9.00pm

 

George was lying on his side facing the wall, still in the clothes he had worn on stage. Paul sighed and closed the door behind him, thinking George was asleep. He rubbed a towel on his wet hair, fresh from the shower, and chucked it over the back of a chair as he crossed to sit on the bed opposite George’s.

 

“I thought you were going to swap,” George said, without moving, speaking half into the pillow.

 

“Ringo and John have gone out,” Paul said. His voice seemed to echo.

 

“So are you going or not?” George asked.

 

“George…”

 

George heaved himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, “Then I’ll go,” he said, keeping his eyes on the floor and stood up.

 

“I’ll go,” Paul said. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

 

George sat down again, “Fine. Just do it then.”

 

Paul nodded, standing up, holding the towel around his waist in place. George had returned to the hotel with them, as he had promised Brian, but he had absolutely refused to share a room with Paul, telling him he would have to swap with John or Ringo. Paul had agreed to move, feeling too tired to argue with him. But John was still angry with him, and both refused to swap and to let Ringo move so he wouldn’t have to share with Paul.

 

Why we can’t have single rooms, Paul thought.

 

He picked up a bag and shoved the things laid out on the table by his bed into it. George watched him for a moment and then lay down again, closing his eyes.

 

“You look like shit,” Paul said in a malevolent tone. George didn’t reply.

 

Paul was getting pissed off with George. It was one thing John stropping around - that would wear off - but he’d never known such hate as he had from George. Even just lying there it seemed to come off him like heat waves. Paul had felt sorry for George – he had seemed to be the victim in it all – but with his unpleasant, surly comments and his glaring looks, that was quickly being replaced by resentment.

 

“What did Archer tell you?” George said suddenly, opening his eyes.

 

Paul turned to look at him, “When?”

 

“About Neil and Mal.”

 

Paul blinked, slightly stunned. It was the first time anyone had bothered to ask Paul’s version of events, and it was coming from George of all people. “He said… he told me they were costing us a fortune, writing off all kinds of expenses to us. He had receipts and thing. He told me allsorts, but I think most of it was…”

 

George nodded, “Does he ring you?”

 

“All the bloody time.”

 

“John said he rang him all the time too. He’s never called me.”

 

“Well, maybe it’s a Lennon-McCartney thing?” Paul said, sitting opposite George again.

 

George shrugged.

 

“It didn’t seem like it would be a pay cut,” Paul continued. “It just seemed… sensible. Like we would be shifting money around to save a bit. I… I don’t know. Archer said he only needed one of us to sign and he would do the rest.”

 

George snorted, “Well he did.”

 

“I didn’t mean to… mean for all this to happen.”

 

George sat up, leaning against his headboard. He looked tired and gaunt. His skin had a pale yellow pallor.

 

“You do look bad, George,” Paul said.

 

George shook his head, “I’m fine.”

 

“Have you eaten?”

 

“What?”

 

“Food? You remember that? I swear George, one day you’ll fall down a grid,” Paul smiled faintly.

 

“No,” George said. “I haven’t.”

 

Paul leaned over the table between to two beds, picking up the receiver to the room’s phone. He offered it to George. “Order something,” he said. “And get me a bottle of rum or scotch or something.”

 

George took the receiver from him. “You’re not going out?”

 

Paul shook his head, “Don’t feel like it,” he said, turning away and pulling the cover over his bed.

 

The room service brought George his food and Paul his scotch. George got up from the bed and sat at the table to eat, his chair a little too low to sit comfortably. Paul put his flight bag over his shoulder and scooped up his clothes with the bottle.  “Right,” he said. “I’ll bring John’s stuff in here later.” He turned to go.

 

“Typical McCartney,” George said, shovelling peas into his mouth.

 

Paul stopped and looked back at him warily, bracing himself.

 

“Soon as the booze comes out, you’re off with it!” George smiled. It was the first time he’d smiled at Paul in weeks.

 

Paul grinned back and dropped his things on the bed. He retrieved two glasses from the dresser and set them on the table next to George’s dinner plate.

 

“I could get some ice from somewhere, or coke? To mix?” Paul splashed two liberal slugs in the glasses.

 

George shook his head, “Just put a bit of water in it,” he said.

