Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

27.

December 1992

During our divorce, Mitch and I sat down with our solicitors to divvy up who would have Olivia for which holidays. I got Easter and Christmas; Mitch inexplicably claimed a few bank holidays and New Year's Eve. Ever since, I've taken a perverse joy in dropping Liv off on the afternoon of December 31st, knowing that my ex is missing a fabulous party somewhere.

Initially, Roger and I had planned to have a quiet dinner at The Dorset, but that all changed when Brian phoned up to say that he was throwing a New Year's Eve bash. Rog and I hemmed and hawed about whether to go, careening between the need for normalcy and the safety of our paparazzi-induced, hermit-like tendencies.

In the end, it was my brother who sealed the deal." Oh, God, just fucking go," he'd said when he stopped by to bring Liv a forgotten Christmas gift. "The media is already in a feeding frenzy. So, feed them. Or at least live your lives. Otherwise, what's the bloody point of it all?"

As the car nears the Wellington Club in Knightsbridge, I'm laughing at something Roger said. He looks like a dream in a blue-striped dress shirt, a black leather jacket, and his trusty Ray-Bans atop his head.

He's about to reply when Tim clears his throat loudly from the front seat.

"Uh... boss?"

Roger's head swivels towards his driver, then towards the stately facade of the club. It's discreetly lit with a velvet rope out front, manned by two beefy security guards. Between them and us stand a gaggle of photographers, plus a not insignificant crowd of pedestrians who just want to see what's going on.

"Goddammit," Roger mutters with a groan. "Brian said there wouldn't be any press and that this was all very--and I quote--on the down-low. Fucking Brian, I bet he invited Kim; she always tips off the paps."

"Tim," Roger calls towards the front seat. "Go ask security if there's a back entrance, yeah? This is a circus."

Once we're alone, Roger turns to me. "We could still do dinner. Or fuck it, we can go back and welcome 1993 in our jim-jams. What do you say?"

Behind Roger, there's a burst of bright lights as the camera flashes go off. A man gets out of the backseat of a car, making a beeline for the entrance. "Bono!" I hear. "Over here! Bono! C'mon, just one sodding photo, man, c'mon!"

Roger sighs and reaches over for my hand. "Let's just go, we can--"

He's interrupted by Tim, who hops back in the car. He turns around to face us.

"Nope, no back entrance. They said we can maybe go through the kitchen of the neighboring building--that restaurant right there; the one with the blue awning--and they think there's a connecting passage into the club."

But I shake my head. My brother is right; at some point, we have to do this out in the open, even though in the short term, it's going to be a shitshow.

"Cass, let's just--"

But I'm already unbuckling my seatbelt and reaching for the door handle. "Let's go."

I pull the door handle, and Tim springs into action. He's at the door as soon as my heels hit the pavement and the cold night air assaults me.

Roger gets out and stares at me from the other side of the car. "You sure, Cass?"

I nod.

"I'm sick and tired of all this. I want to go enjoy New Year's Eve with my boyfriend."

Roger regards me for a long moment. Then, he shuts the car door with a sigh and pulls down his sunglasses over his eyes.