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Perhaps Mr. Williams hadn’t been exaggerating when he said that it wasn’t worth touching the group with a barge pole. At least, they didn’t seem the least bit concerned with making a good first impression on someone who was trying to help them. Three of them were there, along with the compere from the Cavern that John had brought along and introduced as his father, but Paul was still missing. And the three that were there had arrived more than a quarter of an hour late for the meeting they all agreed to attend. “He’s late,” Brian noted, not for the first time.
“Well, I did phone his house,” the youngest one, George, said. “He’s only just gotten up so he’ll be along in his own time.”
“Making him even later.”
“He may be late, but he’ll be very clean,” George countered, making John and Pete and the compere - Bob something? - chuckle like naughty schoolboys. Brian took a deep breath in and out. It wouldn’t do to lose his sense of composure in front of them. He knew how they saw him and he wanted to preserve that idea in their heads for as long as possible. He had plans for them - and, the more he watched them perform and the more he thought about their potential, he suspected that they had plans for him, too.
It started with the Jones boy. He’d come in asking for a record by the Beat Brothers. It took some back and forth with the shop assistants for Brian to realize that these so-called Beat Brothers were actually a local group who played down in the Cavern most nights. Brian decided to take a look at them for himself. Their music wasn’t anywhere near his taste, but he prided himself on knowing his clientele and making himself familiar with the music they liked. It would help to keep them coming back and bringing new customers in at the same time. He knew he and Alistair stood out in their suits and ties among the leather jacketed and cotton jumpered crowd, but once the group started playing, Brian forgot all about himself. The whole world focused in on them. The Beatles were the most important thing in the world to everyone in that room.
After their set - frantic but professional, the three singers performing music and making each other laugh as girls in the front swooned and shrieked their names, singing music Brian was only vaguely familiar with but which suddenly felt as close to him as his own skin - Brian and Alistair followed one of the bouncers to the band room, a closet-sized alcove behind the stage where groups clustered after sets for a drink. “What brings Mr. Epstein here?” one of them asked, the boy with the great swoop of hair who looked like he might blow away in a strong wind.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on such a fine performance,” Brian said. The drummer was too busy chatting up a girl to notice him. The one who played left-handed said thank you, as did the slender boy. The last of them, the one with the long straight nose, didn’t seem like he cared much at all. The look on his face said he wasn’t impressed by much at all, not least by the old man in the suit who showed up in his territory. It took Brian a moment to place their faces. These were the same young men who hung around NEMS playing records in the listening booths. Perhaps they’d learned the songs they’d played that night from records they’d bought from his shop. The thought filled him with pride. He had given them help, in a small way. “Well, I wish you all a good evening.”
He took Alistair out to a late dinner and couldn’t stop thinking about what he had seen. Not that he was one for pop music concerts but even so, Brian knew he had seen something completely new. No one else was doing exactly what the Beatles were doing. Liverpool was full of groups who played guitars and slammed on drum kits, and per Alistair and the shop assistants, many of them were good or even better, but none of them had ever mentioned that unnamable quality that Brian had just seen. The Beatles were special. Too much for just Liverpool. The world might not be big enough for what they were offering. “Do you think I should manage them?” he asked, cutting off Alistair in the middle of a sentence.
“Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“Because I think they’ve got something special. And you saw how young they are, they’ve got no experience and they won’t know if someone tries to take advantage of them. At the very least I could offer them my expertise in business and give them an honest contract to start them out with. If they say no, we go our separate ways. What do you think?”
“I think I won’t be able to convince you not to,” Alistair said. “But at least think about it before you approach them. They’re not like you and me. They’re a lot rougher around the edges.”
Alistair was a nice person and a good employee but Brian had never let him into the intimacy that only family were privileged to know. He had no idea that Brian was well acquainted with the rougher side of life. Four boys in a rock and roll group were nothing compared to a court martial, a police sting, a fist connecting with his jaw after a night of hoping that he might find someone he could bring home and have all for himself.
Over the course of the month Brian went back to the Cavern every chance he got. He stood at the back, trying to position himself where he might enjoy a thin breeze of cold air from outside, and watched the Beatles. He arrived just before their set and left as soon as they were off the stage. The other groups might as well have not existed for him. It was the Beatles he came for. They weren’t only unlike anything he had ever seen, they weren’t like anything that had ever existed before. It was like they’d hatched out of eggs, or landed from a far-off planet. It wasn’t just the music that jangled and weaved out of their instruments like they were spinning gold thread, it was the boys themselves that were so new. They all arrived fully formed. The other groups were interchangeable with themselves and each other. Mix them up in a dark room and no one would be able to guess which singer went with which guitar player. But the Beatles - everyone knew who they were, and there was no forgetting them.
