November 16 th 1965    10.25am  NEMS Offices, Sutherland House, Argyle Street, London

 

 

George rubbed his hands together, surprised at how clammy they felt. He looked up at the woman behind the desk. She self-consciously turned her head away. George smiled and stood up, ambling over to her and leaning on the high top of the reception desk.

 

“Where’s that other girl?” he said.

 

The woman looked up at George, her cheeks flushed pink. “Who?”

 

“The one who’s normally here. Is she called Barbara?”  

 

“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “I’ve been here for several months now.”

 

“Yeah? Eppie employ you?”

 

The girl blinked, confused.

 

“Brian Epstein?” George explained.

 

“No, Mr Archer…”

 

George nodded, rolling his eyes inwardly. As if it would be anyone else. “So what’s your name then, love?”

 

“Anne, Anne Croxley.”

 

“Well, its nice to meet you, Miss Croxley.”

 

“Anne, please, though my friends call me Annie.”

 

“Well, I’ll call you Annie too then, coz we’re friends aren’t we?” George gave her a wink. She blushed again. “My friends call me George.” She giggled. George absently traced his finger over the back of her hand on the top of the desk. It was nice to flirt with a girl. The claustrophobic atmosphere of George’s relationship with Grace had kept George a paranoid arms length from any female attention, for long enough.

 

“I think you’re ever so good,” Anne said.

 

George smiled, but he was already distracted by the images of Grace – Grace angry, Grace accusing – dancing in his head. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

 

“I finish for lunch at twelve…”  

 

George took his hand back, loosing his confidence. “I uh, I’m busy all day,” he said. “Perhaps another time.”

 

The girls face fell. “Of course. I didn’t mean…”

 

The intercom on the desk buzzed and Archer’s pinched voice came through, “Show Mr Harrison in now, please Miss Croxley.”

 

Anne stood up, pulling her chair back.

 

“I’m sorry,” George said, feeling bad.

 

She shook her head, “Mr Archer’s office is…”

 

“Mr Epstein’s,” George corrected.

 

 “It’s Mr Archer’s at the moment.”

 

 “No, I mean, I’m here to see Brian. It was arranged days ago.”

 

“Mr Epstein isn’t here…”

 

“Well, I’m not seeing Archer!” George raised his voice. “If I wanted to see him, I would have made the appointment…”

 

“Mr Epstein hasn’t been in the office for several weeks.”

 

 The door to Brian’s office opened. “Didn’t you hear me, Miss Croxley?” Archer asked, stepping out. “George, if you would like to…”

 

“No, I wouldn’t,” George said. “It’s Brian I came to see, not you.”

 

Archer sighed wearily. “If you would step inside, George, I can explain.”

 

“I doubt you can,” George said, but walked into the office anyway.

 

“Take a seat,” Archer said.

 

 George looked around. The office was a tip. It appeared every drawer and file appeared to have been spilled across the floor. The desk itself was hidden by a mass of paper and letters and things. George picked his way across the floor and sat in one of the chairs opposite the desk. Archer moved round to the other side, with decidedly less care, tramping over his own files.

 

“They others know, so I suppose you might as well. Of course, if you turned up when you are meant to you would have been informed already.”

 

“Informed of what?” George asked. Since the day George had skipped the meeting and ended up seeing Pattie that day, he had avoided the studios and all the Beatles business like the plague. Lying to Grace that he was going to the sessions, he had instead been spending his nights at pubs and clubs, drinking til they closed or the sun came up, or both.

 

 Ringo had called once, Paul several times, but George refused to answer, and never returned the calls. As Archer sat down, George began wondering if perhaps he should have done.

 

“I am taking care of all of Brian’s business concerns currently, including you boys,” Archer began. “Brian is… on a sabbatical. He’s not very well.”

 

“Where is he?”

 

 “In a hospital. A private one. Getting some rest.”

 

 “Mmm,” George said, doubtfully. He crossed his arms. “What’s wrong with him?”

 

Archer sat back, glancing out of the window. “They don’t know,” he said after a pause. “They keep doing tests but so far…” He turned back, fixing George with his grey eyes. “I don’t mind telling you George, I’m very worried about him.”

 

 “So, Brian is rather conveniently out of the way then,” George said. “And you’ve taken over here.”

 

 “No, no, George, you have it all wrong. This all has been thrust upon me. It’s more a favour I’m doing for Brian while he’s ill. Believe me, this is not my line of work at all.”