 

Paul added water from the bathroom tap and placed it in front of George. Paul sat on the bed opposite, nursing his drink. George devoured his meal quickly and slouched back in his chair, putting his feet on the table. An awkward silence descended.

 

“So…” George said, after a pause. “Archer tricked you then.”

 

Paul nodded, “Kind of. I guess,” he coughed, the scotch taking his breath for a moment. “He made it seem… like they were taking us for a ride. Charging stuff they shouldn’t. Archer said we would change their contracts a little, just to curb it.” He glanced down at the brown liquid, swirling it around. “I didn’t even read it,” he said quietly. “I just signed.”

 

George tutted.

 

“I know.”

 

“Why didn’t you ask anyone else?”

 

“I don’t know,” Paul said, feeling loathsome. “It didn’t seem important.”

 

George sighed, “What’s Brian doing employing a snake like him?”

 

Paul shook his head, “He’s wheedled his way in somehow.”

 

“And now he’s our manager?”

 

“Executive manager,” Paul corrected.

 

George shrugged, “What does that mean?”

 

“I dread to think. Perhaps it’s to replace the board.”

 

George rubbed his jaw, “Yeah, I hadn’t thought. What made Brian sack them all, just like that?”

 

“Archer,” Paul smiled ruefully. “D’you know Clive was included in that massacre?”

 

“Brian’s brother?” George asked.

 

Paul nodded, “I only found that out just before we came away.”

 

“Shit, that’s serious,” George put his glass to his lips, holding it there, thinking. “You don’t sack family, y’know?” George took his feet down from the table. “Do yer think they’re… uh…”

 

“What?”

 

George smiled lopsidedly, “C’mon, Paul. Y’know. At it?”

 

The thought made Paul a little uncomfortable, but something rang true. “Perhaps.”

 

“Think about it,” George said and stood up. “What would colour Brian’s judgement, like this? Y’know, he’s no fool. He normally so… professional.”

 

“Yeah,” Paul agreed, “Well, he said we’ll have a talk tomorrow. We can ask him.”

 

George laughed, “You can ask him!” He sat down on the floor in the space between the two beds, leaning against his own. “Can you imagine his face?” he laughed again, “’Brian, are you shagging that fella?’”

 

Paul laughed and reached for the scotch.

 

“He’d deny it, even if he was,” George said.

 

“Perhaps not then.”

 

George grinned, “We’ll get John to do it.”

 

Paul poured himself another drink. “Good idea, George,” he grinned. “John’s always the subtle, sensitive one, isn’t he?”

 

George giggled and waved his glass for Paul to fill.

 

Paul topped it up, “I wish Neil and Mal were here,” he said, sobering.

 

“I do too.”

 

“I asked them to come back. I said I’d pay them. They wouldn’t.”

 

George shook his head; “We’ll deal with it when we get back to England.”

 

“I didn’t mean to…”

 

“I know, Paul.”

 

Paul slid from the bed to the floor, joining George, “You do believe that?” he said, testing, taking a deep breath.

 

George nodded, “Yeah. It was that Archer bastard.”

 

“But you don’t believe me when I tell you I didn’t sleep with Pattie?” Paul waited. The atmosphere almost physically shifted.

George scrabbled to his feet, “I need more water in this,” he said, crossing to the bathroom.

 

Paul sighed and looked down into his glass again. It had felt like old times for a brief moment then.

 

George returned, glass in hand, standing in the doorway indecisively.

 

Paul looked up at him, “I didn’t.”

 

“Please don’t, Paul. I don’t want to talk about this.”

 

“Well, I do!” Paul said, getting up. “George, you can’t accuse me of something like that and then just clam up!”

 

George turned away, “I’m going out.” He moved towards the bedroom door. Paul stepped into his path. “Stop it, Paul.”

 

Paul pushed him back.

 

“Paul,” George said again.

 

“What?” Paul snapped, nearly shouting. “You think I’ll just let you carry on thinking that. George, I swear – I didn’t do anything.”

 

George looked at him. His eyes were soft. “I…”

 

“On my life. On my dad’s life, George.”

 

George turned away, “I don’t believe you,” he said softly.

 

“Well, why the fuck not?”

 

George returned to the bed.

 

“Why?” Paul demanded. “You’re basing all this on the word of some woman you’ve known two minutes. And here…”

 

“I didn’t…”

 

“And here, I’ve been your best mate for fuckin’ donkey’s years and you…”

 

“I didn’t say that!” George suddenly raised his voice.

