that?" I murmured to George. "The one next to John?"

"Oh, that's uh, Stuart Sutcliffe," George whispered back, resting an elbow on my shoulder. His name made sense. I knew he went to Germany with them at some point. But I hadn't known all that much. I only knew things that my own grandmother would enforce upon me. Mainly of their music and films or significant performances on youtube. I had such a bleak knowledge and it made me feel so alone in all of this. How could I protect their future if I was getting details wrong or changing little details that ended up causing a threat?

"I'm confused," I whispered back.

"It's his party. . . I think," George whispered. "I'm just here for the free beer."

"Of course you are," I said with a laugh.

"Then why am I here?" I whispered.

"Why should I know? You're Paul's bird."

"Not really," I said with a grimace.

"I saw you sucking his face off that day at the beach," George said with a hearty laugh. "That's rather explanatory don't ye think?"

I loved how George said explanatory. It was almost like how he said brackets. It made me laugh. He had a much stronger Scouse accent than Paul. Being around those who were older only made it clear how young George was. He was a fifteen year old around those ranging from a year to even a few years older. I couldn't deny the excitement and coolness I felt though. John was older and when you had older friends it couldn't help me not feel a bit smug.

"I suppose," I confessed. "I'll be going home at some point. But I am so glad you wanted me here Geo."

George smiled brightly, his canines showing as if what I had said was humorous. I don't think he had much of a say whether I came here or not.

"Here love," Paul whispered, handing me a little glass of drink.

"What is this?" I asked, trying to one, taste it and look cool whilst ignoring this odd combination of bitter and sweet taste, and two, act like I have had at least one sip of alcohol before.

Paul took it of me, tasting it for a moment before handing it back, "Uh, it's a shandy."

"Oh. Thank you."

I didn't have to drink this. I told myself. When I get the chance I'll ask George to drink it. Was it lemonade and beer?

"I'm going to look for a guitar," Paul whispered in my ear. "I'll be back, darling."

I stood alone, watching the room. It was loud and chatty and hardly not my thing. I was glad of the experience but I would've much rather be in bed with a book and a nice scolding hot cup of english tea. There was two girls in front of me, chatting to themselves, blistfully ignoring those around the room. It was almost as if they were talking hushed gossip.

"Hello," I said in a much louder voice than I intended, trying to muster my introduction in the most polite, sophisticated way I could. "I'm Daisy. You must be Cynthia."

"It's lovely to meet you," she said gently shaking my hand. I looked to John and I could see that he was watching our interaction with great care ⎯⎯ ignoring whatever Stuart was telling him. I had been used to seeing the blonde Cynthia from all the photographs floating around the internet. I found that Cynthia was a sweet and soft-spoken and classy. She had a glass of white wine in her hand.

"You must be a friend of John's," She mused, knowingly.

"And Paul and George. They are all I know here. I came along with them both. Party crashers almost."

"You can stick with me if you like. I assure you that Dot and I are more civilised company," Cynthia said warmly. "Dot Rhone meet Daisy."

I smiled reaching out to shake the hand of the quieter, shorter pudgy girl with her brown hair cut short. "Pleasure. I'm Daisy Twist."

Who was this Dot Rhone?

"Are you friends with John?" Dot asked, glancing at John in the middle of the large and luscious living room. I notice that she seemed to be admiring him in the most adoring fashion. I looked back and forth for a moment, confused. He was lovely and talented person but a cruel asshole sometimes. I would never tell John but I loved and admired him to bits.

"I-I suppose so. More mutual friends then anything," I informed her. "I haven't been here long. A couple months at most. "

"I noticed an accent. Where are ya from?" She asked and Cynthia seemed to be listening but her eyes were far away.

"Australia," I smiled, trying to ignore how much my brain was rolling around. Why couldn't I remember who Dot was? "Land down under and all that."

Paul slipped his arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my hair, a guitar in the other. "How's my girl? Having fun?"

I blush, noting the eyes of both girls suddenly on me. "I'm alright. How's my fella?" I asked with a giggle, knowing I would have never called Paul a fella ever and I nearly cringed. I didn't even call the blokes back home fellas. Dot's eyes seemed to widen at the sight of it. Had I traumatised her with my Australian-ness?

"Fella?" Paul asked, his dark perfect, sloped eyebrows raised.

"Aussie slang," I whispered, leaning into Paul and his warmth, his scent of lavender and his cheap woodbine cigarettes.

"Mm," he mused, suddenly steering me away. "I'm stealing Miss. Koala Bear away. Don't mind us ladies."

Paul slipped his hand from my waist to my hand, interlacing our fingers. I could feel the rough callouses on his fingertips, a trophy of playing the guitar and every musical instrument he could get his fingers on. Paul leads me up the stairs and I blindly follow after him. I have absolutely no clue where we are and he stops and lets go of my hand and opens the door to two loud shrieks and then shuts the door with a loud slam a couple of sends later.

"Back down stairs it is," Paul mumbles to himself and I trample after him my feet sore from the heels I was wearing. Together we make our way into the kitchen. I forgot what it was like to fit more than two people in a kitchen. It was a rather large space, riddled with matching all to the colour scheme of a creamy off-white and floral curtains.

