July 29^th 1965

 

“What time with they be here?” Grace asked lazily, lying on the top of the bed.

 

“Depends,” George replied, “if they pick us up first or last.” He examined his teeth in the dressing table mirror and tried to flatten an unruly piece of hair. “You’d better get dressed,” he said, looking at Grace through the reflection.

 

“I am dressed,” Grace said, playing with her hair.

 

George smiled, “Going like that then, are you?” She was wearing her satin slip, and if he remembered rightly, nothing beneath. “That’ll be a surprise for Princess Margaret.”

 

“I’ve got nothing else…” Grace replied.

 

George turned around, “What about the dresses I bought you the other day?”

 

Grace pouted, “They’re not really suitable for premiers. Or meeting royalty.”

 

George laughed, “You’ve left it a little late to decide that.”

 

She sat up, leaning against the headboard, the strap of her negligee slipped from her shoulder.

 

“C’mon, shake a leg,” George said, going back to the mirror, checking the time neurotically.

 

“Georgie?”

 

“What?”

 

“Come here a minute.”

 

He looked at her in the reflection again, “You won’t be ready.”

 

She met his gaze, “Yes, I will. I’m no preening model, it won’t take me three hours.”

 

George looked away, “That’s good, cos you haven’t got three hours,” he said, over-cheerfully, compensating for the sting that comment had caused him.

 

Grace crawled across the bed to him and put her hands on his hips, turning him to face her, “You’re thinking about her again,” she said.

 

“I’m not,” George said.

 

“Well, don’t. I’ve told you, forget that bitch.”

 

George just nodded. Grace took hold of his tuxedo jacket and pulled him down to her. He resisted then leaned and kissed her, but pushed her hands away as they wandered around his waist. “There isn’t time,” he said.

 

“There’s always time,” Grace said.

 

George smiled, a little coy, “Besides, we only just did… that, this morning.”

 

Grace let go of him and flopped on to her back with a groan. “Jesus, George. I know it must be a shock being with a real woman, but you’re going to have to get used to it.”

 

George tried not to react, “Just get ready,” he told her. He walked out of the bedroom, going to the window in the lounge that overlooked the street.

 

Perhaps they’re lost, he thought as he searched the abandoned road. He’d only rung to give them the revised address a few hours ago. Last minute. Just in case he had ended up back at Esher. Kinfauns. Pattie.

 

That was looking more and more unlikely as each day passed. She would have rung if she wanted me back, George thought sadly, still watching for the car. I just gave her the easy way out, leaving like that.

 

But tonight there were even heavier things on his mind. He had managed to avoid Paul for the ten days he had been living with Grace, and John and Ringo for that matter. He’d seen Paul only once - on the telly, accepting an award for writing songs, or something. His publicity smile had looked like a sneer as he reminded George again that ultimately, Paul was better than him at everything.

 

Grace had come in and switched it off. Told him not to think about it. He wouldn’t be able to get rid of Paul tonight with an off button.

 

He had been trying all day to picture what he would do when he saw him. He couldn’t decide. It had gone from breaking his nose to hugging him in hysterics and back again.

 

It was odd to think of Paul as an enemy. It felt like someone had come in and replaced him. Taken his old mate – the one he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with for years, whether standing up to the teds in Bootle or singing backing into the same microphone – that Paul was gone forever. And the one who had replaced him was an unrecognisable, hateful creature that George was dreading meeting.

 

The black Rolls Royce turned the bend at the end of the road, moving slowly towards the flats.

 

“Grace!” George yelled, “They’re here.”

 

The bedroom door opened and Grace stepped out. As good as her word she was fully dressed, combed and made up as if she’d been doing it all afternoon. She was in another red dress; something George had noticed a lot of in her wardrobe. An ankle length one this time, with tall, thin, peep-toe heels.

 

“What do you think?” she asked him.

 

“You look lovely,” George said, walking towards the door.

 

The car sounded its horn outside.

 

“Aren’t they coming in to collect us?” Grace asked.