 

George shook his head. “Why would Brian choose you? The board…”

 

“The boards gone, and before you say it, so has Clive Epstein. It’s rather a delicate matter, you’ll forgive me if I don’t discuss it with you.”

 

“The whole board were sacked?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I thought only a few had gone?”

 

“No.”

 

“There’s no way Brian would sack his own brother,” George said contemptibly.

 

“Well, that is exactly what has happened,” Archer replied, coolly.

 

 “Perhaps I’ll go and ask Clive about it then, eh?”

 

 “If you so wish.”

 

 George unfolded his arms and sighed.

 

 “So,” Archer began. “What did you want to see me about?”

 

“I didn’t want to see you about anything.”

 

 “George, what have I done to make you and the others mistrust me so?” He looked so earnest George nearly believed him to be sincere. “I have never had anything but your best interests at heart.”

 

“That’s why you laid off Neil and Mal then?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“That’s just bollocks. You might fool that daft, old ponce, Brian, but you don’t me. Or John, Paul and Ringo for that.”

 

Archer sighed. He pressed the button on his intercom. “Would you bring Mr Harrison and I some tea, please Miss Croxley?”

 

“Yes sir,” said the intercom.

 

“No,” George said. “Don’t bother, I’m leaving.”

 

 “George, there was obviously something you needed to speak to Brian about. I am handling all his business affairs, so please tell me. I can assure you absolute confidentiality.”

 

George shook his head. “ No, see, its not business,” he said. “Its personal. So you can’t help me at all. Except perhaps to give me the name of the place you’ve stashed him in.”

 

“I haven’t stashed him anywhere,” Archer replied. “And to be honest, I am tiring of the accusations. Will you believe me when I say Brian is very, very sick? In fact, he is to… to put his house in order.”

 

George opened his mouth to speak but hesitated. The door opened and Anne brought in a tray with a teapot and two teacups. She set it down on the desk. George tried to catch her eye but she was deliberately not looking at him. “We’ve run out of biscuits,” she said. “I’ll go out and fetch some more later.”

 

“Right. Thank you, Miss Croxley,” Archer said and the receptionist hurried out. “You’ll have a cup?” Archer asked, lifting the lid off the teapot.

 

“No,” George said, bluntly. “What are you saying – put his house in order?”

 

Archer looked up, swirling the pot. “Just that, George. I cannot impress upon you how serious this is.”

 

“You’re trying to tell me Brian’s dieing?”

 

Archer looked down, replacing the lid and pouring the weak tea out.

 

“You said the doctors don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

 

“They don’t. Perhaps if they did, they could treat him. He gets weaker and weaker every day… rather like Miss Croxley’s tea.” He offered George a cup. George shook his head.

 

“If you left it to brew…” he began, then stopped himself. “Don’t you think comparing his illness to tea is in bad taste?”

 

“Yes, of course. My apologies. Black humour, you see.”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

“I do apologise…”

 

“No, I don’t believe Brian is ill. I imagine you’re spinning him some fuckin’ tale to…”

 

“Language, please.”

 

George stood up. Archer leaned back in his chair.

 

“You can choose to believe what you like, George. I cannot tell you anymore.”

 

George turned to go.

 

“What was it you wanted to speak to him about?”

 

George stopped, halfway across the room and looked back at him. “For reasons I am not going into with you, I’m taking some time off.”

 

“Very well. How long?”

 

“Two or three… maybe, four months. I’ll finish the album first.”

 

“That’s another thing, George. I hear your visits to the studio have become erratic to say the least…”

 

George turn to leave again, reaching the door handle before Archer said, “Anyway, no, it’s quite out of the question. You simply can’t have that much time off. Two or three weeks perhaps, but not months.”

 

George looked back. “I’m not asking, I’m telling you.”

 

“It’s quite impossible, George. It’s as simple as that. There will be the promotion for the new album, singles, another tour for it…”

 

“I’m not doing it. And that is as simple as that.”

 

“Then you will be replaced.”

 

George paused but then shrugged, “Fine with me.”

 

“I don’t mean temporarily, either, like Jimmy Nichol when Ringo was poorly. I mean for good, George. A group like the Beatles needs a higher level of commitment than you seem prepared to give.”

 

George stared at him, and for one fleeting moment, entertained the thought of striding back across the office, picking up the wiry, pretentious little man and throwing him through the window, but instead, he cocked his head to the left and repeated with out a waver, “Fine with me,” before walking out of the office, Archer still saying something behind him.