August 14^th 1965

 

 “At least there’s no one here,” Paul said.

 

John and Ringo looked at him.

 

“Press, like, y’know…” Paul added, his voice fading away.

 

“They will be later, when we have to admit he’s missing,” John said.

 

“Don’t say missing, “ Paul mumbled and looked out of his window at the policeman standing across the street.

 

“What word would you like then?” John said sulkily, “Lost? Mislaid?”

 

Ringo turned his head to look at John, sitting next to him on the leather backseat of the car, “Perhaps he got lucky?” he offered.

 

“When?” John said, “When did he leave the hotel? Come to think of it, when did anyone last see him?”

 

“The press conference, he was there then,” Ringo said.

 

John pulled his face at him, “Yeah, Ring? D’yer think we might have noticed if he was missin’ then?”

 

Ringo looked at him, “He’d say if he was going out? Wouldn’t he?”

 

“Who can tell what George would do these days?” John said, “Fuckin’ prima donna, he’s turned into. What was all that fuss on the plane?” He looked at Paul.

 

“I don’t know,” Paul said, “He doesn’t like flying, does he?”

 

“It wasn’t the flyin’,” John said, “He didn’t want to travel with us. He was doin’ everything he could think of to get out of it.”

 

Paul looked down at his watch, staring at the second hand ticking round. “He’s been funny ever since he left Pattie. At the Help do…” he replied, without looking up.

 

“Funny?” John interrupted.

 

Paul shrugged, “I dunno. What happened with Pattie? Maybe that’s messed his head up?”

 

They looked at each other.

 

“Like he would tell us,” John said, “Not til after the fact, anyway.”

 

The front door opened and the driver - a man none of them knew - got in. “Shouldn’t there be another one?” he said, looking over his shoulder at them.

 

Paul and Ringo looked to John. John sighed, “No,” he said to the driver, “It’s just us three. And we’ll be late if you don’t get gone.”

 

The man shrugged and turned around, starting the engine.

 

Ringo and Paul were still staring at John. “What do you want me to say?” John hissed.

 

Ringo cleared his throat, “Where the hell is Brian? He should be here by now.”

 

“Probably at the studio,” Paul said, returning to the window. The policeman had gone.

 

Ringo nodded, “Well, he’ll find him,” he said.

 

Paul smiled, but he wasn’t convinced.

 

 

George stood alone in the studio, tuning his guitar next to the amplifier. On the far side technicians fiddled with the lighting controls, but behind the spotlights George couldn’t see them. Apart from the guitar, it was so deathly quiet he could have been the only one in the world.

 

He turned the machine head and the top string snapped, lashing through George’s hand and giving him a fine cut on the flesh of his first two fingers. George sucked in the sting as he looked at the blood start to gather. He put them in his mouth, as he leant the guitar against the amp.

 

“Where the fuck have you been?” The shout shattered the peace of the studio. George looked up to see John walking towards him, Ringo and Paul not far behind.

 

“You’re the one who’s late,” he said calmly, quietly, taking his fingers out of his mouth.

 

“We’re late,” John drew level, standing close, “Because we were looking for you.”

 

“Well, I’m here,” he stepped past John, “Tell me when you’re set up.”

 

“Woah,” John said, pulling George back, “Where d’yer think you’re off now?”

 

“I broke a string.”

 

John held on to him, studying his face. George stared back impassively. “What’s going on, Harrison?” John said. Paul and Ringo were standing behind him. George looked from John to them and back.

 

“Nothin’,” he said, “I’m gonna find some more strings,”

 

“Y’know what I mean. You’ve obviously got some sorta problem.”

 

“I haven’t got a problem with you,” George said to John and shrugged his hand off, walking away.

 

“George,” John shouted behind him.

 

George pushed open the studio door and disappeared. John stepped towards the door.

 

“Let him go,” Ringo said.

 

John stopped; still watching the door like it might burst open again.

 

“At least he’s here,” Paul said, relieved.

 

John turned back to them, “Fine start, this is.”

 

“Ah good, you’re all here,” said a voice from the darkness and Michael Archer stepped onto the stage.

 

John rolled his eyes, “Can’t count Archer?”

 

Archer looked at him questioningly.

 

“One,” John pointed at himself, “Two,” to Ringo, “Three,” to Paul.

 

“I’ve just passed George in the corridor,” Archer said.

 

“Yeah, if you were doin’ you’re bloody job you’d know he’s been gone all night.”

 

“Gone?”

 

“What is your job anyway?” John said, “And where the fuck is Brian?”

 

Archer sighed, “He’ll be along later,” he turned to leave, then looked back at them, “You boy’s just carry on, I’ll have a word with George.”