 

“No, come on,” George said from the hall.

 

“All of our chauffeurs used to,” Grace said sullenly.

 

“You had chauffeurs?” George asked, as she caught him up by the door.

 

“Well, you know,” was all Grace replied, as if it was obvious.

 

 

As they walked out of the doors to the building George could see the others waiting in the car. They were the last to be collected, as he thought they might. The door opened for them and George waved Grace in first, sliding in beside her and slamming the door as the car glided off again.

 

George sat down and got his bearings, looking up and straight at Paul sitting opposite him, staring back, his usual smiling face. For all the volatile reactions George had been rehearsing, he hardly reacted at all. He just looked at him, looking to see if he knew already, if Paul had a reaction prepared.

 

“Aren’t you going to introduce us then?” said Ringo, his voice suddenly reminding George there were six other people in the car. He looked at him and blinked as if he was dazed.

 

“Grace,” she introduced herself, holding her hand out to Ringo. Ringo shook it and introduced himself and the others.

 

“Sorry,” George mumbled to her, now unable to look back at Paul, so he stared at her instead. Grace slipped her hand into his and squeezed it reassuringly. George held on to it thankfully.

 

He forced himself to look back at Paul again. He was looking forward, away from George, in the direction they were travelling. Jane was sitting next to him in a spectacular white dress. She rested her hand on top of his while she talked to Maureen on the other side of her. George decided that even if Paul might have realised what had happened, Jane knew nothing about it.

 

 

The street was blocked with bodies. Screaming girls, policemen and shiny black cars trying to get through them. The Rolls crawled to the end of the carpet and stopped.

 

“You should have brought your earplugs,” Ringo said to Grace as they clambered out to a deafening roar. George was still tightly holding onto her hand as they got out behind Ringo and Maureen.

 

Bulbs flashed. George wanted to run to the safety of the inside of the theatre but Grace pulled back, forcing him to walk slowly. She waved to the photographers, posing for them, hanging on George’s arm and around his neck.

 

“Who’s your girlfriend, George?” they shouted at him.

 

George ignored them and pulled Grace along the carpet, catching up with the others.

 

They were formally and briefly presented to the princess and Lord Snowden. People in uniform shepherded them along a line and then into the VIP enclosure. They stood in their group, waiting to go into the cinema.

 

“There’s Bri,” John said nodding. They all turned to see Brian; even more finely dressed than usual, standing by the wall. “Brian!” John yelled across to him.

 

Brian saw him and rolled his eyes. Cynthia dug John in the side, “Don’t shout,” she whispered, “You’re not in the market!”

 

Brian stepped towards him but was blocked by Michael Archer, arriving from nowhere. He smiled at Archer and stopped. They said a few words then Archer took Brian’s arm, leading him towards the door to the cinema. Brian looked back over his shoulder to the Beatles and waved.

 

“That slimy bastards here, then,” John said in a low voice, “Who invited him?”

 

“Brian probably,” Paul said. It was the first thing George had heard him say since they had got in the car. His stomach turned over. It looked like Paul. It sounded like Paul. He would just have to keep reminding himself, it wasn’t Paul.

 

The Beatles had begun to move towards the cinema too. George held back, realising he was still clinging to Grace like a child on the first day of school. “I can’t sit next to him,” George said into her ear. Grace nodded, and they waited for the others to go in between them. 

 

At least its dark, George thought as the film started, the four of them singing the title tune, their faces six by eight. At least I don’t have to speak to him. He stole a glance. Paul was halfway down the row, whispering in Jane’s ear, lit by the screen.

 

George sat back rigidly in his chair so he couldn’t see him even peripherally, and tried to concentrate on the film.

 

It was all about nothing, really, the script. They had wanted to go skiing, so they’d had a skiing scene written in. Shakespeare, it wasn’t, but as it unfurled before them parts seemed to take on a deeper poignancy.

 

It was only a few months ago, weeks, but it could have been years. Everything had been fine then. I’m always getting winked at these days, George said on the screen, used to be you, Paul.

