Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

14.

August 1992

"Mummy, why do we always have porridge for breakfast?" Olivia pokes suspiciously at her bowl with a spoon.

"Because Gran never taught me how to cook properly," I reply, stifling a grin. "She was too busy worrying about your uncle getting in trouble."

She thinks about this, then nods sagely as if, yes, this is a perfectly reasonable explanation for my terrible cooking skills. When in doubt, blame Roger Waters.

Her eyes brighten. "Is Uncle Roger coming to the zoo tomorrow?"

I nod. "He can't wait."

Liv nods again, satisfied. She nuzzles my arm and mumbles loveyoumummy before reluctantly spooning up some oats into her mouth.

In the background, the BBC1 news anchor drones on. "Additional photographs of Sarah, Duchess of York were published today by the Daily Mirror. And English driver Nigel Mansell came in second in the Hungarian Grand Prix, becoming the first Englishman ever to win the title."

I grab the remote and am about to turn off the tv when I see grainy footage of four familiar faces.

"Six years ago today, legendary rock band Queen performed for over 120,000 people at a massive outdoor concert at Knebworth."

Leaning closer, I see the band members disentangling themselves from a helicopter in the English countryside. They're all smiles, looking totally at ease as if this is no big deal at all.

The camera zooms in on Roger. He looks more youthful and a bit thinner, his eyes shrouded by sunglasses. He says something to Freddie, provoking a laugh and what appears to be a clever retort. The footage segues to the band performing on the vast outdoor stage, Freddie holding his mic high in the air in triumph.

"Unbeknownst to anyone, this would be their final concert. Five years later, singer Freddie Mercury died of AIDS-related complications. This month, the remaining band members--guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor, and bassist John Deacon--are promoting a new charity in honor of--"

"I'm done, mummy," Olivia says, looking at me with porridge all over her face. Turning towards her, I clear her now-empty bowl and wipe her face off. She scampers out of the room, likely to complain to her dolls that her mum is an unimaginative cook.

When I turn back to the tv, present-day Roger is speaking to an interviewer in a pre-recorded segment. Brian sits next to him, looking on intently.

"--most of the funds that we raise will go towards smaller grassroots organizations, which, you know, the biggest charities tend to overlook--"

Roger's eyes flicker to the camera for a moment. I know that look. And I know that his eyes are a lighter blue in real life than they appear on the screen.

"--it's really our aim to use music and activism to raise awareness of this terrible disease--"

I have the urge to call him, though I've no idea where he is.  Last we spoke, he was about to go on holiday with his kids. But he could easily be back in London, and I wouldn't have a clue--we haven't spoken much since that rainy night.

God, that night.

I'd known that Roger would show up at some point. Not because I fancy myself the sort of woman that the Roger Taylors of the world lust after, but because he's the type who doesn't like to lose. Though I certainly hadn't expected him to show up in the middle of a violent thunderstorm, rain-drenched and beautiful.

And I certainly hadn't expected him to make the decision that he did. Friends, then, he'd whispered, his lips so close to mine. His choice almost made me reconsider mine.