Dear Sean

Eight

It really started happening when we met Brian Epstein.

Brian, Sean, is one of the most important people who helped me make it big. He’s a lovely person, but I don’t think you’ll be able to meet him. See, he’s gone on a very long trip around the world, and he’s so busy he can’t spare a phone call or a letter—but I’m sure he’s very happy.

“What now?” I asked, feeling utterly broken and empty.

“I…I…don’t know,” Paul said, shaking his head slightly.

I stared somberly down at the shiny, rectangular tombstone. The golden lettering shone dully, and my eyes fixed on the second date—27th Aug. 1967.

But at the time we met him, he hadn’t gone on his very long trip. His trip didn’t begin until 1967. It’s a shame he’s too busy to meet you, Sean.

I met him in November of 1961, when we were playing at the Cavern. We were immediately impressed by him.

“Mr. Epstein is in the room,” Bob Wooler announced grandly, and all eyes turned towards the back of the room.

“Is he the Jew from the record store?” George whispered to Paul and he nodded.

“The NEMS bloke,” Paul added.

“What the fuck’s he doing here?” I asked, tapping my fingers on my guitar impatiently.

The crowd parted to let him through, stunning us all into silence with his incongruous suit and tie.

“What brings you down here?” George asked, parroting my own question when the Epstein bloke had reached the stage.

“Oh, I was wondering about the ‘My Bonnie’ record,” Epstein said, revealing a posh accent.

“Yeah, that was us,” Paul said, flashing one of his most brilliant smiles, and I saw Brian flinch. I cocked my head slightly. That involuntary movement probably said more than Epstein wanted to reveal—but now he’d made me jealous, which was probably much more dangerous.

I pushed past Paul to be perfectly in front of Epstein. “I think you should be talking to me, since we’re talking business,” I said.

I had to establish a certain pecking order after all.

“What business? I’m just asking around,” Epstein said, a small smile on his face.

I quirked my eyebrows for a moment. Was he flirting with me now?

“Our records are our business,” I snarled.