Roger
June, 1985

"Right," I declared as I got to my feet, "I better head out.

I decided to update the entire band of my departure just so that they could get one last look at me. It may be the last time I see any of them again. I'm glad we had called an impromptu Queen meeting in the familiar Lighthouse studios today. We were here to discuss Live Aid and run through some set list ideas, but on a deeper level I think the boys knew that this may be the end of Roger Taylor. I took in Brian's mass of curls as he meticulously tuned his guitar, and John's squinty-eyed smile as he engaged in conversation with a bare-foot Freddie.

I would miss them, truly.

Brian's serious gaze flicked towards me distractedly, "Where are you going?"

"Dinner." I dusted off my leather blazer, "I shouldn't be too long... but if I'm not back in two hours, you should phone the police."

I had managed to push dinner with Heather back by two days, but I couldn't brush her off any further. The time has come.

"Why do you look as though you aren't joking?" John asked from where he had sat himself down on the drum bleachers.

"Because I'm not."

Brian assessed my face for a moment before he exhaled slowly, "Are you going to tell us who you're meeting?"

"Just a woman."

John and Freddie exchanged a small side eye which I couldn't decipher. Freddie's lips then proceeded to curl with amusement beneath his moustache, "Who is she?"

"Her name's Heather."

"London's response to the L.A flasher?" Freddie arched a dark brow.

I bristled at Freddie's cavalier tone, "No, and that was a horrifying experience! Yes, I may have wanted to marry her at the time, but after some further thought — it was a nice establishment I brought that girl to, there was no need for her—"

"So not the sort of place you'd get your tits out?"

"No Freddie, not the place I'd expect a girl to get their tits out."

"Well then," Freddie shrugged a languid shoulder, "How much worse could 'Heather' be?"

"She's a Queen fan."

A tense silence followed my words, made worse by my bandmates' horrified expressions. Brian looked rather disappointed in me, John shook his head as if to say 'here we go', and Freddie rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

"A casual fan?" John asked hopefully.

"Or one that'll pluck the hairs from your head as you sleep?" Freddie's eyes crinkled slightly, "Maybe you could have her focus on those greys you've been trying to hide recently, dear."

"Fuck off." I growled and quickly tossed my hair about to try and conceal the traces of grey that were threatening to take over if I didn't do something about it. I was far too mature to retort back about the spot on the back of Freddie's head where his hair was hanging on by a thread. I practically stare at it for a living but I don't feel the need to comment on it.

"What sort of fan is she?" Brian scratched at the bridge of his nose.

"Dedicated." I murmured, and made the decision not to inform Brian that there was of a signed photo of him at Heather's bedside. "Nothing wrong with a little loyalty is there? It's a nice quality."

"Oh you bloody twit." Brian sighed. "How young is she?"

"He'll be found washed up in the Thames tomorrow." Freddie murmured as if it were inevitable.

John's brow crinkled, "Or, he could just not go?"

"Yes, why are you going?"

Good question. "Well there's this other girl—"

A collective groan sounded around me. "No— no it's not like that. It doesn't matter, I know what I'm bloody doing."

"It doesn't sound like you do." Brian scoffed.

Freddie simply smirked, "Who's this other lady?"

"The Jaguar thief."

"Why did you smile when you said that?" John groaned, "Roger, where are you finding these women?"

"You ran into your little magpie again?" Freddie laughed, "What does she have to do with the woman you're getting dinner with?"

"Look, it's far too complicated to get into right now, and I need to get going." I huffed impatiently, "I can't be late for dinner with Hannah."

"Heather." John and Brian corrected me in unison.

"Yes, Heather." I said with a wave of my hand before I dipped out. "Two hours. Police. Bye."

With that overly dramatic farewell, I hurried myself into a town car where Johns, the Welsh driver, was waiting for me.

"Where are we going Mr Taylor?"

"Roger." I corrected him for the millionth time. "Castle something," I then murmured as I picked my brain for the hazy memory of where the flat was, and the address I was explicitly told over the phone, "Near Oxford Street."

"Great Castle Street?"

"That could be it," I shrugged before I secured my rounded shades on to my nose, "Johns, where would you take a woman that you aren't interested in, but have to impress anyway?"

