November 16^th 1965    10.00am   Euston Station, London

 

“Call me and I’ll come and pick you up,” Paul said, smoothing Jane’s hair.

 

“Don’t be silly,” Jane replied. “The train gets in at half past six in the morning. I’ll get a taxi home.”

 

“No, I want to,” Paul protested.

 

“Paul,” Jane gave him a levelled look. If she were wearing glasses, she’d be looking over them at him now. “I know what you’re like. You won’t go to bed til three because you’ll be working at the studios, or in some nightclub, or writing a new song all night.” She smiled and kissed him gently. “Honestly, I’ll be fine.”

 

“Okay,” Paul acquiesced. “I just… It feels like I haven’t seen that much of you lately, and now you’re going away again…”

 

“For less than a day!”

 

“Overnight, still.”

 

Jane took his hand. “Yes, I know. We’ve both been preoccupied,” she said gently. “When I come back we’ll do something together, okay?”

 

“Okay,” Paul said begrudgingly.

 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Jane said.

 

Paul put his head on one side, “I’m sorry,” he said. “Things have been hectic, Jane. But I’ll get them sorted out.”

 

Jane sighed, “No, I’m sorry, Paul. I know you’ve been going through it all lately.” Paul looked away, out of the side window of the car and put his hands on the steering wheel. Jane leaned over to him again, “I’ll have to go or I’ll miss the train,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Take care, love,” Paul said, distracted as she got out and slammed the door behind her. Paul watched her until she disappeared in to the station then started the engine. At first he was going to go home. Perhaps back to bed for a bit. But then another idea occurred to him.

 

Jane had gone to a theatrical funds raiser in Brighton. She would only be gone for the night, but it felt like another nail in the coffin. It was already as if they were living apart. She would be gone in the day, and some nights too. Paul would be at the studio or somewhere. He hardly saw her, and when he did he was rarely in a good mood. All the tension and hostility between him and George, and yes, even him and the other Beatles was taking its toll, and Jane had already, unfairly, been Paul’s vent for his anger more than once.

 

Paul drove there almost without realising it, going over – rehearsing – what to say in his head. George, we need to straighten things out. It’s driving me up the wall, so it must be you too…

 

Paul arrived at Kinfauns, and finding the gates unusually left open rolled his car slowly up the drive to the house, killing the engine and letting it roll to a standstill near the garages.

 

He got out and let his car door slam to. Everything was silent except for the birds singing. It was still early and it occurred to Paul that George might not even be up yet. That nearly gave him an excuse to get back into the mini and ‘leave it til later’, but instead he took a deep breath and forced himself to march confidently up to the front door, ringing the bell twice, demanding to be seen.

 

He was answered two minutes later by Grace, wearing a dressing gown, her hair messily tied back. “What do you want?” she asked curtly.

 

Paul grimaced inwardly. He had hoped that by some chance Grace wouldn’t have been there. He wanted – no, needed - to speak to George on his own.

 

“I need to see George,” he said.

 

Grace looked Paul up and down, “Well, you can’t,” she said flatly and went to close the door on Paul. Paul put his foot in the way and stopped her, obviously surprising her, as she gave him little resistance as he pushed his way past her and into the house.

 

“George? George, it’s Paul. I need to talk to you,” Paul shouted as he went from room to room.

 

Grace caught up with him in the kitchen. “I told you you couldn’t,” she said obtusely.

 

“Where is he?” Paul demanded.

 

“He’s out. On business. He won’t be back til late,” she said.

 

Paul didn’t believe her. “George?” he shouted again, marching back to the living room.

 

Grace followed him, laughing. “Where do you think I’ve hidden him?” she asked. “Down the side of the sofa?!”

 

Paul turned to face her. “Where has he gone?” he said.

 

“I’ve no idea,” Grace said, sitting down in one of the chairs. “To the city.” There was a cocktail glass beside her chair. She picked it up and sipped it. “Now, you had better leave before I call the police.” She suddenly flicked her eyes up to Paul.

 

“It’s me who should be calling the police,” Paul said.

 

“And why’s that?”

 

A thought crossed Paul’s mind. He smiled. “You think I don’t know? I do. We all know. And as soon as I catch up with George, he’ll know too.” It was a bluff and Paul was no accomplished actor, but it seemed enough to convince Grace.

 

She said nothing for a moment, and then taking another drink she looked at Paul and said, “He wouldn’t care. George would understand. It’s a means to an end.”

 

“I wouldn’t bank on it, love,” Paul said, reeling inside, taking all his prowess not to show it to Grace. It had been an idea that had crossed his mind more than once – that there was more to Grace than met the eye. There was a plan behind it all. Now she had as good as admitted it to him, all he had to do was trick her into telling him exactly what.

 

“You don’t know George,” she said, calmly. “He loves me. He would do anything for me.”

 

Paul snorted. “I’ve know George since he was twelve,” he said. “You’ve known him a matter of months. He doesn’t love you. You’re just filling the void while he gets over Pattie.”

 

Anger flashed across Grace’s face and she launched herself from the chair, knocking the glass from its arm to the floor and spilling the remains of its contents. Paul had to take a small step back to steady himself against her weight, but he stood his ground, catching Grace by her wrists. She made a strange half wail, half scream and struggled to free herself. Paul tightened his grip. “It’s true, isn’t it? And you know it! And he’ll be finished with you once I’ve told him –“

 

“No!” Grace squealed. “NO, he loves me. Everything else is irrelevant. George loves me. We will always be together…”

 

She continued to writhe against Paul. Paul nearly lost his grip, but he held on to her, the muscles he had developed from the years of bass playing coming into their own. He realised he must be hurting her, but he didn’t weaken.

 

“You’re a really fuckin’ crazy bitch, eh?” he said spitefully. “George will be well rid of you!”

 

“No, no, no,” Grace blubbered, crying now, although Paul thought they were probably more tears of frustration rather than anything else. He released her finally and she dropped backwards on to the sofa. “You can’t tell him, you can’t.”

 

“I can and I will.”

 

“It would hurt him… You would see George hurt?”

 

Paul shook his head and turned to leave.

 

“Wait!” Grace pleaded.

 

Paul looked at her.

 

“I’ll tell him. I will tell him everything. Please, give me the chance.”

 

“You’re lying.”

 

“I’m not. Paul, please. Let me tell George.”

 

Paul didn’t reply for a moment. What choice did he really have? George, that bird’s up to something, but I don’t know what. That’s if George would even believe him, and the chances of that weren’t too great at the moment. Still, he seemed to have convinced Grace.

 

“You tell him then,” he said. “But you tell him now, today, or I shall, and then right after George I will be telling the police as well.”

 

Grace nodded. “He’ll choose me,” she said, but Paul thought he could detect an element of doubt in her tone. Choose her for what?

 

“We’ll see,” Paul said and walked out; unaware of the wheels he had just set in motion.