Paul and I sit at the rounded polished wooden table by the window and pretty floral curtains. I watch eagerly and he flips the guitar upside down, taking a couple of minutes to tune it to his liking.

"The damn thing was completely out of tune," Paul informs me at a lowly whisper. "I have a secret to you tell you Daisy Darling . . . I've been writing you a song."

"Can I hear it please?"

Paul coughs and straightens before his fingers make out a melody unlike anything I have heard before. A lot of it is instrumental and he sings gibberish and incoherent words for a while. It seemed like he was trying to find the right place to start singing, lost in the tune and tempo. Then I feel my breath catch in my lungs as his melodious voice echoes across the kitchen:

Oh my daisy,
My sweetest little flower,
Oh how I need you so,
I wish to bring you home

"Is that all of it?" I whisper, gobsmacked. "It's beautiful."

Paul smiles that charming boyish smile of his and shrugs. "I've just been working on it. . . that's the chorus . . . I hope. It's odd for me not to think of lyrics all the way through."

"It almost sounds a bit frenchy. Girls love those."

"Yeah?" He asks, looking to the borrowed guitar, back to me and stretches his head for a moment. "Hm."

It doesn't start out as anything I knew but then it shifts, starting to resemble what I believed as 'Michelle.' I feel dizzy with awe and worry. How was this possible?

"I can imagine you in Paris, sitting in a boat trying to serenade a lady in the 1920s or something. With a little top hat and moustache."

"Is that so?"

"Or as a busker."

"How sweet of you, love," Paul says with a giggly laugh.

I look at Paul, my eyes shining with adoration. He must see it. He must know. And I can almost see a flicker of that look back if I stare into them long enough. Paul coughs, looking away for a moment before turning back to me. "Show me what George taught you."

"I haven't practiced or anything!"

Paul pushes the guitar to me, flipping it upright.

"Uh, um, this is C?" I repeat trying to slide my fingers and I find prop my wrist the wrong way. I did not make it sound right like George did. I was surprised that I could even remember but I winced at the sound.

Paul didn't wince or anything of the sort.

"Stand up," he tells me and he places his hands on my hips twisting me so my back is against him. He gently tugs me down so I am sitting on his lap. I almost drop the guitar and I feel myself grow hot and bright red.

I am blinking and disassociating from the world. I was sitting on Paul's lap.

"Here," Paul comments placing his fingers over mine, finding the correct chord for C and I use my other hand to strum against the strings.

"Good girl," he murmurs in my ear. Paul had a light Liverpool accent but when he was whispering it seemed so much thicker. I think it was from all the stories Jim would tell me about Paul's mother who would try to make both her children speak 'properly.'

A laugh rings through the little kitchen. I knew that laugh. John. I turn my head so fast I'm sure I'd get whiplash. John is smiling almost rather genuinely, leaning against the doorframe that allows you to enter the kitchen.

"Go on sweet little angel goody two shoes, listen to good ol' Macca who'd rather watch ya play terribly with any ounce of musical talent than shag you like any normal bloke⎯"

"John! Sod off!" Paul shouts, snagging his arms around me in an almost protective manner. It was like he didn't want me to stand up.

"John go back to the party." I speak calmly, "Close the door on the way out, ta ra!"

John is motioning to Paul something as I'm speaking and they both seem to ignore what I'm saying because Paul starts laughing. I roll my eyes, disapproving of the sudden change. I have that feeling, however, fleeting and I sink into the moment. Sometimes a moment is forever. If all I could hear for the rest of my life is Paul's laughter.

I stand up heading over to the door and press the guitar to John's chest, weaving my way through the doorframe. I didn't even bother to tell them both where I was going. I wandered through the kitchen out of the living room and down the hall to the back door.

I take a deep breath, letting the fresh air settle into my lungs. I wrap my arms around myself wishing that I had a cardigan or a jumper. It is daunting and unexpectedly challenging to be here. I keep trying to remind myself that John knows about me and I crave to know what his thoughts are upon the matter.

"I thought you'd be out here," Paul says a metre or so behind me.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" I say and turn to face him. "I just needed some fresh air."

"I was worried," Paul whispers, his voice laced with false dramatics.

"There's no need to worry. I'm all good."

"Ah okay," Paul admits, kicking an imaginary rock with the tip of his shoe and slips his hands into the pocket of his jacket. "I've been meaning to talk to you, you know? I-I want to take you out on a date⎯⎯"

"A date?" I ask.

"Yes," Paul admits, a smile upturning his full lips.

"Are you sure?" I whisper. "I won't be here forever. We can't get attached. I have to go home at some point."

"Mmm that is unfortunate," Paul speaks to me, creeping closer. "If I must inform you, love. I am already attached."

"This is a doomed romance," I tell Paul, I feel my eyes been to water and I fight the tears. But he presses a finger to my lips.

"Shh, don't think. Let's just let our hearts lead the way, Daisy Darling."

Paul kisses me, soft and warm and true. I drag my hands in his hair and I hear him whimper, twisting his arms around my waist into a tight grasp, pressing our bodies together. Paul is my sunlight ⎯⎯ a bright light in the darkness that had shrouded my life. He would forever be a parade of unpainted dreams. I would forever be the moon, waiting and willing. Never quite reaching the sun, never finding a chance. I would always care for him afar.

But in this moment, the sun meets the moon.