Pete was the drummer. Brian knew his mother, or knew of her. She ran a club that hosted music and most of the local groups played there as often as they played the Cavern. He was darkly handsome, a quiet type whose focus couldn’t be broken by the antics of his bandmates or the crowd hollering his name. George was the one with the hair, still a child and acting like a man, smoking so many ciggies in a set that Brian expected that he’d mummify himself with the smoke if he went on long enough. But he played like a born natural and he took up his fair share of space, even though he looked like he could be snapped in half between two fingers. Paul was the one the girls screamed for. His doe eyes turned up when he sang fast songs and down when he was singing about heartbreak and lost girls. His skin was so fair he turned pink at the slightest fluctuation in temperature. The three of them would have been a fine trio, but they had a fourth, and Brian knew the first time he saw John step up to a microphone and sing that he was the leader, because the others fell in line behind him.
Brian couldn’t keep his eyes off John, no matter how hard he tried. There was something about him that only came out when he was moving, playing his guitar, shoulders jumping, legs spread like he wanted to brace himself against the force of the music. He couldn’t see; he squinted at the crowd, which only made Paul’s eyes look bigger by comparison, and when someone handed up a slip of paper with a request on it, he had to hold it to his nose to read it. That would explain the tough act he put on. He sneered at the ones who screamed too long, while Paul was singing, and he had no compunctions against using the toe of his shoe to push someone back by the forehead. But it was only an act. Brian could tell. Every part of him but his face could be readied for a fight. He couldn’t hide his true feelings, that he really cared. He was the one buying cups of tea and sausage rolls for his favorites, the ones who clustered at the front to watch him like puppies at the feet of their master. It was refreshing to see someone like that, who would admit to knowing human kindness. Brian hadn’t felt it for quite some time.
He did wonder, though. There were moments he thought he saw John and Paul look at each other and something would shimmer between them. He couldn’t be sure, and perhaps he was only indulging in wishful thinking or seeing something that wasn’t there, but - John’s face lost all tension when he looked at Paul. Paul stood a little straighter when John was telling someone to shut their gob and let him sing his song. He knew the signs. He had seen them, and engaged in the dance of keeping a secret himself. Surely it wouldn’t be the first time that two members of a music group had to hide a relationship. This was Liverpool, after all. Men and boys hunted queers for sport. Anyone who bathed regularly or wore a decent suit was liable to accusations. The Beatles wore leather and swore like sailors. Nobody who didn’t already knew wouldn’t see it, but Brian knew, and he knew what he saw.
He invited himself backstage after a set one afternoon, pushing himself through the throngs of teenagers drenched in sweat as politely as he could, and made his way to the band room. George and John were sitting on wooden crates, drinking the cheap ale sold at the bar. “Mr. Epstein, back again,” George said, lifting his bottle. “Wasn’t either of us who pinched those records last week.”
“Pinched the - ? No, I’m not here about that.” A joke, hopefully. He would ask when he got back to the shop if anything had gone missing. Brian pulled a business card out of his inside pocket, one he’d put there for this purpose, and held it out to John. If John wanted it, then the rest of them would follow him. “I’d like to set up a meeting with the four of you, to discuss the future of your group, and how I may play a role in it.”
“Oh?” John drawled. “And what sort of role might that be?”
“Well, based on my years of business acumen, I would say managerial. You could certainly be getting more for your hard work than you are currently. Perhaps touring the country, playing bigger venues.” Brian paused for effect, so they would hear him when he said the words all the working groups in Liverpool wanted to hear. “Perhaps a record contract.”
John and George looked at each other. Most groups didn’t get as far as to have someone offer to represent them. The Beatles had someone, Brian had heard, but they had parted ways acrimoniously and now the group was responsible for their own affairs. But what group wanted to book their own shows and figure out their own money? They needed someone to handle all that and leave them be to play. “Well,” John said, taking the card and putting it in his pocket. “I’ll get Paul and Pete over and we’ll talk about it.”
“Phone my office when you’ve decided,” Brian said. It was going to be a few days. John was going to make him wait for the privilege of working for him. He didn’t know that Brian could wait, happily. Destiny never happened all at once. “And we’ll arrange a meeting.”