Johns' bushy brows knit together with confusion as he started the car up, "I don't ah... that's a tough one."

"We'll figure it out." I murmured as if this was now a group effort. Perhaps I would feel like less of a tosser if I had a partner in this.

In whatever this was.

With Layla's judgmental gaze on me that morning when I first agreed to dinner, I felt all fired up and desperate to prove her opinion of me wrong. So, I'd at least bring Heather out for dinner after a night of shagging, it was the gentlemanly thing to do. When two days lapsed, the urge to prove Layla wrong dwindled and was replaced by the simple urge to see her again. There was also a large part of me that was terrified Heather would start sending me her eyelashes in the mail if I didn't go through with dinner and let her down gently.

I think Johns was working against me rather than with me, because we ended up in Soho in bloody record time. I dragged my heels as I strolled along Great Castle Street, hoping that I had gotten the address horribly wrong. Of course I didn't, and spotted the now familiar row of terraced buildings within seconds. It would seem that I was doing this.

"Roger Taylor!"

Heather planted a rather over-amorous kiss on my lips the second she opened the door to her flat. I swear my life may have flashed in front of my eyes

"Hello."

I casually tried to peel her body back from mine. My gaze flicked up and down her form, taking in her floral bathrobe and the towel twisted around her hair. "Am I early?"

"Oh no, I'm running late." Heather rolled her eyes, "Layla used up all the hot water earlier, so I had to wait around before I had my shower." My cheek was then pinched... pinched. "I'm sorry, I'll only be ten minutes."

"Is Layla here?" I blurted before I could even stop the words from escaping my clumsy mouth.

I am here with Heather for two reasons, and two reasons only: to show Layla I'm not a complete rotter, and to make a good third impression. Yes, one could make the argument that using another girl to get access to Layla does indeed make me a rotter, but let's not waste any time splitting hairs.

"Yes," Heather sighed as if we should both be disappointed by the fact, "But don't worry, she's going out herself, so we'll have the place all to ourselves later."

Later? This date would end with Heather being let down gently, not with us shagging.

"Make yourself comfortable Roger, but I shouldn't be long!" Heather kissed me again and I didn't remember her being so excessive with her tongue a few nights ago. Then again, I don't remember much of the other night in general.

I really do need to start acting my age and like a man who needs to salvage their current relationship. Starting after tonight.

"Sounds good." I murmured and slipped myself out of her grip.

As Heather got herself ready, I alternated between restlessly pacing the cozy living area and fixing my hair in the mirror. A few streaks of grey hair were certainly curling about my temple and attempting a hostile takeover.  For the millionth since I returned home from tour, I was reminded that I was entering middle age. As I gazed into the mirror that hung over the poky fireplace and took in my leather blazer, my rounded sunglasses, and the hair I would need to dye, all whilst hanging about the flat of a much younger woman, I may have understood why Dominique scoffed some quip about me having some sort of crisis during an argument last week.

Was I terrified that Queen didn't have many tours left? Did I feel like being at home made my life slow down in a way I found difficult to handle? Did I act like a stupid twat on tour and fuck up the brilliant thing I had going on with Dom? Yes, yes, and yes. Was I now fixating on some stranger as if she was a mythical creature because she once temporarily made me feel exhilarated in a way I only ever felt on tour? Also yes. But was this all indicative of a crisis? No. A downward spiral, sure, but not a crisis. Let's not be dramatic about it.

I quickly turned away from the mirror and made a beeline for the bookcase that looked as if it has once been white but was now poorly painted pink. One shelf was reserved solely for issues of Melody Maker, and New Music Express, which was normal enough I suppose. What was not... typical... was the fact that when I leafed through a few magazines I noted each one featured Queen in some way, shape or form.

It is very likely that I'm going to be held hostage here.

A silver gleam caught my eyes before I could wise up and make a dash for it. The Jaguar figure was resting upon a pile of messily stacked papers, being used to prop up a rather tattered looking book that read 'M.P.S' on the spine. Not the best hiding place for a stolen luxury car item.

An involuntary smile touched my lips as I plucked the Jaguar from its new habitat.