 

“Will you now?” Paul said as Archer left, “Like that, don’t you?”

 

John crossed to his Rickenbacker, leaned on a stand by the drum kit. “Who set up all this then?” he asked.

 

“The fairies,” Ringo said, walking behind the kit.

 

John smiled, “Archer couldn’t tune a guitar.”

 

The other two grinned.

 

“We have to get this nipped in the bud,” Paul said, moving towards the bass, “We can’t have him throwing his weight around, all over America.”

 

“Interesting image,” John said.

 

Paul smiled and picked up the bass. He looked down at it and plucked the stings. “Not tuned,” he said.

 

“Wouldn’t be, would it?” Ringo replied, “Not without Neil and Mal.”

 

Paul looked up from the guitar, “About that…”

 

The door banged against the wall and George returned, walking quickly, followed by two men in grey suits. George walked to the centre of the stage, picked up his guitar and thrust it at one of the men, “Fine, do it then,” he said irritated, “Just do it somewhere else.”

 

The two men looked at each other and shuffled towards the back of the studio.

 

“Who are they? Yer bodyguards?” John said.

 

George looked at him, “The new… roadies,” he said.

 

“In suits?” Ringo said from the drum stool.

 

George nodded, “Mal and Neil’s replacements, road manager and tour manager,” he said unhappily. “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They were here this morning before I was.”

 

“Where have you been George?” Paul said, softly, standing behind him.

 

George turned to him. He opened his mouth but then changed his mind and walked towards the exit. Paul looked at John and Ringo; they hadn’t seen the contempt in George’s expression.

 

“Ignore him,” John said, loudly so George would hear, “If he can’t talk to us, I can’t be arsed running after him.” George walked out of the door.

 

“It’s not us,” Paul said quietly. He put the bass down, “It’s me.”

 

“Why? What have you done?”

 

“I don’t know,” Paul said, simply.

 

He leaned against the raised drum platform, feeling dejected. George had hardly said a word to him since leaving London. Every time he had looked at him, it had been a glare. Paul had sat next to him on the plane and tried to talk to him. George had exploded for no apparent reason; shouting at Paul, turning on John, then Ringo even. Paul wracked his brain for what he could have said to upset George so. He couldn’t find an answer.

 

John put the guitar over his head, “Well, you’d better sort yourselves. I am not going on with you pair like this.”

 

Paul looked at him helplessly, “At the premier, the party after, when you’d been talkin’ to him and I came over, he… he just started. He was pretty drunk, I think.”

 

“Started what?”

 

Paul shrugged again, looking down at his shoes, “He said he’d left Pattie. I think Pattie. Then he was… threatening… y’know, til that new bird of his came and took him off. I thought he was gonna hit me… or somat.” He looked up at Ringo.

 

No one said anything for a moment. John licked his lips and crossed to studio to lean on the platform with Paul. “Would you listen to yerself?” he said, brightly, “It’s George you’re talking about. Threatening? Our George? And you - you and him are always bickering about somat or other. It’s just got a bit out of hand.”

 

Paul smiled. John trivialising it made him feel happier, “Yeah, maybe,” he said.

 

“Go and ask him what he’s got a bee in his bonnet about, then kiss and make up. Before we go out on the telly with you at one end at the studio,” he pointed, “and George at the other, and me and Ring stuck in the middle somewhere.”

 

Paul grinned. John smiled back. “Go on then,” he said, “We won’t start without you.”

 

Paul got to his feet and headed towards the door. John stood too, supporting the guitar by its neck. He looked up at Ringo, “Always used to always be him and Stu at each other,” he said, “Now it seems to be him and George.”

 

Ringo nodded, ‘They’ll be okay,” he said.

 

 

George was in the dressing room. Paul had to ask one of the new roadies where it was, which annoyed him. He didn’t want to ask them for anything. He wished Neil and Mal were with them. He’d tried to explain to Neil, but he wasn’t interested, wouldn’t take his calls after a bit.

 

Paul pushed the door open, wondering if he should have knocked. George was sitting in one of the chairs. He looked up, his eyes taking on a steely glare when he saw Paul. “Are you ready?” he said.

 

“Not yet,” Paul said. He came into the room and sat in a chair near George. George picked up a paper and opened it, positioning it so he couldn’t see Paul.

 

Paul smiled to himself. It was a child’s trick - if I can’t see you then you’re not there.

He put his hand up and lowered the paper between him and George.

 

“What?” George said testily.

 

“Talk to me, George.”

 

“What about?”

 

“How’s about where you got to last night, for a start?” Paul raised his eyebrows. George had simply disappeared. No one had even noticed in the melee that was the press conference aftermath. He had checked into the hotel and gone. No one had even noticed until the morning after, when Paul had woken up. Paul was sharing a room with him. He hadn’t even noticed George hadn’t come back, assuming he was somewhere in the hotel when he had gone to sleep.