The group set up the meeting, and all but one of them had arrived. John slouched in his chair, looking bored, and not the least bit annoyed. George and Pete shared a match to light their cigarettes. The compere poked around Brian’s office, looking at the art on his walls. Brian was just about to ask one of them to ring Paul when Paul opened the door and walked in. “Apologies for my tardiness,” he said, parking himself between John and George. “But I just had to have a bath, you know.”
“Yes, we know,” John said. The irritation had melted away as soon as he saw Paul, like a cool hand on a fevered brow. Brian made a note of that: John calms down when Paul is near. Was it the same for Paul? Did he feel soothed when John was around? “You must have scrubbed behind your ears and everything.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Gentlemen,” Brian said. “Unfortunately, we only have a few minutes to speak before my next meeting.”
They left without definitively agreeing to anything, but the door had been opened and wouldn’t be closed now that they’d heard each other’s terms. Brian offered security, dependable income, and a bit more legitimacy as professional musicians; the Beatles offered excitement and a chance to make a mark on the world. They would hash out the finer details later. George, Pete, and the compere left first, talking about getting a pint before the evening set. John and Paul lingered in the corridor. Brian couldn’t help but overhear. He felt a need to protect them. If they were keeping their relationship a secret, the love that dared not speak its name, he didn’t want to frighten them by letting them know what he knew. It would all come in due time. He could help them. Be the guardian none of them ever had. “Well, I’m all for him, but I’ll let you all argue about it,” John was saying.
“I’m not arguing. He’s giving us more than Williams ever did, and I don’t think he’ll stiff us either. You saw how careful he was talking?”
“Yeah. Feels like he wants to manage us more than we want to be managed by him. Could be useful to us.”
“Could do. Here, give us a light.”
Brian heard the match hiss. He imagined John putting both cigarettes in his mouth to light them, and then handing one to Paul. Like a kiss with separate mouths. Brian touched his own mouth without realizing it at first. “Well, I’m off,” Paul said. “Told Dad I’d have tea ready for Mike when he gets in. You going over to see Cyn, then?”
Who? “Yeah,” John said, somehow telegraphing desire into one ordinary word. “It’s been two whole days. Gonna stop off and get some choccies first. It’s not polite to show up at your girlfriend’s house with a throbber and nothing for her.”
Their voices faded as they walked away. Brian sat at his desk, stunned. John had a girlfriend? He had never mentioned her before. Probably one of the girls who screamed his name at the Cavern. Having a girlfriend didn’t necessarily eliminate the possibility that John and Paul were coupled, but the casual way Paul spoke her name, and John’s flip answer about buying her chocolates so she wouldn’t mind having sex with him - they weren’t doing what Brian had thought they were doing. But they acted like they were in love, and doing it so publicly in front of friends and perfect strangers. Did they not know what they were doing? Did they not see what was so plain to Brian, that they acted like lovers? Liverpool men weren’t known for their ability to recognize subtle emotions. And it wasn’t like they would have seen men be open about their love for each other before. He could believe it, but he couldn’t believe it. There was no chance they hadn’t thought about the way they acted around each other, being so gentle and so in tune, but at the same time he knew they had never considered it, for the same reason that they probably never asked themselves why they needed to breathe. It was just a part of their lives.
Brian was still thinking about John and Paul, and what they didn’t talk about, when he went to his parents’ home for Shabbat dinner on Friday. Brian sat next to his mother, as he always did. As they passed dishes and filled their glasses, the topic of conversation wove around from the weather, to what was going on at NEMS, to Brian’s newest venture. “A rock and roll group?” Clive asked. “I know they’re popular now, but where are they going to be in five years? Driving lorries and working down at the docks, I think.”
“The records are popular,” Brian’s father added. “But it’s true, young people go from one interest to another very quickly. They don’t settle on what they really want until they’re adults.”
“Young people are my clientele in the record shop,” Brian said, smoothing the sting he felt at his father’s comment. He had been a good son and came back to work for the family business after his youthful misstarts, what more did he have to do? “And so far they have not steered me wrong. If this group ends up unloading ships at the docks, at least we will all have enjoyed ourselves beforehand.”
“That’s exactly right,” his mother said, putting her hand on his arm and giving him a reassuring pat. She had never stopped supporting him, no matter what he did to embarrass her. Once she had wanted to bring him to a matchmaker and have a suitable wife found for him. But that was a long time ago. “This group sounds like a fine thing to do. You’ll help them improve their standing, and clean them up. But remember: their success is your success, and their failure is your failure.”