 

This must have been around the time they started, George realised – but when? They had always been together, so he’d thought, filming and recording with the band, with Pattie at home. They must have made time; he tried not to torture himself by working out the finer details.

 

Feet! You’ll have Paul!

 

That would be nice, George stole another look at him, just squash him under my boot heel.

 

All too soon the Beatles had finished running around the Bahamas and the lights went up as the audience applauded.

 

George looked at Grace. She smiled, “So that’s what its like being a Beatle?” she asked.

 

“It used to be,” George said.

 

He stood and put his arm around her waist, hurrying her up the stairs and out of the cinema before the others had a chance to speak to them.

 

“Where are we going?” Grace asked as they reached the top of the stairs.

 

“There’s a party at the Dorchester Hotel I suppose we’ll have to go to,” George said, stepping into a corner and pausing.

 

“Good,” Grace said, “I thought you were going to drag me home then.”

 

George closed his eyes, “I don’t want to stay long,” he said.

 

“George! It’s your party!”

 

He opened his eyes, “Grace, it’s all I can manage to be here at all.”

 

Grace sighed and pulled him into her, “I know, I’m sorry,” she said sweetly, “It’s just I’ve never been to a film premier before.”

 

George rested his forehead on hers. He wanted to go home. Well, back to Grace’s flat. That’s home now, isn’t it? Lie under a blanket on the sofa with Grace, pretty much all he had done for the last two weeks. Watching the TV, the news, Coronation Street, The Wednesday Play, watching the rest of the world carry on as if nothing had happened when George felt like it should all just stop.

 

“We’ll go for a while then,” he said.

 

Grace moved her head up and kissed his cheek, “How are you coping?” she asked.

 

George shrugged, “I haven’t spoken to him. I’ll have to eventually, I…”

 

Brian and Michael Archer walked past them. George stepped out of the corner. “Brian,” he said. Both men stopped and turned around.

 

“Oh, hello George. Did you enjoy the film?” Brain said affably.

 

“Brian, I need to speak to you. I’ve called the office but you’re never in. Even your home number just rings out.”

 

“Yes, I’ve had to have it changed,” Brian said, “Remind me to give you and the boys the new one.”

 

“Well, can I have a word?” If George couldn’t explain the situation to his oldest friends, he wondered how he would tell Brian. Still, he needed to say something before they were shipped off to America, even if all he could arrange would be not to share a room with Paul. “It’s pretty urgent.”

 

“What’s the matter?” Brian asked, looking concerned.

 

Archer coughed. Brian looked at him. “Business in the office, Brian,” he said.

 

“Yes, I know, but…”

 

“I’m sure it will keep til morning, won’t it, George?”

 

“Well, I… I suppose it would,” George said.

 

Brian smiled at him and patted his shoulder, “Come and see me tomorrow,” he said and turning, walked away.

 

George sighed and looked at Grace, “My manager,” he explained.

 

“I’ve seen his photograph,” Grace replied, “Georgie, do you want to go home, my love?”

 

Yes, George thought. He shook his head, “Nah, it’s okay.”

 

 

Bastard, fucking bastard, George thought as he swallowed his third drink in half an hour. “Look at him,” he said to Grace, standing next to him at the bar, “bastard thinks he’s royalty himself.”

 

Grace turned her head in the direction of George’s eye line and sighed, “Are you still harping on about Paul?” she said, sounding bored, “George, change the record. It’s all you’ve said since we got here.”

 

Paul was standing, talking and laughing with Princess Margaret. He saw George staring at him and smiled. George turned away with a snarl on his lips. He waved at the barman to fill his glass.

 

“George, why don’t you have some wine?” Grace asked.

 

“I don’t want wine, it makes me sick,” he replied.

 

“Well that is making you angry,” she said as the barman gave him another rum and coke.

 

“It’s him making me angry,” George said, turning around and leaning on the bar, levelling his gaze at Paul again. He swirled the alcohol in the glass. Paul had left the princess and was talking with a man George didn’t recognise.