 

“I stayed at another hotel,” George said, and shook the paper out.

 

“Where?”

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Without telling anyone?”

 

“I didn’t realise I needed your permission.”

 

“We thought you’d been kidnapped or somethin’,” Paul smiled. George didn’t. “Why did you do that?” he asked, simply.

 

George didn’t reply for a moment, and then finally, in a quiet voice he said, “Why do you think?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Take a fuckin’ guess.” He put the paper on the dressing table.

 

Paul cast his eyes down, “Because of something I said on the plane?”

 

George shook his head at him, “I knew you’d do this,” he said incredulously.

 

“What?”

 

“Why do you think we broke up? I found out, I found your letters. You’re right, you should have burnt them.” He swallowed hard.

 

“Wh- you and Pattie?”

 

“Paul, don’t bother.”

 

“What letters?”

 

“I know you were sending her letters, I know you were… doing other things. Don’t pretend…”

 

“What other things?” Paul said, getting angry, “What are you accusing me of, George?”

 

“You an’ her…” George’s voice faded away, he sat forward in the chair, looking at him intently. And, for the first time, since the start of the trip, his expression wasn’t full of hate and anger. “I can’t say it,” his voice was so low, it was nearly a whisper, “Paul, why d’yer do it? Y’know, any other girl and I wouldn’t have cared. Fuck, I’d give ‘em you, if you wanted, but Pattie…”

 

Paul’s anger subsided, replaced by compassion for his friend. George looked at him plaintively, asking for an answer. Paul put his hand out to him but George moved out of the way. “George, I didn’t… I haven’t slept with Pattie. I haven’t touched her, I swear…”

 

George drew back from him. The hatred coloured his face once more. “I think I woulda had more respect for you if you just came out and admitted it,” he said coldly.

 

Paul spread his hands, “George, nothing happened.”

 

“I read them,” George snapped, “She kept them in a box in the wardrobe. I read it all, what you wrote to her, what you wanted… what you did to her… Your handwriting, Paul, even if you didn’t sign them.”

 

“This is why you’ve been acting funny, isn’t it? Because you think – Oh Jesus, George, this is why you left her, isn’t it?”

 

“What kinda fool did you take me for?”

 

Paul collapsed back into his chair, brushing his fringe off his forehead with his hand, “Fuck, what a mess,” he said, “George, I swear, I didn’t…”

 

“Give it up, Paul.”

 

“Have you told anyone else?”

 

“That’s all you ever care about, isn’t it? What other people think.”

 

“No!” Paul had instantly regretted the question. It had sounded wrong as soon as he’d said it.

 

“Grace knows. John and Ringo don’t, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

 “Grace,” Paul said, suddenly struck by an idea, “She was that girl from that party, wasn’t she? That Mayfair party?”

 

George nodded.

 

“Didn’t you say she was a friend of Pattie’s?”

 

“She was.”

 

“And now you’re living with her? Taking her to film premiers?”

 

“I had to go somewhere. Pattie’s got Kinfauns.”

 

‘You didn’t have to go there. You could have gone to John’s, or Rich’s?”

 

George snorted contemptuously.

 

“A hotel even, George.”

 

“What’s it to you?”

 

“So, you’re saying you’re just good friends, are you?”

 

George shifted his weight. “I don’t want to talk about Grace with you. Or Pattie. I’d just sooner forget.”

 

“Forget?”

 

“Forget I ever knew her and… forget you too.”

 

Paul sat forward again, “Well, I’m sorry George, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.”

 

George sat forward too, leaning in conspiratorially to Paul, “If I could have possibly got out of this fuckin’ trip, I would have,” he said, and Paul could feel his breath on his face. “The thought of even having to look at you for a moment longer makes me want to vomit. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t let them down, let Brian loose all his money, just because you can’t keep your cock in your trousers.”

 

George stood. Paul opened his mouth, but George hadn’t finished,  “So I’m here, and I’m gonna stand next to you and play fuckin’ guitar and sing your fuckin’ songs - while I have to - but believe me you, that’s it. I’m not staying in the same hotels as you. I’m not going to any after show parties with you. And when the others notice, you can explain why, can’t you? Cos I’m not fucking telling them.”

 

“George, please. Don’t be like this.”

 

George shook his head at him, “And I won’t tell Jane either. I think she should hear it from you. You’re obviously bothered about her, eh?”

 

Paul leaned his head on his hand despondently. “Don’t bring Jane into this.”

 

George nodded, “Pattie’s the fuckin’ idiot if you ask me,” he said and walked out of the dressing room.