“I know, Mummy,” Brian said. The boys were going to depend on him. He had to help them. He was meant to help them. Being with his family reminded him of who he was. Eldest son. Born on Yom Kippur. Meant to do great things. But after being forcibly removed from the army, stymied in his desire to be a dressmaker, forced into revealing his private life by trapping a man in a police sting, finding no joy in drama school, and throwing himself into his work to replace any hope of having a love and a family of his own, he had found something that made him feel alive again. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make them a success.”
It was John, of course, who brought the decision. “Right then, Brian,” he said, in the band room after a lunchtime show, “manage us.” Brian made the arrangements and got the group into his office to sign the contract a few days later. He chose not to sign as a way to protect the interests of everyone in the room. Without his signature tying them up, they would be free to leave him and find new representation if they found him unsatisfactory, but he was equally as free to leave them. Brian always wanted to keep his eye on the door. It had saved him from plenty of unpleasant situations, in dark rooms with men who did not care about him. John stayed behind, playing with his lighter, after everyone else filed out. “Is it true that all the record albums are free for us now, since you’re managing us?”
“Within reason, yes. I would prefer it if you treated the records more as a library than a shop. Bring some back before you take more.”
“Yeah, sure. Not like I have room for all the records in the world anyway.” John closed his lighter and shoved it into his pocket. “You’re queer, right?”
“I am,” Brian said, locking his shoulders in place. He was glad he was sitting at his desk, and John was a few feet away. Hopefully John wouldn’t be able to see the blush he couldn’t help keep from blooming in his face. “I do hope that won’t be a problem for you.”
“Nah. I’m too worldly for that. You should have seen the shit they do to each other in Hamburg.” John settled himself across the sofa, elbow jabbing into the arm and legs stretched to the other end, like he owned it. Like he owned the world. “If you’re queer you’re probably hot for Paul, then.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, everyone is. Girls at home and boys in Hamburg. He always gets the loudest screams when we’re playing.”
Was John including himself with everyone? Brian pushed the thought away. Paul was handsome, yes. Anyone who liked men would feel the same. But he couldn’t say that plainly. John was looking for a reaction, he wanted Brian to start sweating, but he didn’t know Brian as well as he thought. Just like Alistair, he didn’t know what lay underneath the education and the upbringing. “You all get your fair share of attention,” he said, pushing the topic back to John, trying to flatter him into submission. “I’m sure each girl at the front by the stage has a different favorite.”
“Getting birds is no problem. We’re all up to our eyeballs in knickers and hankies with phone numbers written on them. Only I’ve got a steady so I act like I’m not interested.”
“Are you not interested?”
“When Cynthia’s around, no.”
How unfortunate, that John was the same kind of Liverpool man who took women for granted. He thought there would always be a woman around to stand him up and make him feel like he was worth being around, even when he had friends who looked to him for guidance and Paul gazing at him with adoration and devotion. “There must be something about Cynthia that sets her apart from the other girls,” Brian said. “Something that the others don’t have.”
“Well, when she found out I like Bardot, she went and dyed her hair blonde and started wearing short skirts to get my attention.” John shrugged. “She’s a lovely girl. Very gentle, very soft. Makes a good match to me. I’m a real bastard.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Do you think you have a future with her?”
“Who knows, Mr. Epstein? At this point in my life I’m just looking to make some money and move out of my auntie’s house.” John rolled onto his back and let his leg stick out at an awkward angle, arms above his head. “All I know is, Cyn’s always around when I want her and disappears when I don’t. What more can a man ask for?”
“I dare say that’s not the kind of person who’s your basherte.”
“My what?” John sat up. “What did you say?”
“A Hebrew word. How can I translate it? I suppose it’s like destiny. A person’s bashert is their - well, let’s say, the one for whom it was written in the stars that you would fall in love with. The person you are fated to spend your life with.”
“I’m not one for fate,” John said, slumping back onto the sofa. “People around me tend to die. I’m bad luck. You’d better watch yourself or you’ll be next. Besides, what do I even need if I’m looking for a wife? Someone who’ll make my tea and wash my socks and fuck when I want.”
Brian kept his lips from curling. The problem was that John was so self-absorbed he didn’t consider what other people could possibly want out of a relationship. Cynthia wasn’t a person who had needs and dreams of her own; she was a maid John could have sex with. Brian wondered if that was why John hadn’t realized what was happening between him and Paul. If he didn’t think about it, he wasn’t going to see the signs, and the moment would pass him by. “There’s more to it than that, I think,” Brian said. “A marriage is a partnership.”
