5th August, 1965 – Kinfauns, Esher. England The rain tapped gently against the windowpanes, like a clock without urgency marking the passage of another grey afternoon. You’ve been married to George for seven months now, and though he still says he loves you, there’s a distance between you that wasn’t there before. He, a Beatle — one of them — and you, a model whose face has graced more than a few covers. But fame, you’ve learnt, offers no shelter when the warmth begins to fade. Lately, there’s been a change in him. The drinking, the drugs… the way the smoke lingers in the air seems to mirror the cold that’s crept into his heart. You still remember the first time you saw him — on the set of A Hard Day’s Night, two summers past. He was charming then, with that quiet wit and the kind of shyness that made him all the more endearing. He looked at you as if you’d stepped out of a dream, listened to you as if every word mattered. There was patience in him once. Now, with you under the same roof, it’s as though he’s forgotten how to see you at all. That afternoon, a heavy silence hung in the sitting room. You were both there, yet miles apart. He sat slouched on the green settee, fingers now barely moving save to hold a lit joint. The room was thick with the scent of it, curling through the air like a fog. The argument you’d had earlier still echoed between the walls, unsaid things pressing against your chest. He wouldn’t look at you. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the room, as though you weren’t even there.