Perhaps the thrill I felt with Layla had nothing to with her at all, and I just got a kick out of crime. That would be much simpler. Yes, I would much prefer to have a taste for theft than develop an irritating infatuation for another woman when I need to focus on the girlfriend I have.

"Roger Taylor?" Heather's voice startled me as she peeped her head around the corner. Senselessly, I popped the Jaguar into my breast pocket.

"Yes?" I whirled around.

"Are you alright?" Heather asked as I slowly approached her. Her bedroom door was cracked open slightly, but my attention was firmly focused on the shut door adjacent to hers. Layla's room.

"I just need to get dressed and then we can go." Heather explained, now splashed in makeup that drew attention to the coy smile and bedroom eyes that attracted me to her in the first place. We're not shagging. No shagging.

"No worries."

I felt myself linger towards the door which I now knew Layla was hidden behind once Heather disappeared. Perhaps I should say hello, it would be the polite thing to do. I found myself trying to make out the music that was muffled by the closed door, and wondered what she was doing in there. Wondered what was so important that she couldn't pop her head out to say a quick hello to me.

Just as I raised my fist to knock on the door, like an absolute twit, Heather called out my name. I immediately pulled myself away as if caught red handed. Nina Simone's rendition of 'Lilac Wine' was suddenly cut short as if Layla turned the record off the second she heard my name.

"Yes?" I leant myself against the wall between the bedrooms.

"Ready! Just looking for my shoes!""

"Take your time." I called out politely, confused as to why she was taking so long to get herself dolled up. It wasn't as if I we were going to the Ritz.

I heard some shuffling from Layla's room and I felt the urge to knock on her door again. What a rude woman really. She should be out here, entertaining me with polite small talk until her friend was ready to go. Who leaves a guest unattended? Did good manners no longer exist?

I casually angled my head towards her door again, only to find that Layla had switched Nina Simone for Leonard Cohen.

I will ask for the mercy that you love to decline. And all the ladies go moist, and the judge has no choice; A singer must die, for the lie in his voice.

My lips couldn't help but kick up with amusement at Layla's song choice. She clearly thought this dinner with Heather wasn't my safest option either... and that perhaps I deserved everything that was coming my way that night. Layla was also probably cheekily smiling at her own joke, and it probably looked bloody adorable.

Okay. My arm has been twisted. I'll say a quick hello because she clearly just wants me to do so.

"Hello again," Heather purred as she creaked her door open.

I cast a small gaze Heather's way, and did a double take. Before you all get the wrong idea, the double take only happened because the girl was wearing a floor length gown that shimmered like a disco ball— when I don't think I ever bloody mentioned we were going to a black tie event. I suddenly felt extremely undressed in my jeans and subtly attempted to tuck my blue plaid shirt in as if that would somehow transform the outfit into something more formal.

"You look er... nice."

Heather did look nice, she was definitely a very attractive girl. Long legs, glossy dark hair, a sensual smile... why was I dreading this date? So what if she's a Queen fan? That just means she has a good taste. Yes, she seemed a little mad the other morning, but who wouldn't be if they slept with a celebrity they admired? Maybe she'll have calmed down by now and we'll have a wonderful evening and part on good terms.

I'm just going to keep an open mind.

***

Everything with Heather was going surprisingly well.

Originally, I had planned something fairly casual for dinner, but upon seeing Heather's beyond formal attire, I figured I better bring us somewhere a little more classy. We ended up staying in Soho when Johns, my hero, "reminded" me that I had made a reservation at L'Escargot on Greek Street. My plan was to stay nearby her flat so that I wouldn't have to spend too long in the car with her if things went south.

All my worries vanished when Heather behaved like an everyday person, and not a fanatic. In the short ten minute drive, I learnt that Heather studied veterinary sciences, she did aerobics, she starred in a few episodes of that new soap Eastenders... and that her roommate tried to warn her off seeing me tonight.

Maybe Layla thinks I'm a twat and felt the need to protect Heather, or maybe she's just seething with jealousy because she technically had me first. Who knows?

Yes, I was a little disappointed that I didn't get to see Layla again, but after this dinner Heather will simply relay back what a gent I was to her and she will realise how badly she misjudged me. Then that would be all my lady related loose ends tied up. After tonight, Layla will no longer think that I'm a twat and I will no longer worry about her opinion of me. Heather and I will go our separate ways... which leaves me free to focus on Dominique once again.

