Layla
June, 1985

For the seventh consecutive morning, I awoke to the sound of Heather blaring 'Wish You Were Here' by Fleetwood Mac.

Now don't get me wrong, 'Mirage' is a cracking album, but it has been on a continuous loop ever since Heather got back from her date with Roger Taylor. Apparently he had escaped via the bathroom window after what Heather deemed "an incredible night". Heather couldn't for the life of her understand what went wrong.

After living with the girl for three months, I had several thousand theories.

"La-Layla." Heather creaked the door open, "Layla are you awake?"

I wanted to pretend that I didn't hear her, because I didn't need to hear about how the "love of her life" left her for a "slapper waitress" for the millionth time, but Heather was sniffling so I couldn't exactly turn her away.

"Yes?" I yawned, and wrapped the scratchy duvet tighter around myself "Everything alright?"

"I just—" Heather planted herself on the side of my bed, "Do you think— do you think he'll call me today?"

"Oh... love..." I murmured sympathetically, which of course had fresh tears burst fourth from Heather's eyes.

Now, this reaction would have been understandable if Heather had been dating Roger Taylor for several months, but one night and one dinner? Bloody hell. Was he that good in bed or what sort of impression has he left on her? I found myself blinking away such a ridiculous thought as Heather buried herself into my side.

"I think I could— I think I could eat today." Heather continued to sniffle, "Maybe you could put the kettle on? I saw you bought scones."

"I... did." I sighed knowing that my own breakfast was now lost. I pulled myself free of her grip and rolled myself out of the bed, "What do you want on the scone?"

"Jam," She blew her nose, on what I didn't know, "Thanks Layla."

I shrugged on my robe, slipped on my slippers, and shuffled on out to the kitchen. I set about filling the kettle, longingly gazing upon my last scone as I did so. Once the water started to bubble away on the hob, I decided to give my brother a quick ring.

"Max, hey." I smiled into the speaker, "How are you feeling?"

"Y'ello." My younger brother yawned as if I had just woken him up. As usual, he ignored any of my enquiries into how he was feeling.

I frowned as my eyes snagged on the clock that was now ticking  past 9 o'clock, "Should you not be heading off to class soon?"

"Oh yeah, I suppose." He chuckled dismissively. "It's only stochastic simulation."

Bloody hell, whatever that means. "That sounds... important."

"It's a load of shit." Max murmured, "Like the rest of it, so let's once again talk about the possibly of me dropping out."

I sighed deeply, "Max, take it from the poor, struggling, artist, you need this degree." Living the bohemian lifestyle worked in my teens and twenties, and in Saint-Tropez, but being back in the big bad London with newfound responsibilities swiftly made me realise I couldn't live that way again.

"Do I need to say the obvious, that I probably won't be around to use the degree, or will you rip into me?" Max decided to pop out cavalierly, as was his bloody way. "Never mind, you will."

I did want to rip into him, because I couldn't stand when he made jokes like that, but I knew he'd tune out if I did. "Dad will only continue to pay for college and your accommodation as long as you're doing well. Where do you think you'll live if you're kicked out of there?"

That seemed to have struck something with Max because I heard him shudder, "Fucking hell you're right. I'm not living with Heather."

"Max!" I tried to sound scolding, but ending up laughing softly.

"What? Layla, you need to get out of there. She's driving you cracked."

"She's not that bad." I murmured, and pulled a plate from the creaking cabinet, "But I am hoping to find somewhere a little bigger, or somewhere on my own. Then you can potentially be booted out of your uni accommodation, but until then, go to class."

Max chuckled at that, "Sounds good. Or you could pretend you've forgiven Hugh, and move back into that big sod off flat in Kensington?"

Before I could even attempt to growl the many reasons why that would never happen, my brother beat me to it, "Don't even think about getting back with that tosser or I'll never speak to you again."

"My tactic of avoiding him has been working so far."

"The fact that you actively have to avoid him doesn't bode well for you, Layla."

When the kettle began to whistle, I threw out a few more mother hen sentiments before Max hung up. I hoped standing in my doorway with a cup of tea and a scone, would lure Heather out from my room, but no such luck. I handed her breakfast in bed (my bed), and knocked about cleaning the living room until I worked up the courage to do the truly awful task of visiting my father.

