Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

11.

June 1992

The Chelsea Arts Club is the home-away-from-home for London's bohemian glitterati. It's an unassuming little place, discernible only by the ever-changing murals painted on its walls. I've actually never been here during the day, only at night for some of their more memorable parties.

I maneuver my car into a parking spot just down the street and turn off the ignition. My sister's voice chirps loudly from the car phone, and I run a hand through my hair in frustration.

"No, I'm not saying--"

The connection is full of static, and I have the urge to throw the whole bloody contraption out the window.

"Clare," I finally bellow. "Stop talking for one second."

For once in her life, she listens to me.

"Hello?" I say into the receiver, wondering if she hung up because this silence from her is unnatural.

"I'm here."

"Splendid. Okay, so, as I was saying--"

"--Roger, I'm not going to befriend someone just to find out just how much you mucked things up--"

"--I didn't say befriend! I'm not asking you to, you know, infiltrate her life. Just make casual inquiries--"

But, as usual, Clare won't let me get a word in edgewise.

"Why don't you just ring her? In the real world--a world in which you can't just leave a backstage pass and a non-disclosure agreement on the bed before you sneak out--"

"That's offensive, I've never--"

"Welcome to the real world, Roger. In this world of functioning adults, we communicate with each other. Call her, you bloody fool. You're 41 years old--" she emphasizes old--"how am I still explaining the basics to you?"

"I've rung her at least half a dozen times," I protest. "Any more, and she'll get a restraining order. I've left messages, but she won't call me back. What exactly do you suggest that I do?"

"You won't like this," Clare says, her voice rising in excitement, "but it's time for a grand gesture. Okay, what if you show up at her house one night and you stand outside-- wait, oh, wow, it'd be even better if it were raining! So, wait for a night when it's raining, go stand outside--"

"--I'm not John fucking Cusack," I reply with a grimace. "Despite all your best efforts, my life isn't a romantic comedy. Besides, have you ever noticed that what most women call 'grand gestures' are basically things that otherwise would be considered stalking?"

"There's a difference between stalking and making an effort," Clare argues. "Besides--"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," I mutter, too tired and hungover for this. Besides, I'm late. Holding the receiver away from my face, I make a whooshing noise that I pray sounds like static.

"Clare? You there? Huh, I guess the connection is wonky, can't hear you at all--"

With a flourish, I hang up the phone. Locking the car and pocketing the keys, I march towards the entrance. Just inside the door is a welcome desk staffed by a gorgeous albeit bored-looking redhead.

"Name?"

She doesn't look up, just stares at her ledger as if I'm wasting her time.

"Roger Taylor," I say. No reaction.

"Name of the member that you're here to see?"

"Er," I say, wincing a bit at what I'm going to have to say next. "Also Roger Taylor, as the case may be."