 

Paul stopped mid sentence.

 

“I never said Grace had anything to do with it.”

 

He bit his lip as he silently cursed himself.

 

“So why did you say that?” George continued.

 

“Its bound to be her,” Paul said, knowing it wasn’t convincing.

 

George shook his head. “Grace had nothing to do with it.”

 

“Then what are you basing this fantasy on?”

 

George reached for the bottle Paul had left on the floor. “Your letters.”

 

“What letters?”

 

“Your letters to Pattie. I read them.”

 

“What letters?” Paul repeated.

 

“Paul, I have known you for donkey’s years. I know what your handwriting looks like.”

 

Paul sighed and crossed to sit on the bed opposite George again. “I have never, never written a letter to Pattie – or any of your girlfriends – in my life.”

 

“I should hit you. I should beat seven bells out of you,” George said, almost wistfully. “That’s what John would do, isn’t it?”

 

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

 

George looked at the bottle, still in his hand. “I haven’t the energy. I’ve been so angry, so wound up with it, I’ve got nothing left. I feel… empty.”

 

“George, please believe me.”

 

George put his head on one side, “That’s twice you’ve brought Grace into this.”

 

Paul nodded at the bottle, “Are you drinking that or looking at it?”

 

“Why Grace? You don’t even know her.”

 

Paul picked up his glass from the floor, “True though, isn’t it?”

 

“No.”

 

“It is. You broke up with Pattie and moved straight in with her.”

 

“Who told you that?”

 

“It’s a fact.”

 

“It was a coincidence. She was… there for me.”

 

Paul raised an eyebrow, “You were shaggin’ her before you left Pattie.”

 

“How… what makes you think that?”

 

Paul took the bottle from George and twisted to top off. He took a swig straight from it, grimacing at the taste. “Pattie told me.”

 

George looked ready to cry. Either that or ready carry out his threat and hit Paul. “George?” he asked after a minute’s silence.

 

“You’re still seeing her?” George said, sounding choked.

 

Paul sighed again, “I am not ‘seeing her’. I just talked to her.”

 

“Is she… How is she?”

 

Paul shrugged, “Okay.”

 

George took the bottle back from Paul.

 

“You miss her, eh?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why don’t you ask her for her version?”

 

“If Pattie wanted to talk to me, she would have done.”

 

“Not if she couldn’t.”

 

“Why couldn’t she?”

 

“You’re living with that bird.”

 

“I’m not chained to her.”

 

“Sure about that?”

 

George lay back on the bed nursing the scotch on his chest. “I can’t do this,” he said.

 

“Well, we can talk about somethin’ else if you want,” Paul agreed, not really wishing to carry on the conversation either.

 

“I mean this. The tour.”

“You’ll find a way.”

 

“I want to go home.”

 

“George,” Paul leaned forward and touched his knee. George craned his head up to see him. “Why don’t you… you could use it to think things over.”

 

George groaned, “I’ve been doing nothing but thinking for weeks.”

 

Paul nodded, “Then why don’t you treat it like a holiday?”

 

George laughed, “Yeah. Very relaxing.”

 

“A holiday from all that shite at home. Leave it there. Just have some fun. It looks like you could do with it.”

 

George nodded, “Suit you, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Look,” Paul stood, pacing the narrow gap between the beds. “I’ve told you the truth and you don’t believe me. I can’t think of a way to prove it to you, so I guess were at a stalemate,” he stopped and looked down at George. “Tomorrow we’re playing the biggest concert for about… ever.”

 

“I had noticed.”

 

“And several dates after that. And it’s not going to be easy if every day is gonna be like this one.”

 

George rolled on to his side, “I guess.”

 

“So we need… a truce.”

 

George ran his fingers through his hair. “I guess,” he repeated.

 

Paul smiled, unexpected relief flooding him. “Good.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. Or forgiven you.”

 

“Doesn’t mean I’m admitting to anything,” Paul countered.

 

“Just for the tour. I’m not promising anything after.”

 

“Right. Okay,” he put his hand out. George gingerly and briefly shook it. “Everything will work out, George,” Paul said, wishing he could find something more comforting.

 

George turned onto his other side, facing the wall, away from Paul.