“What do you know about it? You’re not married. Unless you’ve got some wife stashed away to pull out when people ask you if you’re queer.”
“You don’t need to be married to know about love.” Brian took a moment to gather his thoughts. He had to tread lightly. John was still young, and what he didn’t know about the world would stun a team of horses in their tracks, so to surprise him would only send him away. “When you understand someone, and they understand you,” Brian said, “and you know each other’s secrets but still want to be together, and they believe in you even when you don’t believe in yourself. That’s what love is. If you can find that with Cynthia, then I congratulate you, and I hope you’ll invite me to your wedding. But if you can’t, you may want to move on. You’ll free the both of you if you do.”
“I never hear any complaints from her.” John stood up and stretched theatrically. “Well, I’m off. Got an appointment to see a girl.”
“Cynthia?”
“If you like. See you ‘round.”
Brian got his first achievement in his brief managerial career shortly after signing them, by securing the group an audition with Decca. He didn’t even consider what would happen if they were offered a contract; just getting an audition was a real accomplishment. Brian talked them up as much as he could - recorded with Tony Sheridan, cut their teeth across Britain and in Hamburg, a massively popular local group with a built-in fan base - and coached the group on how to act in front of the record executives. “Remember, this is a major record label, and they don’t record in closet-sized studios,” he told them, the night before the audition. He’d met up with the four of them, and their roadie Neil, at the hotel he’d booked for them. “And you can’t argue with them about how they work, or their accents, or how they dress. You’re not in Liverpool anymore. People down here don’t have senses of humor like they do back home.”
“Nobody with a sense of humor would charge six bob for a bowl of soup,” Pete said, and that got the rest of them started on snobby restaurants and poncy waiters until Brian put his thumb and forefinger in his mouth and whistled loud enough to get their attention. “Now, then,” Brian said. “As it is New Year’s Eve, I am more than happy to take you out for a drink. But we’re all getting up early tomorrow for your ten o’clock appointment in West Hempstead. Do you understand?”
They would have agreed to anything for a pint. Brian took them to a club down the street and bought them a round before escaping to the bar and sitting by himself with a gin and tonic, watching the group and Neil out of the corner of his eye and his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. 1962 was only hours away. None of them had any idea what the year would bring them but if all went well it would start off with a recording contract. A contract would bring an album, then a tour, money and fame, and then what - touring Europe? Going back to Hamburg to live in filth? George had said once he wanted to play a show in America. His sister lived out there, somewhere. America might as well have been on a different planet, for the distance the Beatles would have to travel to get there. But, Brian told himself, as he finished his first drink, the group worked harder than any other he could think of and they weren’t against having to work even harder. Why else would they be spending a holiday in a club far from home, knowing they wouldn’t be able to have an all-night piss up because they were going to try and make a good impression in the morning?
Brian turned his head slightly to look at the table where everyone else was sitting. Pete and Neil were deep in conversation, gesticulating with pointed fingers and splashing beer over the rims of their glasses. George was enjoying his own company, drinking his beer and looking around the club. John and Paul were leaning into each other’s space, talking into each other’s ears, heads bent and the light overhead shining off the tops of their heads. They were so absorbed in each other they had clearly forgotten that they weren’t the only ones in the room. If Brian didn’t know better he would have expected for their heads to tilt in either direction to make room for a kiss. But not even London was ready for that. There was another club in the area that catered to men who wanted to sit close with other men, but he preferred to go by himself. If things went sour, he didn’t want any of them to see him like that.
The audition, from start to finish, took less than forty minutes. Even though they had to wait for the lead engineer to arrive, and for the staff to set up the equipment in the live room and get the proper levels in the control booth, it went faster than Brian anticipated. He sat in the booth with the staff and watched the group play the set they’d chosen. Brian had wanted them to play more of their originals, to show Decca what they were really made of, but they fell back on their Cavern standard mixed bill of covers. It was so odd to watch them play in a new environment. It was throwing them off. It was like watching infants taking their first wobbly steps. Pete kept his gaze fixed on the middle distance as he drummed, and George looked at the floor with none of his usual pep in his playing. John and Paul stayed close to each other, eyes darting between the booth and their faces, looking for reassurance. Brian was proud of them. They’d taken the jump and stood up straight through it, even though they were uncomfortable. He wanted good things for them.
