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

50. A Beautiful Disaster

By about four, we had pretty much everything ready.  I put the bread in the oven and set the timer for twenty minutes.  That was just enough time to freshen up for the guests.  For I still looked quite a fright, from my frizzy hair to my pale, makeup-free face. 

"If anyone needs me," I called, "I'll be upstairs."

I didn't wait for a response from Freddie and Mary, because I knew none would come.  Working alongside Mary in the kitchen attested to that; every time I addressed her, especially when Freddie was somewhere nearby, she seemed loath to reply.  And in all fairness, I wasn't much better.  We were civil, of course, but that discussion we shared yesterday had done nothing to improve the tone of our interactions.  If anything, it only strained them further.  

I was counting the minutes until the first guests arrived.  Of the eight Freddie had invited, seven accepted; John Reid was too busy that evening. I remembered a few names from the addresses I had written on the envelopes a week ago.  Peter and Paul were coming, and some girl named Zelda.  And there was a Robert in there somewhere (I think that was the guy who kept taking pictures, so whenever I refer to the photographer later, I'm just going to call him Bob).  I didn't even care who came first, as long as they came quickly.  I felt like the fifth wheel, even more useless and unloved than a third- because even tricycles need a third wheel.  What in the world needs five?

The roses now stood in the center of the dining room table, which Freddie had painstakingly set while we girls slaved away in the kitchen.  Looks nice, I remarked to myself, walking past.  He's always been one for presentation.

I was about halfway up the stairs when Freddie emerged from his bedroom, dressed in dark trousers and some white t-shirt with a low-cut collar, and started gliding down.  Immediately I turned my head from him.  Not only because I didn't want to make eye contact; but he had put on some cologne, which was made even more alluring when combined with his natural licorice scent. 

"Where do you think you're going?" he muttered when we had met on the same step.

"Upstairs," I replied, eyes focused on the top floor.  And all I could think was, Why can't he keep walking and let me be.  He smells too good.  I can't help it, he just does.  God help me.  When did I become so susceptible to my senses?

"To do what?"

"I was going to sort of clean up, if that's all right with you," I whispered.  "May I please use your bathroom to do that?  I don't want to, um, mess up the other one."

"Oh, yes, please do.  You're hardly presentable at the moment."

Zing.

"Speak for yourself," I replied softly.

I could hear the smirk in his voice.  "Oh, really?"

"Really."  I blinked.  "Your fly's undone."

Through my peripheral I saw him check- which I found very, very satisfying.  It was juvenile, but it worked- and I didn't give him time for another sardonic (and potentially lewd) comeback.  I chuckled softly as I continued walking up the stairs.  Despite the odds, I won that one, hands down.  It's the little things in life. 

So I went into the picture-perfect green bedroom, pulled a change of clothes out of the closet, and disappeared into Freddie's shower.  After indulging myself for five minutes, I leapt out, aimed the blow dryer at my head, half-wished it was a .38, and pulled the trigger.  Mascara, lipstick, one final drag of the hairbrush.  I looked myself over. 

With my wild, wavy hair, loose grey blouse, and indigo peasant skirt, I resembled a gypsy, or a glorified sixties hippie.  I just needed bangles and a flower wreath for my head.  But a gypsy is better than a prostitute, and that's how I looked last time I sat in front of this mirror.