I had been working a string of service industry jobs ever since I moved back to London, and they were slowly beginning to crush my bloody spirit. I missed my artistic endeavours, and my father had the means of helping me secure a few jobs in that line of work. The issue was that I would have to go to him, hat in hand, and hope he was in a reasonable mood.

Once I got dressed (and brushed the scone crumbs from my duvet), I caught the bus over to Temple Bar and walked along the Thames, the rest of the way to Fleet Street. Northcliffe House was flashy and daunting in all the ways it needed to be to host a media empire, but looked out of place in a now rough area. As a child, I thought it was the world's biggest playground, and got lost in the various offices more times than I could count. As an adult, I knew the tower was simply where the twat overlord resided whilst he attempted to burn the ants below with his bloody magnifying glass.

Fleet Street seemed to have attracted an even more raucous area in my absence which would explain the extra bodies about the front door, keeping an eye out for any riff raff, or the rightly disgruntled celebrities who may find issue with the headlines created in this very building. I smiled politely as a doorman let me pass him, and I wasn't two steps in the opulent foyer before a gangly security man met my gaze head on.

"Miss Williams!" Jacob Bates, security extraordinaire, exclaimed before a wince pinched his face, "Sorry, Mrs Blackburn?"

I shook my head slowly.

"Oh right, the separation," he pressed a palm to his crinkled forehead, "I apologise Ms Williams, it's been so long since—"

"I'm going by Thorpe these days." I gave Jacob a small pat on the shoulder as he continued to ramble away with a series of apologies.

"Layla!" He finally exclaimed and took a gentle hold of my arm, "Your father isn't expecting you today."

"Yes, I'm just dropping in."

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Well, I'm dropping in anyway."

Jacob sighed deeply, "He's meeting with Carlton, you know how he gets with that..."

"Twit?"

Jacob chuckled and led me to the lift despite of his previous warnings. "I would have been more delicate about it, but yes. That man almost published a letter from his own mistress last week."

"He didn't." I laughed as Jacob leant into the lift to press the button for the top floor with the label "DMGT" beside it.

"He did." Jacob rolled his eyes, "Good luck up there, kid."

"Cheers." I murmured, and up I went.

Daily Mail General Trust is the media company that owned the Daily Mail, several other titles and a few subsidiaries. My father was the man that owned the entire thing. Kenneth Williams liked to think he built the media empire himself, but the truth was DMGT  was founded in 1922 and has been passed down to each succeeding son since my great grandfather established it. I enjoyed throwing about the word nepotism whenever my father's head got too big to fit through the door, which was often.

I knocked on the door of my father's office, and within a second he grunted an extremely irritated "enter". I reluctantly creaked the door open and entered the dragon's den. My father's large frame was leant back in his chair, with his fingers pressed to his temples as if he thought it hard enough, the man in front of him would disappear.

"Layla!" My father acknowledged me with a tight smile. He ruffled his hand through his hair, it was still a rich shade of auburn, the same colour as mine before I continuously destroyed it with hair dyes over the years.

"Hey." I attempted to smile demurely, "I didn't mean to interrupt—"

"Come on in, sit down." My father threw a sharp glance to the Daily Mail journalist across from him, "Let my daughter sit down, Carlton."

"Yes-yes," Carlton bumbled as he stood up, "but what about—"

"Oh just run with something about Diana," my father waved a large dismissive hand, "That lot would bloody eat it up if she got a new hat."

"Quite right," The portly man nodded briskly as he half tripped out of my way, "And did she, sir?"

My father furrowed his dark brows impatiently, "Did she what?"

"Get a new hat?"

I watched as my father geared himself up to blister indignantly, and found myself butting in by accident. "I suppose you could say she got a new fascinator... it went quite nicely with that Jan Van Velden dress. Didn't you see her at UWC college yesterday?"

"UWC college? Where did you see that?" My father asked slowly once he saw that his underling had no idea what I was talking about.

"Oh," I murmured, "I just caught sight of her in the Sun this morning."

I should have known better than to bring up the 's' word. "The Sun!?" My father growled. "This is awful."

"No, it was lovely. She visited because there was a rally on for deaf youths, she's even been learning sign language—"

"And the fucking Sun have a story on it before we do?" My father cut in abruptly. "Who was with her? Layla, was Mannakee in any of the photos? The princess' bodyguard."