A month later he had to deliver the bad news. Decca had said no. There were some general notes on the quality of their sound and their lack of polish, but overall, there was just no future in guitar groups and Decca was going in a different direction with their next slate of artistes. Brian didn’t mince words; he had nothing left to lose with them. “You must be out of your mind,” he said to Rowe. “These boys are going to explode. I’m confident that one day they’ll be bigger than Elvis.”
“The boys won’t go, Mr. Epstein,” Rowe said, like he could see the future. “We know these things.”
You don’t know the boys, Brian thought. Hearing the bad news was one thing but having to tell them was going to be so much worse. Better to get it over with than have to stew in it. Brian left his office and went down to Lime Street. There was a coffee bar where at least one of them could be found most days. When Brian walked in he saw John and Paul at a table towards the back, and for a moment he wondered if he was going to interrupt something private, but they saw him and waved him over. “Any news from the capital?” John asked as Brian sat down, in a voice trying to imitate a BBC newsreader.
“I’m sorry,” Brian said. “They said no.”
“We just need to keep trying,” Paul said quickly, as John’s face turned stormy and he thumped a tightly closed fist on the table, jostling their coffee cups. “One label said no. Not the end of the world. There’s plenty more we can go to, aren’t there, Brian?”
“Of course, of course there are,” Brian replied. “That fool at Decca seems to think that guitar groups are losing their popularity. Clearly he hasn’t been down to the Cavern on a Friday night. Here, let me go up and get myself a coffee, and when I come back we’ll discuss our next steps. Back in a minute.”
Brian waited at the counter for his coffee, and stole surreptitious glances at the table. John was clearly furious. His cheeks had turned a dark red and his eyes had narrowed, and as he spoke too low for Brian to hear, he was stabbing the surface of the table with his finger so forcefully that the tip was bending back. Paul was trying to calm him. First he put his hand on John’s shoulder and gripped it tightly, but when that didn’t work, Paul moved his arm to sling it around John’s neck and pulled him in tightly, saying something that instantly made John’s forehead uncrease. By the time Brian returned with his cup, John had come down from the height of his anger. “If we learned anything in Hamburg, it’s to not stop when we’re having a good time,” John said. “So the halfwits at Decca said no. Fine. Just think how stupid they’ll look when we make a million pounds on some other label.”
“My point exactly,” Paul said. “Well, Brian. What’s next?”
A change to their image. Brian had been considering it and took the opportunity to explain the idea. The problem, he said, was that every group in Liverpool wore leather and acted like yobs - though he didn’t use the word - during their act. The Beatles could do something simple to set themselves apart. They could change their look by wearing suits, and change their persona to be more professional. No more eating or arguing on stage. And they should bow at the end of a set, to thank the audience for coming to see them. John and Paul looked at each other. “We used to wear suits when we were with the Quarrymen,” Paul said. “Leather was the thing in Hamburg.”
“If it makes a million pounds you can send me on stage in a gorilla suit,” John said. “Say, Eppy, did I ever tell you about the time I went on stage at the Indra wearing only my underpants and a toilet seat around my neck?”
“I would have remembered if you did,” Brian said, trying not to feel too prideful at the nickname. Eppy. John had taken him into his fold.
The first fitting for their suits went over well enough. George chafed at the bit, but Pete didn’t seem to mind. John complained as if he felt he was supposed to, and nagged at Paul for taking the longest to be satisfied with how his suit fit. “It’s not our fault you’ve got legs longer than the M1,” he said. “And hips I could hang teacups off of.”
“It’s not my fault you’re a four eyes, but we all bear our burdens the best we can,” Paul shot back, and everyone fell about laughing. “Imagine Cyn seeing you in this? She’d have a fit.”
“Oh, me and Cyn are over,” John said casually. “Broke it off with her the other day.”
“Oh, why? She was batty for you.”
“Let’s just say she wasn’t in my stars,” John said, catching Brian’s eye and giving him a little wink.
“Good phrase, that,” George said, dodging a tape measure that got a bit too close to his eye. “You should put it in a song.”
John lingered after changing back into his street clothes. Brian settled up with the tailors and was surprised to find him in the showroom. “Mind if I walk with you?” he asked, following Brian out of the shop. “Only I don’t feel like going home just yet. Mimi’s in a frightful mood.”
“About what?”
“Fuck me, who knows. The sun rose this morning, that’s enough for her.”
As they walked back towards NEMS, John talked. He told Brian about his friend Stu, who had been in the group but left to focus on his budding career as a painter. “He’s living with this German bird, Astrid, back in Hamburg,” John said. “But he’s back in Liverpool now, visiting his mum.”