 

Grace put down her glass and started off across the room.

 

“Where are you goin’?” George shouted after her.

 

She stopped about six feet away and turned back, “To talk to someone else, I can’t stand it when you’re in this maudlin state.”

 

George snorted and took a swig of his rum. Grace turned her back on him.

 

“Who’s the bird then?” said John to George’s side.

 

George looked at him, unsure how long he’d been there.

 

“That’s Grace,” George said, “Ungrateful cow.”

 

“Grace Ungrateful-Cow, yeah, I think I knew her dad,” John said.

 

George smiled, “I shouldn’t say that really, she’s just pissed off with me at the moment.”

 

“So what happened?” John said cautiously.

 

“Oh, I don’t know, I’m just annoying her with…”

 

“Not with her, with Pattie,” he smiled.

 

George fell silent and turned to lean his folded arms on the bar.

 

“George?” John asked, surprised by his reaction.

 

George shook his head, “We broke up,” he said simply.

 

“And did she have somethin’ to do with it?”

 

“Grace? No, it was…” George hesitated wondering if he should confide in John, “Pattie was shaggin’ someone else.” He tried to make it sound casual, a flippant remark, and failed.

 

John nodded, “Sorry mate, she… she meant a lot to yer, eh?”

 

“Just another girl,” George said and finished his drink.

 

“We’ll go out one night,” John said slapping George’s back, “next week sometime, perhaps. Get pissed.”

 

George smiled faintly, “Yeah.”

 

“Just the lads, eh?”

 

George’s smile faded, “How about just you and me?” he said.

 

“Yeah, if you like,” John said, “only George, save it for then, eh?”  John subtly slid the glass out of George’s reach. George looked at him. “I don’t care what you do,” John said, “Its Brian who’s doin’ his nut.”

 

“Brian?”

 

“He says lay off the booze a bit. He’s worried about what they’ll think.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Them. Y’know, Maggie and Snowden. Personally, George I think you should get wankered and go and try it on, but Brian doesn’t think it’s a good idea.” He smiled lopsidedly.

 

“Jesus,” George said.

 

“Sorry lah, he’s been going on at me for the past twenty minutes,” John said, looking guilty, “If you want, we can get out of here and go a club or somewhere.”

 

“Me and you?” George asked carefully.

 

“Well, I’m not takin’ Cyn,” John replied, misunderstanding.

 

“Oh, yeah, I can’t leave Grace,” George said remembering she was there. He scanned the room for her, unable to pick her out.

 

“She looks like she’s big enough to take care of herself,” John said, finding her before George. She was dancing with someone. A man George couldn’t see properly, his arms around her. George straightened up.

 

“Calm down,” John said, putting his hand on George’s arm, holding him back, “It’s Archer. He’s bent as a nine bob note.”

 

George saw it was Archer, looking uncomfortable, shorter than even Grace and turned back to John.

 

“How about it then?” John said, “I think we’ve put our tuppence worth in here. Come and tell Uncle John all about it?”

 

George shook his head and rested both hands on the bar, holding himself up, why do posh hotels never have bar stools?  “Not tonight,” he said, “Ta anyway.”

 

“You alright, George?” John said, looking strangely at him.

 

“I’m fine,” George said.

 

John patted his back awkwardly, “Well, I’m no good with this sorta thing. You wanna talk to Paul or someone.”

 

George looked up at him, ready to tell him, ready to call Paul every name under the sun, ready to blow the lot when he saw Paul walking up behind John. “Talk of the Devil,” George said and nodded towards Paul.

 

John turned, “There yer go then,” he said, sounding relieved. “Paul’ll sort yer. Paul, say something useful.”

 

“Something useful,” said Paul.

 

George turned away so neither of them would see the look on his face.

 

“What’s up?” Paul asked innocently.

 

“George is… a bit below par,” John said and tapped Paul shoulder as he escaped.

 

Paul watched him and the looked back at George, “Alright?” he said. He sounded concerned. The fake.

