Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

4.

March 1992

It's a rare thing in the music world to always be on time. I take particular pride in it. I'm always the first one at soundcheck, rehearsals, interviews. Once, during the Crazy tour, I arrived so early at the venue that no one was there to let me in.

But the universe is conspiring against me tonight to ruin my near-perfect record.

"Sorry, Mr. Taylor," my driver, Tim, calls from the front seat as we sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic. "There's a film premiere at the Odeon tonight."

"Which film?" I ask as the car inches forward at a maddeningly slow pace.

"Dunno," he replies in his Irish brogue.

"I'm going to be so fucking late," I mutter to myself, staring out the window. Leaning my head back, I wonder what percentage of my life has been spent in cars being ferried to and from. I'm exhausted. I haven't slept well in months; my doctor says that I'm technically an insomniac at this point.

It's all starting to get to me, really.

We inch closer to the theatre, which is ablaze with lights. Celebrities are standing on the red carpet with megawatt smiles on their faces. I know precisely where their minds are right now: Boredom, because how many step-and-repeats can one do before they lose their fun? Worried that they'll say something daft to the press. And a pure adrenaline rush as they look out at the sea of anonymous strangers here just to see them.

"We can always stop here if you'd like," Tim jokes. "You're dressed for it."

"Oh, God, no," I reply. "Although... how far is the Opera House from here?"

"5 minutes?" Tim replies. "Give or take."

"Right, then," I say, whipping off my seatbelt and opening the door. "It'll be faster to walk."

Without a second thought, I'm in the middle of Leicester Square, horns blaring at me. Oi! Get the fuck out of the way! someone yells as if me walking across the street will somehow hinder his ability to move forward in standstill traffic.

When I finally get to the pavement, I realize I've no idea which way to go. But trusty Tim never fails:  looking back towards my Jaguar, I see him pointing frantically to the north. Taking a moment to adjust my coat, I take off in a light jog towards my non-date.

I've done my homework. The Whitebird is the most prestigious literary award in the UK, arguably in the top five globally. It's a book editor's dream to have a book nominated, and, if I'm not mistaken, Cassie has two up for consideration tonight. This means, in layman's terms, that she's a big fucking deal.

The Royal Opera House looms in the distance, and I curse all my years of smoking as I hear myself huffing and puffing along. This is absurd; I really do need to make exercise a priority. And not just drumming, like actual exercise.

I'm sweaty and disheveled by the time I reach the ornate facade of the Opera House. The bored attendant gives me a look as I shove a crumpled invitation his way. He smooths it out carefully and looks me up and down before waving me into the ballroom, where the creme de la creme of the literary world are eating canapés and drinking champagne.

Across the room, Cassie is surrounded by well-dressed literati. They're deep in conversation, probably discussing the finer points of metaphysical poetry or whatever. An annoyingly good-looking bloke stands next to her, looking like an absolute toff in his tux with a paisley scarf draped around his neck. Cassie nods distractedly at whatever he's saying, her eyes covertly roaming the room. 

Walking briskly to the cloakroom, I hand over my topcoat and pause for a moment, trying to quell the anxiety about being late and, of course, fix my hair. After a moment, I walk determinedly across the room. Cassie glances up as I approach.