Heaven for Everyone (Queen/Roger Taylor)

40.

September 1993
part 2

The day passes in a blur. Once Olivia is in bed, I meet up with friends for a quick dinner at a small Indian restaurant in Soho. There's talk of going for a round of drinks at a nearby club, but I beg off. "I'm too old for that now," I joke as hugs are offered all around.

I'm crossing Regent Street when the door of a nearby pub opens and Siouxsie and the Banshees's 'Hong Kong Garden' spills out. I haven't heard the song in years, and something about the music echoing through the humid night air convinces me to change course.

It's smoky and dim inside the pub and more crowded than I'd expect for a Tuesday. I walk to the bar and lean against the dark wood. The curly-haired barman leans closer than necessary to take my order, giving me an appreciative once-over. Once he turns away, I close my eyes and let the hubbub surround me. I hear the clink of the glass when my drink is delivered, but I keep my eyes closed, preferring the darkness. The new song by Blur plays on the loudspeakers, the one that has launched them squarely in the Britpop genre.

Once again, I try to imagine Roger's face as I last saw it. His eyes filled with tears when he told me about Mitch's power play. His look of understanding when I realized what it meant for us. The tremor in his voice when he told me that, above all, Olivia and I had to be safe, and he couldn't make that happen, despite his resources and all the willpower in the world. The look in his eyes when he reached over to brush tears off my face before he had to turn away so I wouldn't see his face crumple. And then the stiffening of his shoulders as he realized he'd have to pull it together or be photographed in a state of misery.

I open my eyes and look at my gin & tonic, by this point slightly too watery from the melted ice. A brunette woman accidentally elbows me as she leans in to give the barman a look at her ample cleavage as he hands her a pint. She winks at him and walks away, and I close my eyes again, wondering what I'm even doing here. Someone else sidles up to the counter, and I reflexively shift my weight from one foot to the other to make room. The field of energy around me shifts ever so slightly, and, even before I hear the words that follow, I know.

"A whisky, please," the voice says politely. "Any sort is fine."

The pop song ends, segueing into a ballad from the '80s, and I'm struggling to breathe. I open my eyes and glance slightly to my left to confirm that no, I'm not going mad. Roger is really standing next to me in this crowded bar. I look back at my drink, terrified to make eye contact.

"Cheers," he says in a low voice to the barman as a drink is placed in front of him. Another song comes on, and then another, but we just stand next to each other in silence, each of us studying our drink. The ice melts, strangers stream around us, and nearby cigarette smoke begins to burn my damaged lungs.

I don't know how long we stand there before--as if divine providence is offering us an icebreaker--'Girls on Film' begins to play. I hear Roger's chuckle as I fight to hide a grin.

"I can't believe you ripped off their song," I say. His response is a breathy laugh as if I've caught him wholly off-guard.

"Oh, God, you saw?"

"I saw."

"What'd you think?" His tone is carefree but the question is serious.

"Did you make the papers?"

"Every single one of 'em," he replies. "So did Duran Duran, the fuckers. Always leeching off my celebrity."

I fight back a grin before I finally glance up at him and, once again, feel as if the breath has been knocked out of me. He's wearing glasses, a beat-up Jimi Hendrix t-shirt, and a hat from an American baseball team. My favorite version of him. His blue eyes flicker over at me nervously, and I can't believe that I haven't been able to recreate this exact shade of blue in my mind.