 

“D’yer fuckin’ care?” George said and made to leave. He couldn’t do it, not tonight.

 

“George, hang about,” Paul said stopping him, “Have I pissed you off or somat? You’ve been actin’ funny with me all night.”

 

George looked at him in disbelief, “And the rest,” he said with a snarl.

 

Paul frowned, “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’ve done…”

 

George stepped up, close to him so they could feel each other’s breath on their faces. Paul shrank back a bit, but the bar came up behind him.

 

“George…” Paul started, nervously.

 

“I’ve left her,” George said, near growled down Paul’s neck, “So you can fuckin’ have her. I don’t give a toss,” he said.

 

“Wh… what?” Paul said.

 

“I should smash your head in,” George said, his fist itching, “Fuck up that pretty face, eh?”

 

“George,” Paul put his hands on his chest to hold him away from him, looking round for John or anyone, “take it easy, mate.”

 

“Georgie,” said a voice behind him. George looked round. Grace took his arm and gently led him away from Paul. “Leave him,” she said, “He’s not worth it, sweetheart.”

 

George followed her, looking back at Paul just once. He was watching them, looking utterly bewildered.

 

“He musta thought I would just lay down and let him get away with it,” George said, “And you…” he rounded on Grace, “where the fuck did you go?” The anger was built up inside him and needed a release.

 

“I didn’t go anywhere, as you know,” Grace said. They were walking through the lobby of the hotel now. She let go of George and crossed her arms.

 

“Dancin’ with that poof!”

 

“Well, if he’s a poof then you’ve nothing to worry about do you?” They approached the main entrance. A uniformed doorman opened the door for them.

 

“Are you saying he isn’t?” George stopped walking. The doorman waited indecisively.

 

“George, stop shouting, you’re making a scene,” Grace said in a hushed voice.

 

“I’ll fuckin’ shout if I want,” George said so everyone near them could hear.

 

Grace grabbed hold of his jacket and pulled her to him, kissing him hard. George, surprised, pulled back for a moment then kissed her back. She let him go and walked through the door as if nothing had happened.

 

George straightened his clothes, looking round, suddenly very aware of the eyes of the people in the lobby. He followed her through the door quickly and down the steps.

 

“Of course he’s gay,” Grace said as George caught up, “He’s living with…” She stopped, standing half way down the steps, “George, even if he wasn’t, how could you think I would want anyone but you?”

 

George nodded, “I…”

 

“Not all women are like Pattie,” Grace said softly.

 

“I know,” George said.

 

Grace snaked her arms around George’s waist, “I’m the luckiest girl in the world to find you,” she said, “And I’m very aware of it.”

 

“I’m sorry,” George said sheepishly, “It’s not you, its Paul…”

 

“And the half bottle of rum you’ve just put away.”

 

George smiled, “I think I’m the lucky one,” he said, brushing her hair back, “I don’t know what I would have done without you, Grace.”

 

Grace took his hand, breaking out of their embrace, “Let’s go home and I’ll show you how lucky you are,” she said, starting off down the steps again.

 

George followed obediently, looking up the road for a taxi.

 

“It’s warm,” Grace said, “Why don’t we walk?” 

 

“All the way to Camden?” George asked, as Grace pushed on down the road.

 

“No, silly,” Grace giggled, “As far as Oxford Circus, then we’ll get a taxi.”

 

“Okay,” George said and brought her hand up to link her arm through his.

 

“Did you tell him?” Grace asked as the turned into a quieter street.

 

“Paul?”

 

“John.”

 

“Oh, no. I was going to but then Paul…”

 

“Hey!” a voice shouted behind them. George looked over his shoulder; a man was waving at them, “Hey! Stop! Wait!”

 

“He wants us,” George said.

 

“Ignore him,” Grace said, still walking.

 

“It’s alright, he probably just wants an autograph or somat.”

 

“No,” Grace said firmly, “George, come on.”

 

The man had caught up with them anyway, rushing round in front of them, blocking their path and forcing them to stop. Grace took her arm out of George’s and stepped back.

