Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

17.

September 1992

My car phone connection gets progressively worse as I leave London. By the time I merge onto the M25, Sabine's voice is almost completely taken over by static.

"Monsieur Gallagher said.... promotional copy... refuses.... Beverly Hills hotel... putain merde... "

"We're not putting him up in the Beverly--"

"--new title will be The Threadbare Bear--"

"What?!" I exclaim, hitting the brakes slightly and earning an annoyed honk from the car behind me. "The Threadbare Bear?! No, there's no way the publicity department will sign off on that, it's ludicrous, it's absurd, it's-- wait, hang on--"

Sabine chatters away on speakerphone, angry bursts of static replacing her every third word. I glance down at the scrap of paper where I'd hastily jotted down Roger's directions.

Almost too late, I turn left onto a windy country road that leads to a long driveway. Gravel crunches under the car tires as I drive through an open gate and come to a halt in front of an enormous house.

"You gotta be kidding me," I murmur into the phone.

"Allo? You there, Cassie?" Sabine says into my ear before the connection dies completely. I slowly unbuckle the seatbelt and open the car door, shutting it gently behind me.

The door to the--let's be honest, palace--opens, and Roger appears. He's clad in jeans and a navy jumper with bare feet and hair still wet from the shower. Despite the smile on his face, he looks exhausted. Yet, somehow seeing him like this feels intimate, as if I'm privy to a different Roger than the rest of the world.

He leans against the doorframe, and a shit-eating grin spreads across his face.

"Just say it," he calls over. "Whatever you're thinking, just say it."

"I'm not thinking anything," I reply, leaning with exaggerated casualness against the side of the car as I motion towards the house. "I just expected something... bigger."

Roger grins. "It seemed like the epitome of cool when I was 30. Don't worry, I'm about to put it on the market and move closer to London."

He straightens and begins to make his way over to me. "Was it alright getting here? I'm shit with directions, so I was worried you'd end up in North Wales."

Roger stops half a meter away, both of us unsure how to greet each other. The sun has begun to set behind me, and the amber rays light up his face. He runs a hand nervously through his hair, then realizes that it's still wet.

"Sorry," he says with a little laugh. "I got caught up in my home studio and lost track of time."

I don't reply, instead taking a few steps forward to kiss him on the cheek. When I step back, the look on his face is inscrutable.

"Alright, then," I say, desperate to break the tension. "I was promised cheese on toast. Time to pay up."

"I'm a man of my word," he replies, reaching out for my hand to lead me inside. As we walk through a grand foyer and down a long corridor, I note that the house is surprisingly cozy considering it's the size of Versailles. Finally, Roger motions me through a glass door leading out to an exquisitely manicured lawn. Set in the middle is a red-and-white checked picnic blanket and heaps of food.

"Did you do all this?" I ask, looking at him in amazement.

"Well-- my housekeeper did," he replies. "But I gave her very specific instructions," he hastens to add.