Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

22.

November 1992

My head is down as I walk through the crowded curry shop. I push open a swinging door to reveal a kitchen filled with line cooks, dishwashers, and frenetic energy. In the corner is a small makeshift table where Brian and John are deep in conversation.

"Is this where we're having band meetings from now on?" I plop by self down in the empty chair. "If so, I'm in."

The fellows don't reply; they just look at me quizzically.

"What?" I reach for a water glass and take a large gulp. "Oh-- sorry I'm late. There was traffic on East Brompton Road. You know how it is on Fridays."

Brian shoots John a look, who raises his eyebrow as if to say, you go first, mate.

"Rog," Brian says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "How many hours have we spent together in the past decade?"

"Uhh... lots?" I place the glass back on the table and shrug out of my coat.

"And in all that time," Brian continues, "you didn't think it was pertinent to share that you shagged Madonna?"

Now he has my full attention.

"I-- what? Madonna? Me?"

John and Brian look at me, eyes wide, and nod simultaneously.

"What are you two on about?" I ask with a laugh, because, really. Then, helping myself to a pappadum, I slowly chew until I realize that they still haven't responded.

"No, really." I swallow and lean forward. "What are you talking about?"

Brian pulls out today's edition of the Daily Mail and pushes it across the table. I look at the front page, then up at the boys, and then back at the front page.

"Uh... alright, so a cabinet minister filed for divorce. What's that got to do with me?"

Brian squints as if I'm missing the point. "You really haven't seen it?"

"Seen what?" I ask, both curious and, suddenly, wary. With a shake of his head, John leans forward and flips through the paper. Then, finally, he finds the page he's after and points to it.

The headline reads The Many Loves of Roger Taylor. "For fuck's sake," I mutter under my breath.

Underneath the bold type is a black-and-white photograph of me standing with Madonna on a red carpet. Maybe the Grammys in '85? I don't remember meeting her, but apparently, I did. Pretty sure I'd remember if she were a great love of mine, though.

"Sorry to disappoint, lads, but--" I start to say as I scan the other photographs. Obviously, there's one of Dominique, one of a Belgian model with whom I went out twice, and--

Fuck.

Grabbing the paper, I peer at it more closely. Why is there...? How did they...? When did we...?

In the largest black-and-white photo, I'm standing behind Cassie with my arms wrapped around her, looking off into the distance. She's grinning up at me, her arms clutched around mine. Snow falls around us like it's a goddamn fairyland. It's a glorious photograph, and I have half a mind to ring up the bloke who violated our privacy and ask him for a copy.

"The good news is that it's on page 8," John says helpfully. "No one reads that far in."

"It doesn't even say her name," Brian adds. "And her face isn't that recognizable."

"And how long will it take for the vultures to sort it out, hmm? I bet my publicist is already fielding phone calls about this, as if my love life is actual fucking news."