Dear Sean

Eighteen

George and Paul were hitting a rough patch.

“I really am trying to just say, ‘Look, lads, the band, you know. Should we try it like this?’ You know,” Paul said.

It was the ultimate bad sign, when he started saying “you know” like a fucking broken record; then he was really panicking. He just kept digging himself deeper and deeper into this hole with George, trying to save face and amend what he was saying but only managing to aggravate Harrison all the more.

“It's funny, though, how it only occurs when we record,” George said sardonically.

“It's like should we play guitar all the way through 'Hey Jude', and I don't think we should,” Paul said, his bossy nature getting the better of him.

“Okay, well, I don't mind. I'll play whatever you want me to play. Or I won't play at all if you don't want me to play. Whatever it is that will please you, I'll do it.”

Paul shot George a sour look and sat at the piano with more force than necessary. George was just looking morosely at the wall, and I wondered what had happened to the two old friends.

Shit, George had known Paul before me, he’d known him when he was less than a nobody, when he was just a Liverpool lad at the Inny, and had taught him to play a few chords on his guitar. I’d never tell George but I envied him at first, being there at the beginning.

And where did that leave me, in the middle of all this?

Sometimes the tension even reached Paul and I.

“Do you have to bring her?” Paul asked.

“What, are you bloody jealous?” I scoffed, while she was out for a moment.

“Well, none of us bring our birds to the studio,” Paul said.

“I mean, we’ve recorded things together. We work together. We made music together,” I said, trying to justify myself. Honestly I didn’t know why I brought her, maybe to make a point, maybe because Paul had his head stuck up his arse again and was only thinking of work, and I needed someone who would be devoted to me.

“We make music together,” Paul said dangerously.

“What about that Linda you’re dragging along everywhere? Why don’t I tell you to stop bringing her to our events?” I snapped.

“Linda? You’re bringing Linda into this? Linda is not in the studio with us every fucking day!” Paul shouted.

He’d even stop talking to me for days at a time.

She was there, clicking pictures, all blonde and perfect like Paul liked them.