Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

2.

February 1992

Dominique's eyes regard me with suspicion from across the table.

"I'm serious," I insist. "We should do this more often. Look, I know that things are... strange."

She makes a sound in her throat, something between a scoff and a laugh.

"But even if we're not, y'know, together, I want to be friends. We are legally married, after all. And have two children together. So it's not as if we're getting rid of one another anytime soon."

We regard each other warily, and she opens her mouth to reply when the waiter arrives at the table, wine bottle in hand.

"Here you go, Mr. Taylor," he chirps as he gives us each a generous pour. Dom and I have been coming here for years, as it's enough of a hole-in-the-wall that we're never bothered.

"How many times have I asked you to call me Roger?" I ask with a smile as I take a big gulp of red wine. I refrain from the very predictable end of the sentence:  Mr. Taylor is my father, har har har!

I look back at Dominique, but she's staring past my shoulder across the room. "Is that Roger Waters?" she asks. I glance over my shoulder to see that, yes, Roger Waters is having dinner on the other side of the restaurant.

"I haven't seen him in years," she says. "Not since that night at Mr. Chow. Is he still with Pink Floyd?"

I give her a look of surprise. "He left in '85 and then sued Nick, David, and EMI. It was a bitter, nasty divorce -- all over the papers. What, do you live under a rock?"

"I was a bit busy raising two kids, as it were." Dominique's withering look leaves no uncertainty that, in her mind, the sentence is finished with Alone. Without your help. Because you were on a fucking tour. Again. You unhelpful tosser.

I sigh, looking down at the white-and-red checkered tablecloth. I don't have the energy to re-litigate our relationship again, so, instead, I change the subject.

"Hey," I say, reaching over to grasp her hand. "I know we haven't spoken much since the funeral. How are you?"

Dominique gently squeezes my hand as a silent truce, then removes it from my grip. "I'm alright."

"He was your friend too."

She just nods, and I think back to the old days when we were all thick as thieves. Fred was there at the beginning when I was desperately wooing Dom, and he was there at the end to witness the marriage that effectively dissolved our relationship.

"How're you holding up, Rog? No offense, but... you look like shit."

"Hey!" I say, affronted. "I'll have you know that--"

"Yes, I'm sure every woman over 18 still wants to shag you," she says ruefully. "It's the hair."

I'd rather not discuss my sex life with her, so I opt to reply to the original question.

"It's just been... a lot... Miami is setting up a charity in Freddie's name. We're trying to figure out the details of the benefit concert.  And, well, I'm not used to having this much time on my hands."

Dom nods as if that makes perfect sense. Which, I suppose, it does. For the past two decades, my life had been ruled by the relentless cycle of recording, promoting, touring. There were small breaks here and there, but there was always the next thing to look forward to. And now, there are just too many fucking hours in the day.

Tony brings over our meals, and we make small talk while we eat. The usual stuff: kids, gossip about mutual friends, anything to distract ourselves from the mess we've made. We skip dessert, and I insist on picking up the check.