 

“I knew it was you,” the man said breathlessly, “I saw you in the hotel.”

 

George forced a smile. He wasn’t in the mood for fans but he had learned by now that the quickest way to get rid of them was to be nice and sign his name. Then he realised the man wasn’t talking to him. He was talking to Grace.

 

“Bridget,” the man continued, “You saw me, didn’t you? You looked straight through me…”

 

“You’ve made a mistake,” Grace said, her voice had the slightest tremble, “I’m not Bridget.”

 

“Where have you been, Bridget? I looked everywhere for you. You just disappeared. I even called the police.”

 

“I’m not Bridget,” Grace repeated.

 

“Baby, what went wrong? Were you unhappy? Oh, Bridget, I’ve been so miserable without you.”

 

Grace looked at George. The man put his hands out to her and she darted behind George, using him as a barrier. George turned, trying to see her.

 

“Bridget, please. Just come home and we’ll say no more about it. Your brother’s been looking for you too…”

 

“I’m not Bridget!” Grace suddenly wailed, high pitched and frightened. She gripped George, “George, tell him!”

 

George felt for her hands on his sides, “You’ve uh, made a mistake,” he said to the man, “You’ve got the wrong girl.”

 

“I haven’t,” the man said, “She’s my Bridget.”

 

He made a grab for her. Grace dodged out of the way, still holding onto George, digging her nails into him. “Hey,” George warned the man, as they shuffled around in a circle.

 

“You,” he said, looking at George properly for the first time, “You’re that bloody Beatle aren’t you? I should have known.”

 

“Make him go away,” Grace said to George.

 

“How can I do that?” George said back.

 

“You always get what you want, don’t you baby?” the man said, a nasty tone appearing in his voice. “Always has to be what you want.”

 

“Look mate, just go home, alright?” George said, trying to prise Grace’s fingers out of his waist.

 

“No,” the man said, and the shouted it, “No! Not without her!” He grabbed out at her again and this time caught her, pulling her out from behind George. Grace stumbled in her high heels and fell to the pavement in between the two men. The man was on her in an instant, trying to drag her up. Grace screamed.

 

George stepped in and roughly pushed the man back from Grace. “Get away from her now!” he said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

 

The man fell back with George’s push and swayed momentarily. He smelled of alcohol and stale tobacco. He looked up at George, “She’s mine,” he said. It was nearly a plea, “She’s my Bridget.”

 

“She isn’t,” George said, trying to sound persuasive, “You’re mistaken. This is Grace. We don’t know who you’re talking about.”

 

Grace scrambled to her feet behind George.

 

“Bridget, baby, please, I’m sorry,” the man cried out to her.

 

Grace walked backwards, “Get the fuck away from me, you fuckin’ lunatic!”

 

The man made a rush for her. Grace screamed George’s name, but George had stepped into the man’s way and he ran right into him. George held his ground and the man fell down around George’s waist, his arms sprawling out for something to steady himself.

 

He glared up at George as he came to a rest on his knees, gripping George’s belt to hold himself up, “I’ll go through you if I have to!” he spat at George.

 

George tried to disentangle himself from the man as he clambered up, using George as a climbing frame. “Gerroff me,” George said, and the man took a half aimed swipe at him.

 

George ducked and got away from him. The man fell forward, then steadied himself, and came at George again.

 

Again George side stepped him and threw a punch back.

 

Not hard, not even with his whole weight in it.

 

He just wanted to knock him down, give him and Grace the chance to get away.

 

Instead, the man moved and George hit him at a strange angle on his jaw. He didn’t fall down, instead he stumbled backwards, falling off the curb of the pavement and stumbled back further, trying to regain his balance.

 

He never saw the hackney taxi, on the road before he was, travelling much too fast to stop in time.

 

Grace didn’t see it; she covered her face with her hands.

 

George was the only one who saw it barrel into him at fifty miles an hour. Saw his head hit and shatter the windscreen. Saw his limp body go over the roof and land several feet behind the cab as the brakes screamed.