It's all working out nicely.

With the weight of the Jaguar figure in my breast pocket, I found it quite difficult not to litter Heather with questions about the person I had accidentally nicked it back from. Thankfully, I restrained myself because I don't think Heather would have reacted very well if I was to constantly bombard her with questions about another woman.

Heather steered the conversation, and I found myself actually having a good time. L'Escargot was quite the sultry spot with its luxurious red velvet panelling along the walls, offset by the black backdrop. The dimmest of lighting was used all about to help the flickering candles on the tables create a rather intimate atmosphere.

It wasn't long before a waitress popped over and interrupted the easy small talk that had been struck up. "Good evening, are you two ready to order?"

"Yeah, cheers." I smiled politely at the young girl, "I'll have the—"

Heather suddenly blew out a long and irritated sigh. I chanced a small glance at her, only to see she had narrowed her eyes on the waitress. Innocently, I just assumed that I had accidentally made some sort of etiquette related faux pass because the waitress couldn't have possibly done anything wrong already. Not when she was simply doing her job.

"Sorry, ah, ladies first." I waved a hand towards Heather, who had now turned her glare on me.

I ducked my head down and pretended to have another peruse of the menu. Alcohol. Yes, it's definitely time for alcohol.

"I want the wild mushroom linguine."

"Good choice," The girl smiled, "So you didn't want a starter?"

Heather frowned, "Did I ask for a starter?"

"I - ah," the waitress shook her head, "no."

"Then no, I don't want a starter."

Oh... oh no.

The poor girl's smile wavered for a moment before she turned her attention back on me. I felt the need to overcompensate for Heather's random cutting tone, so I flashed the waitress an affable grin 

"Can I have the Entrecôte steak, cooked—"

"Babe," Heather gasped as if I stabbed her in the back, "I'm vegetarian!"

I blinked in confusion because what the hell did that have to do with me, how did she expect me to know that, and who the fuck is she calling 'babe'?

"Right." I nodded, "Interesting."

"Sorry, how would you like that cooked, sir?"

"Didn't you hear me? I'm vegetarian. He'll have what I'm having." Heather plucked the menu from my grasp and handed both menus to the waitress. The poor girl couldn't get away from us quick enough and I can't say I blame her.

"But wine..." I whispered in the waitresses' wake.

My eyes flicked back towards Heather, who had her delicate chin lifted haughtily. "She was bloody shameless."

"Shameless?" I repeated, the realisation that my order was hijacked only just hit me. I didn't want sodding mushrooms unless they were accompanied by a fucking steak.

"Flirting with you, when I'm sitting right here."

Oh... oh no.

"She wasn't flirting, and we're not..." I trailed off, hoping that I would find a way to eloquently tell the girl we weren't an item and she couldn't be so possessive over me. Usually, that's a given on a first date but not in this case. Not when Heather was looking at me as if she had already named our future children.

"Oh never mind her!" Heather huffed as if I was the one upset this entire time. Suddenly she reached forward and grabbed both of my hands within hers and I may or may not have let out a terrified squeak. "Let's focus on you, Roger Taylor."

I can't go through with this, I tried, but the girl is loony.

"Why didn't you tour with your latest solo album? It was incredible! I would have loved to have heard the songs live!"

Okay... well perhaps she's not completely loony.

***

"What the hell happened to you!?"

I ignored Brian completely when I strode back into the studio. "Is anyone drinking this?" I asked and immediately brought the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc to my lips.

"Well I was." John grumbled and pushed a glass towards me, but it was too late, I was swigging straight from the bottle.

"Roger, your shirt is ripped open."

Freddie appeared in the door just as I attempted to pull my shirt back together, but it was tattered beyond repair. He took one look at me and immediately lifted a hand to his mouth in an attempt to mask a cackle of a laugh.

"Not a fucking word—"

"Roger, you naughty thing—"

"We didn't shag! This has nothing to do with sex. I had to climb through a bloody bathroom window and my shirt got caught."

"So it didn't go well?" John asked dryly, irritated that I had pinched his wine.