I kept my lips welded shut, knowing well my answer would send Mr Kenneth Williams into a tizzy. He would then instruct his writers to twist this nice event that Princess Di attended into something illicit out of thin air. Unfortunately, my father knew me well enough to know my answer even when silent.

"Fucking hell," My father pinched the bridge of his sharp nose, "Diana's seen out and about with Mannakee after palace sources are whispering about an affair, and we aren't the first to bloody report on it?"

"He's her bodyguard, of course they're going to be seen together." I grumbled, "Don't turn this into something it's not Dad."

My father ignored me because his motto in life was "be flexible with nothing except the truth."

He then barked a few orders Carlton's way, before he briskly picked up the phone. "Charlene? Could you make us a brew? Layla's here."

"Oh that's not— I'm not staying long."

"Yes, break out the biscuit tin." A small smile tugged at my father's mouth as if he had a marvellous lightbulb moment, "And put me through to Hugh at the Daily Mail."

"No!" That name woke me right up, "Dad. No."

"Yes," my father nodded, "Actually, just send him on up."

"I'm not here for a catch up, or to see Hugh!" I exclaimed, immediately calculating the amount of time it would take me to escape and dodge Hugh if he was coming up from the Daily Mail office.

"Then what are you here for, darling?" My father set about lighting a cigarette, undeterred by my pissy attitude towards him.

"You mentioned before that grandad's friends were asking if I did portraits." I tried to swallow my pride, "I was wondering if you had their contact information."

My father seemed amused, "Ah, money's tight."

"Yes... so I would appreciate those contacts." I wasn't a portrait artist, it was my idea of hell, but I knew it would earn me a nice influx of cash considering grandad's friends were all Lord and Lady so-and-so's. In essence, they were the only generation who believed in commissioning big sod off, old fashioned paintings anymore.

"I did warn you to pursue a proper career..." he tapped some ashes into a crystal tray, "I doubt flying off to Saint Tropez, away from a financially stable and supportive husband helped matters either. You were free to pursue your hobbies then, but now you're on your own."

I swallowed the urge to defend myself, considering he would tell me not to be hysterical, and that would indeed force me to become hysterical. Instead, I just ignored him and pressed on.

"So, you'll give me the numbers?"

"I could give you a job here, in the photography department, since taking nice photos is one of your more useful hobbies."

I tried not to scowl, "There is absolutely no way I would work—"

"Yes, yes, your feelings on the Daily Mail are quite clear." My father rolled his eyes, "Even when it's the reason you got the best of everything growing up."

"Mhm." I hummed. I then started to rise from my chair, knowing that Hugh would be on his way by now if he was in the building.

"We also have the Mail on Sunday, and the Standard. Are they any less controversial for my morally superior daughter?"

"They're all the same thing."

"Why are you being so vexing?" My father asked, but in the same breath asked where I thought I was going.

"Just please send me on the contact details that I asked for." I replied, and turned around, only to see a man slip on through into the office.

Of course Hugh was close enough with my father that he didn't need to bloody knock, a fact that irked me. My eyes swept up and down the man's tall frame just long enough to recognise the fact he was wearing a deep navy pinstriped suit and to reluctantly acknowledge he looked just as good as the last time I saw him. Hugh's bright hazel eyes widened in welcomed shock, and those stupid lovely lips split into a bright smile.

"Layla. You're back."

"She's been back for three months." My father decided to share.

Hugh scratched a hand along his neatly trimmed beard, before proceeding to smooth back his dark curls. He clearly didn't know what to do with that information, but he quickly shook off the fact that I was actively avoiding him.

He began to approach me and before I knew it, a chaste kiss was pressed to my cheek, "You look incredible."

"Mhm." I hummed, quite proud of myself when I didn't return any such compliment to Hugh. Even when he looked good, annoyingly so. Did his hair get shinier?

"Lovely tan." Hugh gently swept his hands over my shoulders, "The sun did you good."

"So did the separation."

"Layla!" My father bristled, as if I shouldn't dream of saying any such thing to the pretty plonker who broke my heart years ago.

