Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

28.

January 1993
- Part 1 of 2 - 

I've had this dream before.

It's the same each time: I'm at a picnic with a much younger Olivia, who is sleeping in the pram. I park it in the shade under a large leafy tree alongside the other prams and begin to chat with other new mums. A few minutes later, I realize that she's gone. Not kidnapped; more like I simply misplaced her, as you would a hairbrush or a necklace. I frantically walk around the park looking for her but trying not to show my abject fear to anyone else.

The dream wouldn't be as terrifying if it weren't so life-like. Faced with the onslaught of so many accurate details, my brain cannot do its job and convince me that it's not real. So, my dream self keeps searching for my daughter until I finally wake up.

Today, it's Roger who awakens me. "Shhh," he murmurs, pulling me against him. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I pull away to pat my hands around the duvet to ensure that six-month-old Olivia isn't somehow trapped inside.

"Cass," Roger says in a low voice. "It was just a dream."

I only half-believe him, but I collapse against his chest and listen to his breathing until I'm awake enough to know that, yeah, that wasn't real. This is real.

"You okay, love?" he asks, his hand stroking my hair.

"Yeah," I reply. What I don't say is that this dream only occurs when my life's a mess, when my bandwidth is at capacity. I also don't mention that my subconsciousness has an uncanny way of manifesting this dream just before things are about to get really, really bad.

I slowly register that Roger's hair is wet, he smells like his sandalwood shower gel, and he's fully dressed even though the sun hasn't risen.

"What time is your flight?" I whisper, pulling away to look at him in the dim pre-dawn light. He regards me worriedly, and he runs a hand through his hair. He's flying to Valencia for the day to perform a new song at a music festival that's inexplicably held outdoors, even though it's January.

"Six," he replies. "Tim should be here in 5 minutes. And then he's coming back for--"

"Rog, it's really not--"

"And then he's coming back for you," Roger interrupts me. "I won't take no for an answer, Cassie. If I can't be here to deal with the fucking press, at least let me deputize him. Just let him drive you to work."

I nod begrudgingly because, yeah, the press has been a nightmare for the past week. At least a dozen photographs have made their way to the front pages, all of which are iterations of the same moment in time. Roger and Cassie crossing the street. Roger and Cassie walking into a club. Roger and Cassie celebrating New Year's together. The accompanying articles are variations of the same themes: Bloody hell, this must be real! But what does his wife think about it? Did she jet off to France with the kids because she's heartbroken, or was it a regularly scheduled Christmas holiday? Who's to say, but why not gossip about it just the same?!

My eyes are half-closed, and my brain is trying to pull me back under. Roger smiles at my heavy eyes and leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. "Love you, Cass. I'll be back tonight. Stay out of trouble."

I collapse onto the pillows, my back hitting the firm mattress like it's been years since I slept. "I always stay out of trouble," I murmur, already half asleep.

The following dream has a much more hazy quality to it. I'm lounging on a cracked wooden chair by a lake with my brother, Jack. He's older than when I last saw him: his laugh lines more pronounced, a smattering of grey hair around his temple. He looks more professor-like and less rogueish than he did when I last saw him.