In the Year of the Cat (Queen or Freddie Mercury Fanfic)

11. John Reid, the Salmon Man

I didn't see Freddie the next morning; he was already gone by the time I woke, which was fairly late- around ten a.m.  Ah, the curse of the college student. So easy to fall into poor sleeping habits. I had the idea of using my Android as an alarm clock, and setting the buzz tone on the most obnoxious, 1970s-esque sound.  I couldn't oversleep every day.  I might miss something sensational.

I'd gone to bed late, fixing myself a light meal as soon as Rudy had carted me home and writing down all I'd seen at the studio down to the electric lamp's glare upon the consoles and the scent of cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the control room.   However, I left out Roger's assessment of my figure; I just didn't see how that could possibly contribute to science.  I played the heck out of Freddie's turntable until finally Oscar and I just retired to bed.

My light was red.  Briefly I checked the Relic.  No missed calls.  Perhaps Dr. K would zap me at the same time as yesterday.  I wasn't worried.  Even though K and C had given me no proof that they knew what they were doing, I still trusted them. 

As I stepped out of the shower, I heard someone knocking about downstairs.  Curious, I put on the only other change of clothes I had and hurried down to see a hardy-looking woman dusting the tables and pictures.

"Hello!" I said. 

She looked up, startled.  "Hello...?" 

"Sorry for scaring you.  I thought I was alone!"

"As did I," she replied in thick Yorkshire accents. 

I was feeling very outgoing towards anyone in Freddie's life.  To know a person's contacts is to know the person himself.  "What's your name?"

She told me her name was Eleanor Cottage, and that she preferred to be called Mrs. Cottage if we were to be particular. 

"I'm Jul- er, Eve.  Eve Dubroc.  I don't care what name you want to call me by.  Ms. Dubroc, or Eve, doesn't matter."

"I like the Ms. Dubroc meself," she mused.  That made sense; she worked for Freddie, so ours would be a professional relationship.  "You're a sweet one, Ms. Dubroc.  Don't usually get a hello from his, ah, friends.  Except maybe that one other girl, she's very polite too.  But no one else."

"That's their misfortune," I quipped.  "So, are you Freddie's, um, are you his housekeeper?"

"I am."

"What's that like?"

She shrugged.  "He pays well."

"Is he nice to you?"

"Mostly.  He's never been anything but a perfect gentleman, to be sure."

There was something she was holding out on.  And I wanted to find out what.  "How about his 'friends'?"

"Ms. Dubroc, I don't go around blabbering about people I work for- and certainly not about or to their lovers."

"Lovers?  Oh!   Oh, no, I'm not- I'm not sleeping with him.  He's just letting me live here."

Ms. Cottage gave me a doubtful once-over, which spurred me to add, "Look, I don't even know if he came back last night.  I think I'd know the answer to that if I was sharing his bed."

To which she conceded, "He likely didn't, if you ask me."  She looked like she was itching to get back to her cleaning, so I nodded and walked toward the kitchen.  I whistled at the thought of what she was hinting.  Freddie, you are something else.  I may fill up that journal without even trying.

On the cupboard was taped a little white note with frantic black cursive on the front, "Open me, please."

I laughed.  "Looks like he did make it home after all, Mrs. Cottage."