Dear Sean

Eight

Epstein smiled more widely still. It seemed he was enjoying this immensely.

“Do you boys have a manager?”

“No,” Paul said softly, interrupting just in time a conversation that was spiraling out of control.

“Well… maybe you’d like to meet with me to discuss a few things.”

I’d lied. Whenever we talked business, it was Paul who handled it.

We got an appointment to see Brian in December, at his office.

Paul was late, and the tension reverberated across the room.

Epstein was looking at the ceiling, tapping his fingers on the table nervously.

George was smoking, and he handed me a ciggie.

Pete was fidgeting in his seat.

The only one missing was that bloody beautiful McCartney wanker, who, George reported, was at home taking a bath.

Epstein sucked in a deep breath. The clock ticked. Pete coughed. George lit another smoke.

The door swung open and the sudden disturbance startled us all.

“Sorry I’m late,” Paul said, his hair still damp and impeccably combed. Paul paid no mind to Brian Epstein, but looked straight at me, smiling slightly. He unwound the long scarf he’d been wearing and took a seat next to George.

“Well,” Epstein said, his eyes beadily fixed on Paul. His soapy clean scented wafted over even to where I was sitting. If I wanted him, I couldn't imagine what Epstein was thinking.

I cleared my throat and looked pointedly at Brian, who tore his eyes away immediately.

I smirked, enjoying my authority.

A lot of things happened, meetings and discussions, but it all led up to our signing the contract.

Old man McCartney was not happy to see me.

I was the infamous “bad influence” on his once prim and proper son, and now we were signing our souls away to the devil. And Jim McCartney had to approve Paul’s decision because he wasn’t yet twenty-one, the bastard.

I clicked my pen anxiously. I’d never thought that writing my name on a bloody piece of paper would ever prove to be this stressful. Paul scribbled his signature on the contract, and handed the pen to his dad.

Jim turned to shoot me a hateful look, like this was all my doing, and grudgingly signed underneath Paul. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. I scrawled my signature across the little line that had been provided for a certain “John W. Lennon,” before stepping back. There. It was done.

I watched George and Pete as well as their respective entourages go next and sign their names.

“Well boys, that’s that,” Brian said, clapping his hands together once before reaching down and greedily taking the contract.

I left the room feeling no different than before, but the importance of what had happened weighed on my mind. We were signed into a label.

We all wrote our names on this piece of paper that meant that we belonged to Brian but that we

were now a real band. That was the beginning of the end.

But before we could start making records, we had to go back to Hamburg one last time. I was hoping to see my mate, Stu.

When we got to the airport, Stu wasn’t there. Sean, he…he went on a trip, too. You might wonder why he left, and I wonder that too sometimes. Couldn’t he stay with us a bit longer?

Astrid just couldn’t bring herself to smile.

“Hello, Beatles,” she said dully.

“What, Astrid, luv, aren’t you glad to see us?” I teased, wondering what had gotten into her.

“I am not being able to see anything gladly,” she said.

“Is it Stu? Did he do something to you?” I asked, concern taking over my features. Paul watched silently next to me.

Astrid collapsed, tears flowing down her face now. I gathered her in a hug, and wondered what that Sutcliffe wanker could have done to upset her like that.

“Shh… It’s alright, you can tell me…” I soothed.

“St-Stu,” she said between hiccups, “has been passed away.”

Paul looked at me, openmouthed, and I pulled away from Astrid, holding her in front of me so I could see her face while she spoke.

“What?”

Well, I shouldn’t dwell on the past too much. He went away, and that’s that.

Where he is, everything is better. He’s probably sitting in a bright green valley, watching the clouds drift by, safe and warm underneath the sun that makes patterns of shade on him when the sun passes through the leaves, with chirping birds flying overhead, and flowers opening in the morning, covered with dew.