“Are you going to go and see him?”
“No. Well, I don’t know. He’s been ill recently. Bad headaches, so he’s in bed a lot of the time.” John put his hands in his pockets. “Good thing he wasn’t there to be fitted. He would have walked out. Nothing gets in the way of his art. You know, he didn’t even want to be in the group at first. I had to convince him. We met in art college and he won a prize for one of his paintings. I talked him into buying a bass.”
“Paul plays bass.”
“Stu played it first. Only he wasn’t any good.”
“Then why did you insist that he buy an instrument and join the group?”
“It’s nice to have all your mates in one place.”
Brian assumed that John would go on his way by himself when they reached NEMS, but they both ended up in Brian’s office. Brian closed the door. “I learned a lot from Stu,” John said, lying on the sofa like he had the first time he’d been there. “You know, about art and philosophy. And I trust him when he says things. Like when he told me he wanted to leave the group and go with Astrid. She’s an artist too. They’re kind of like the same person now. They wear each other’s clothes. I suppose that makes them bashers, yeah?”
“I suppose,” Brian said. He let the mispronunciation slide. John was opening up to him. “But why wouldn’t you trust him? He’s your friend.”
“Yeah.” John started picking at a hangnail. “But I had a lot to think about when we got back from our first jaunt out to Hamburg. I started spending all my time with Stu and Astrid, and the gang they’d put together. These German artists, who loved jazz and existentialism. Me and George would spend all our time with them. Pete was always off by himself, that’s how he likes it, but Paul - Paul didn’t really have anyone. We sort of forgot about him. He and Stu have never gotten on, and the Exis - that’s what I call them - didn’t really take to him, so he was by himself. He’d ask me to write with him or have a drink and I’d always forget about him. But when we all got home I had a lot of time to think. See, I only spent time with Paul when we were on stage, and I saw what he was doing. He was working as hard as I was. And Stu wasn’t having any fun, and he wasn’t getting any better. But Paul was giving it everything even after we cut him off. So I chose Paul. He’d gone off and gotten a job to make his father happy but I went over and told him he had to choose, too. And he chose me.”
“It sounds like a very lonely time for Paul,” Brian said. That poor boy. So far from home and the only friends he had there threw him over for new people who didn’t like him. “Why did he and Stu not get along?”
“You ever put two cats in the same room? It’s a territorial thing. And I’m the territory.” John put his hands behind his head. “Stu and I spent so much time together even before Hamburg. We were students and we had similar interests. Paul’s a bit younger but he wanted all my attention. I’d stay up all night with Stu, high on benzedrine, and Paul would never partake. His mother was a nurse so he’s nervous about taking drugs that weren’t prescribed to him. But me and Stu - well, we just moved faster than I did with Paul. Stu’s open to just about anything, or he was before he met Astrid. If you understand what I mean.”
“I believe that I do.” Had John just confessed to having an affair with Stu? Was he telling the truth? Did it even matter? Brian shook the thought aside. There was no indication that John was lying to him. He was as cool and as steady as Brian had ever seen him. “I’m sure Paul was glad that you chose him over Stu, so to speak.”
“Was he, fuck. Had a big smile on his face next time we played a gig together.”
“Perhaps Stu wasn’t part of your destiny,” Brian said, using the English word instead of the Hebrew so as to not frighten John, “but Paul is.”
John was silent for a moment, and Brian worried that he’d gone too far, but John nodded. “That could be,” he said. “It could. I think you’re right. I mean, the day that I met Paul was when everything started moving for me. When everything started up, with the group and writing songs. I’d probably be in prison by now if it wasn’t for Paul.”
Before Brian could respond, John was standing up and stretching. “Well, this was a lovely little chat, but I’ve got to go,” John said. “I’ll help myself to some new records before I leave.”
“Not too many, please,” Brian said, but John was out the door and letting it swing closed behind him.
Brian mulled over John’s words for the next few days, until the next Beatles show at the Cavern. John had ended things with Cynthia because she wasn’t his destiny. So he wasn’t so attached to the idea of a woman to take care of him as he thought he was. He’d had an affair with a male friend, and Paul had loathed this friend ever since. But it was his story about how he and the others had treated Paul in Hamburg that really stuck with him. They had abandoned Paul for new friends, but Paul had still worked himself as hard as he could for them. John had recognized that. He realized that he needed Paul for success more than Paul needed him, and had gone to fetch him from a job that would pay his bills but not feed his soul. They had saved each other. Stuck up for one another. Paul had done a thankless job but John thanked him anyway, and the group survived.
