Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

24.

December 1992

A boyfriend in college once called me an irrepressible optimist. He didn't say it as a compliment; it was a parting shot during the last of many arguments. I thought about it for days before realizing that, yeah, I can be optimistic to a fault. I always manage to convince myself that it'll all be okay even when it clearly won't.

A few months before he died, my brother, Jack, told me that I was the most resilient person he knew. Unlike the bloke in college, my brother meant it as a compliment. But, during the months after he died, I discovered that one can also be resilient to a fault. At some point, if you're always the one taking the punches and caring for everyone else, you're destined to crash and burn spectacularly.

So, when I hang up the phone with Roger, I have two choices: I can do my usual schtick of being overly resilient and glass-half-full, or I can shut down completely.

For once in my life, I choose the latter.

The hotel phone rings steadily for the next few hours: Roger calls. My brother calls. My mum calls. My ex-husband calls. I ignore them all and order every American-sounding dish on the room service menu. Then, for the next 12 hours, I sit in the dark, gorging myself on hamburgers and overpriced milkshakes while watching re-runs on Nick-At-Night.

At JFK, I contemplate saying fuck it all and moving to America with Liv. They don't care who I shagged twenty years ago. Is there a world where Mitch would allow us to move across the sea? Probably not, given the transatlantic conversation we'd had early in the morning. "God, you should have seen the looks at Olivia's nursery drop-off," he'd hissed. "I told you not to get involved with him, Cassie, but you never bloody listen, do you?"

The flight is turbulent; my head is woozy. My chest constricts with each breath, and I wonder if my body is trying to warn me away from going home. I kick myself for not returning at least one of Roger's calls, so I'd at least know what I was heading into. I'm flying blind.

We land early enough that the airport is mostly deserted, but it's busy enough that I feel naked and vulnerable. More so when I walk past a newsstand and see my face on the front page of several tabloids. One features a picture of me from last year's Whitebird awards looking polite and somewhat uptight. Next to it is a photograph of Robbie with a smile on his face that manages to convey cool, carefree swagger. "Robbie's Rocky Romance," the headline proclaims, practically patting itself on the back for the cheap alliteration.

"When's the last time you saw him?"

I jump slightly, startled by the familiar voice from just behind me. Turning my head, I see my brother standing there. His hair is shaggier than I remember, the lines on his forehead more pronounced. I wonder if worrying about his little sister has actually aged him.

"What're you doing here?" I ask, beyond grateful to see a friendly face.

"I like to hang out at airports in the early mornings," he deadpans. "Write my best stuff here."

He looks over at the photograph of Robbie. "It's been, what? 20 years since all this?"

"Eighteen," I reply glumly. It's been nearly two decades since I saw Robbie in person, but it's been impossible not to see his stupid face everywhere else in the interim.

"I figured I'd come see you safely home," he says. "Help you through the gauntlet of photographers."

"Photographers?"

"Oh, the airport is always crawling with them," he replies as if it's no big deal. "Well, at least a few. They stand around like a pack of jackals praying that someone noteworthy walks by."