I half shuddered in response.

Heather had verbally abused the waitress for "flirting" with me once she returned with our orders. Not only did Heather make the poor girl cry, she continuously referred to me as her "boyfriend" when she decided to have an unprovoked turf war with the waitress, and a fan who asked for my autograph. I quickly told Heather that we weren't going to work out after that, which naturally lead to all out hysterics. Heather proceeded to throw herself onto my lap in the middle of the crowded restaurant and sob as she begged me for another chance.

Which I may have granted... just so that I could escape a few minutes later.

I am not proud that I slipped out of the bathroom window, but it was entirely necessary. I genuinely don't think the woman would have let me leave of my own accord. Of course the window was tiny, one of those awning ones that opened out, and I almost cracked my head open several times as I used the loo to get at it. My shirt then snagged on the way out, ripped and I ended up clumsily tumbling out onto the tarmac below. My hands and knees were grazed, I was soaked to the bone in a sudden downpour, but at least I was free.

To be quite honest, it was exactly what I deserved for messing about with another random girl so I couldn't feel too sorry for myself.

When I eventually returned home to Surrey that night, to Dominique, I felt ready to just quit women entirely. Focus on music, on Felix, and just sort my fucking shit out.

But I couldn't lump Dominique in with other women, because she meant too much to me to just completely give up on. For years we had been rock solid until I suddenly decided that it was alright for me to sleep with the odd person whilst in different parts of the world to my girlfriend. In the past few weeks it would seem I thought it would be alright to sleep around locally too.

I don't have any good reasons for my behaviour, but I can easily talk myself into shagging someone else in the moment. It honestly doesn't mean anything to me, I never see a future with any of these women, which often makes it alright in my mind. Well, it's alright until Dominique finds out and I see the proof of how much I have hurt her first hand.

I found Dominique in the living room, dozing off as the BBC news rattled lowly in the background. Her face was beautifully relaxed, and I realised that it had been a while since I had seen her like that. I knew her expression would change the instant she realised I was there. One part of me wanted to avoid her for the sole reason that we may argue, whilst another part of me wanted to melt against her if even just for a second.

"You have been missing for a few days."

Dominique glanced toward me, completely aware of my presence, "Do I want to know?" The heavy French trace in her accent only exacerbated her distaste towards me in that moment.

I shook my head slowly, still half traumatised by my encounter with Heather. Dominique sighed softly before she dragged her knees up to her chest in order to make some room for me on the couch. I was surprised by the offer of space, but gratefully took it anyway. We had been fighting for so long that this seemed like a nice white flag.

"I'm an idiot."

"Mhm."

I feigned a frown, "You could have at least hesitated."

Dominique smiled wearily, "No need to."

Instinctively, I slipped my hand over Dom's knee and idly brushed my thumb up and down. I wanted to brush back her black fringe so that I could get a better look at those lovely dark eyes but knew it would be a step too far. Dom sighed softly, and it was a rather defeated sound. It certainly wasn't a nice thing to hear, not when I was the cause of it. An intense wave of guilt crashed over me. I was suddenly drowning in the fact that I was going to lose her soon and only had myself to blame.  I just wished such feelings weren't strictly reserved to the times after I had done something wrong. I wished they were enough to prevent me from fucking up any further.

"I don't want to hate you Roger." Dominique whispered, more to herself than me.

"But I'm making it difficult not to?" My grip on her knee tightened ever so slightly.

Dom slowly shook her head, "I think if we continue on like this, we'll both end up resenting each other, and I don't want that." Her own hand slipped over mine.

"So what do we do?" I asked cautiously, too selfish to direct her towards the obvious path which would lead to her breaking things off with me.

"I don't know, but I wish I did."

Leonard Cohen's voice wasn't one that ever typically filtered through my mind, but Layla's record must have stirred up something earlier. Now all I could think of was Cohen and his basso whisper whilst he crooned: "Is this what you wanted? To live in a house that is haunted, by the ghost, of you and me?"

We simply sat in silence, my hand on Dom's knee, and her hand on mine. Together but apart. Neither of us wanted to be the first one to pull away in case it signified the definitive end of us.

____

A/N— Thanks for reading! xx