Brian went down into the humid depths of the Cavern and started making his way towards the band room. He thought he would go in and say hello before the Beatles’ set began, then find his place towards the back as usual. He was about to tap on the door when he heard Paul’s voice, in an odd, strained tone. An argument. “If you’re not going to tell me what the fuck is going with you I’ll walk and we won’t play tonight,” he snapped. “John, you’ve been acting weird for days. Did I do something?”
“Nothing,” John replied, annoyed. “Nothing you realize.”
“Can you talk to me like a normal fucking person for once in your wasted life?” Brian had never heard Paul like this before. So irritated but so used to John at the same time. Was that how he asked John to please write with him in Hamburg? “John, I don’t know what I did, if I did anything, if you’re going off your nut, but for fuck’s sake, you’re driving me up the wall! So just tell me what’s going on or I’ll - “
“You’ll what, Paul? You’ll stomp off and get some job to make your father happy?”
“If I did you’d be scratching at the fence like the mangy dog you are. Begging me to come back. And I must be mad myself, because I would. I’d do it again.”
“Don’t threaten me with something I want.” John sounded almost bored. Brian imagined him lying across two or three chairs pushed together, or on the floor. “And don’t act like it was so awful for you, not being a coil winder.”
“You ruined me for civilized life, Lennon. It’s all your fault.”
“Oh, sure, blame me. Like you weren’t desperate for a life other than what the McCartneys wanted for you.” John let out a satisfied grunt as he stretched. “Here. I’ll light you.”
The match hissed as it lit and then caught the ends of their cigarettes. “Besides,” John said. “You’d never leave. You’ve got it too good here.”
“Oh, what’s so good about sweating through every shirt and living on pennies?”
“We’re together,” John said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s more than enough for me, you know.”
Paul was silent. Brian wondered if John had gone too far and frightened him. Then Paul said, “Ever since I saw you on the busses, I knew I’d be throwing my lot in with you.”
“What, when you were twelve? Already deciding what you wanted out of life?”
“I was fifteen,” Paul snapped. Not unlike the tone George used when he was insisting that he wasn’t that much younger than the rest of them. “I saw you around town, and I used to look at you when we were riding the bus. You were so cool, John. And you had no idea. But I saw. I saw you.”
“I saw Elvis in that crowd,” John replied. “And then you went and made me look bad in front of my mates. Tuned my guitar and played a song I had no hope of getting through.”
“But you put me in your group.”
“I had to. Otherwise some other group would have snatched you up and then my group wouldn’t be worth it.”
Brian kept an inch of air between himself and the door. He couldn’t see inside but he imagined that John and Paul were sitting so close their hips and thighs were touching, as they often did without seeming to realize. If he’d had a relationship like theirs when he was a young man, his life would have gone so differently. So much easier. “So I had to get you back from the coil people,” John said. “Not worth having a group if you’re not in it. Nothing’s worth anything if you’re not there.”
“You mean that?”
“You’re the one playing bass, aren’t you?”
Stu. He’d gladly given up his place for his art and his girl, and Paul had jumped in to stand next to John. Paul had found his destiny at an early age. John had seen Paul and knew he’d found his destiny too. “Come here, babe,” John said, in a low, husky voice. A second later there was the unmistakable sound of a kiss - hesitant, but real. First of many, Brian knew. He turned and made a quick exit, his own face heating up like he was the one who’d just been swooned over. When the Beatles jumped onto the stage to start their set, John and Paul’s faces betrayed nothing, but as they played “Some Other Guy” they leaned with their backs together and their heads tipping over the other’s shoulders, touching from neck to ankle. Any closer and they would be so close they’d be trying to climb each other.
The group went into Brian’s office the next day for a meeting. There were more labels to contact, and the possibility of copying the Decca tape to pass around to A&R men, and a tour to plan when they came back from their upcoming trip to Hamburg in the spring. George and Pete sat in the chairs in front of Brian’s desk, paying attention to what he had to say and offering their own suggestions. John and Paul sat on the sofa, hip to hip, looking anywhere but each other so they wouldn’t blush too hard. Paul was smiling at nothing in particular, and John looked like he’d just woken up from the best sleep of his life. It was good to see them see each other for the first time. Brian knew they would be fine. He was happy for them, having an easier time at love that he had. He would have a wonderful professional and personal relationship with all of them.
But they were still late.