Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

30.

January 1993

"Aww, you showered for me, baby."

Crystal stands on the runway next to a small private plane with a familiar, shit-eating grin on his face. For a moment, it feels like old times.

"Never say that I don't care," I reply with a laugh, running a hand through my still-damp hair. I clap him on the back, happy to see him. He has no official role today;  he's just between tours and here for a laugh.

We climb the stairs and are greeted at the door by a pretty stewardess. "Mr. Taylor," she says, looking down shyly but then glancing up as if yeah, if I were open to it, we could definitely shag in the back.

"The others are meeting us there?" I ask Crystal, walking past the stewardess and flopping down into an oversized leather seat. I've put together a motley crew of old friends for this gig, people like myself who have fuck all else to do but fly to Spain in the middle of the winter. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm doing it, other than the fact that I owed someone a favor.

He nods, settling in across from me with his legs propped on a plush ottoman. He happily accepts a cup of tea, which I decline.

"I'm knackered," I say, removing my wool jacket and burrowing underneath. "Wake me when we get there."

The flight is turbulent as we head south, interrupting my efforts to sleep. I finally abandon my plans and stare out the tiny window watching the sunrise. My mind churns: I'm worried about Cassie, which is nothing new, but something about the vulnerability on her face this morning in the half-light struck a chord within me. Deep down, I worry that I'm slowly ruining her life, making it smaller and smaller, just like her brother said. This shit with the press is too much for me, and I'm used to it. So how is she expected to cope?

And I genuinely don't understand why anyone cares so much. It makes no sense, even to people whose job it is to deal with this sort of thing. The gossip about us should have been a flash in the pan, but it just gets more intense as time goes by. And we've done everything right: we stayed out of sight when we were told to do so. And went public when it should have been safe. But, well, here we are.

The plane's wheels hits the runway in Valencia harder than I'd like, jostling us. Is everything today just going to be a little turbulent? Is that what's happening?

We're nearly out of the airport when a lone reporter appears. She's wearing a wrinkled jumper and her hair's a fright as if she was pulled out of bed and shoved on a flight.

"Roger!" she calls over, and upon second glance, I recognize her.

"Oh, yeah, hey, Sheri," I reply with a lazy grin. She's nice enough, but I'm still not slowing down for this.

"Care to report on the rumors--"

"Oh, can you just fucking leave him alone?" Crystal asks with an eye roll and much more bravado than he usually shows. But, now that I think about it, I'm almost certain that these two hooked up a few years ago during a drunk and hazy night. It didn't end well.

"Roger," she continues, undeterred. "Did you leave London because you've ended your relationship with Cassie?"

"Oh, absolutely," I reply with a sardonic grin. "I time all my break-ups to coincide with business travel."

She stops short, and I realize that she thinks I'm serious. "Oh, Good Lord, no, Sheri. No, there's been no break-up. Look, love, I've gotta go. Come see the show later, yeah?"

As I turn towards the exit and begin to walk in long strides, I have the nagging suspicion that she was about to say more, and perhaps I should have listened. But I have people for that, and all I need to do is sleep.