Don't Talk! (Freddie Mercury / Queen)

6. A Day At the Royal Ascot

A/N- this is probably one of the poorest chapters I have ever written (and I have written KQ) so enjoy! 😂🤍

—-

H.G
New York,
10th June.

My day was destined to go tits up the second I pissed off my girlfriend this morning.

Emma returned home to our NYC apartment, expecting a huge welcome after being gone for almost two months. To be quite honest, I more or less forgot she was meant to be back today, which went down a treat. She snapped at me, I snapped back, and next thing I knew my favourite pair of oxfords were being thrown at my head. I couldn't escape to work quick enough and think I was still seeing stars. That woman has bloody good aim. Now Emma and I don't usually fight, but apparently she finds me more of a grump than ever and it's starting to grate on her.

I think I'm the same old laid back person I always was.

"Delivery for you Mr Griffith."

I peered over the top of my reading glasses, and gestured for the boy to leave it on my desk. I may have been a little irritated by the interruption.

"Who's it from?"

"I don't know." The intern, who's name I couldn't have been bothered to remember, replied uselessly.

He then placed it directly over the legal pad I was scrawling notes across for the past two hours. What a stupid nonce."Why didn't you wait to give it to me?"

The boy frowned. "I don't understand."

An impatient sigh escaped my lips, "You can clearly see through the pane of glass, that I am writing. Busy. You barge in here, without so much as a knock, and interrupt my thought process."

"I'm sorry-"

"Sorry doesn't bring me back the time you've wasted." I sniped. "Now sod off."

"I- I'm sorry Mr Griffith I'll-"

"Are you still here?"

"I'll take the package back." He reached over and tried to snatch back the post.

"Then what the hell would the point of this song and dance have been?" I stubbornly grabbed the package back, and set about tearing the seal open.

The boy quickly rushed out after that. Now I'm sure you're thinking this must be the part where I pause, tell him to wait and apologise. Of course that isn't what happened because I'm not going to grovel to some pup who is the definition of a clanger.

"For someone with such a cute face, it's always so sour." My colleague's distinct Northern Irish accent lilted through the bleak office.

I scowled up at Alex Moore, the Stone's other fashion critique. "What exactly is it you want?"

"Easy tiger," he huffed a laugh, "I just wanted to catch up with you."

"What is it you really want?"

"You are so bloody moody."

I grunted.

"I see now is not the best time for a chat." He murmured, tossing his fingers through his brunette hair, "But I'm bored."

"Mhm." I hummed and slid what seemed to be a magazine out of the large envelope earlier delivered to me.

"What's that?"

"I don't know," I frowned at the 'Queen' stationary where a small note was scrawled across.

'Dear New York,
I heard through the grapevine that you are a huge fan and wanted to personally welcome you to the Queen Fan Club! Enclosed is the summer edition of the fan club magazine, featuring an absolutely dazzling profile all about yours truly. A truly enthralling read if I do say so myself. Enjoy your subscription to the club and all its benefits. Please do recommend us to your friends!
The Freddie Mercury.'