Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

18.

September 1992

A few minutes after we pull away from Roger's house, it starts to rain. A light pitter-patter at first, followed by buckets of water dumped from the heavens. The driver tells me that it'll be slow-going, and I wonder how many women he's ferried around late at night on his boss' behalf.

I lean my head against the chilly window, my mind swirling. Being in proximity to Roger is always a mindfuck. The more logical part of my brain tells me that I'm safe with him, but the other more reptilian part of my brain begs me to flee.

The Mercedes crawls forward, the rain transforming the brake lights and streetlights into hazy smears of red and white along the motorway. The driver asks if he can turn on the radio, and the car is soon filled with an old tune by The Specials.

We're halfway back to London when I hear the voice, so low that I almost struggle to hear.

Beneath all the swagger and hair, he's one of the best.

I startle and look at the driver. His eyes are on the motorway, his right hand tapping along to the beat of the song.

You, my dear, have serious trust issues.

"Did you just say something?" I call up.

He looks back, squinting his eyes in confusion. "Nope."

And that's coming from someone who has monumental trust issues, so you should take it to heart.

I slump back in the seat, staring out the window. Am I actually going mad? Is my brain reminding me of my trust issues, as if I don't already know? Pressing my forehead against the glass, I stare out at the lashing rain.

I sit like this, almost in a daze, for a few moments before I make up my mind.

"Could we turn back?" I call to the driver. "I, uh, I forgot something."

He glances at me in the rearview mirror. He's younger than me, heavily tattooed with a thick Irish brogue. He quickly appraises the situation, likely doing mental calculations if his employer wants to see me again so soon.

"Yeah, alright," he says finally with a nod as he looks into the mirror at his side, checking to see if he can merge into the left lane. I exhale heavily, not even realizing until then that I'd been holding my breath.

Twenty minutes later, the car comes to a halt in front of the entrance to Roger's house. I can barely see anything because of the downpour.

"Do you-- do you want to go in?" the driver asks, looking at me with uncertainty. Perhaps he's regretting his choice to bring me back and wondering if he'll be sacked.

"I just need a minute," I reply softly as I lean my forehead against the window and stare at the front door. The driver cuts off the ignition, and we sit in silence.

"Mind if I go have a smoke?" he asks, looking at me in the rearview mirror. I shake my head and dully register the sound of a door shutting and his figure running across the driveway to the nearby six-car garage.

I try to make sense of what's going through my head. Because I should go home. I should tell the driver, oh, haha, I had my umbrella all along, nevermind, let's go, no need to disturb Mr. Taylor this late at night.

But. But. But...

Roger is on the other side of that door. And I can't seem to stay away.

The rain pounds down on the car, and I sit there, frozen. Then, finally, I flop back in the leather seat.

"What do I do?"

My voice is so soft that my ears barely register the sound. I'm on the verge of getting in my own car and driving myself back to London when I hear it.