It was a tale as old as time really, I married the charming, handsome, eligible bachelor, and was then surprised when other women wanted a go at him too. Hugh worked as a journalist for the Daily Mail, so like with any office job, he predictably shagged his assistant. I wanted a divorce once I found out, Hugh didn't, which meant our separation had to last 5 years instead of 2 in order for us to fully part. I ran off to another country, Hugh presumably carried on with his young assistant, and now I had only one more year to wait until our divorce could be set in stone.

Yes... that old chestnut.

"No, no." Hugh chuckled that deep rumble of his, "I deserved that."

He finally slowly removed his hands from my shoulders and I let out a small exhale. I survived this interaction. I bloody well did it. "Listen, I'm quite busy at the moment, but we should get a drink later Layla, catch up."

I simply scoffed dismissively in response. There was no way that would be happening. Not today, not in this lifetime, not ever. Mark my words, the next time I see Hugh Blackburn, will be the day I sign the divorce papers.

*****

The floorboard creaked menacingly beneath my bare foot, and I almost careened into the vanity table with the fright it gave me.

I froze and slowly let my gaze fall on the sleeping figure who was wrapped up in the silken sheets that I picked out six years ago. When Hugh didn't stir, I continued on my way out of the bedroom, struggling to ignore the various knick-knacks that I had once had to leave behind. Why the hell hasn't he thrown my stuff out, or at least stored them out of sight? I can't imagine the revolving door of women that enter this room appreciate the echoes of his ex-wife glaring at them.

And now I'm just one of those women escaping out the revolving door, like an actual twit.

I thought I was on the home stretch once I was out of the bedroom and creeping across the brightly painted hallway. I ignored any and all photos Hugh decided to keep up of him and I, and once again wondered why the hell he was drawing out the separation considering he is the one that threw the relationship away. And now I had confused everything because of a few glasses of wine and his stupid smile.

"L-Layla?"

I winced at the silvery voice of the Sunday Mail's main politics columnist, Spencer Dalton. He was staring at me from the threshold of the front door, mouth agape, with a cup of coffee in either hand. An old friend of mine, who Hugh had won in the separation. Or at least I think he did, I was already in another country.

"Spence." I attempted to smile innocently as I edged around his lanky body, "I wasn't here."

Spencer nodded his head ever so slightly, but we both knew that Hugh wasn't going to keep the fact I spent the night here quiet. "Nice seeing you again, love."

"Layla!?" I heard Hugh's sleepy rasp call loudly from the bedroom.

And with that, I bolted.

I weaved through West Kensington, without a destination in mind, because I certainly wasn't in the mood to go home and deal with Heather's "broken heart" right now. I couldn't go to any of my friends, or my brother with the stupid story of last night, because they would all rightly give me a verbal bollocking for being so silly about that man. I cut through Holland Park, letting the smells and colours of summer bring me temporary relief from the wave of shame washing over me. The relief didn't last too long.

My brisk walk eventually brought me to Shepherd's Bush where I decided to stop for a break and sought refuge on the steps entering a building, rather "creatively" named 'Town House'. Once I found a comfortable position to sit on the cold concrete, I placed my head into my hands, and let out a long, drawn out, misanthropic groan. I took a deep inhale, ready to go again, but I was interrupted.

"Layla," A tut, "Layla, Layla."

I stiffened at the sound of a voice which had recently become familiar to me. A rather soft voice, with a nice raspy undercurrent to it. "We need to stop meeting like this.

I glanced up to see Roger Taylor looming over me with an impish grin. Despite of my shitty few days, and our very strange dynamic, I found myself smiling right back. Roger took this as an invitation to carefully sit himself down on the step beside me.

I cast him a sidelong glance, suddenly wondering what all the Roger Taylor-related fuss was about. What prompted Heather to lose all sense when around him. Was it the fact he was wearing sunglasses when the sun was absolutely nowhere to be found? Did that put him above any other normal, average man?

"You need to stop following me."

"You ran into me." I pointed out.

"You're sitting outside my studio." I watched as Roger rolled up the sleeves on his oversized white jumper to reveal his forearms.

Well, I clearly didn't know that. "Yeah, Heather gave me the address." I gave his white denim-clad knee a patronising pat.

Roger exhaled sharply, "Too soon."

My gaze accidentally snagged on Roger's once he hooked his sunglasses over the neck of his jumper. He had lovely eyes, big and blue, framed by inky lashes. Oh he was pretty, too pretty. Nothing good can come of an overly attractive man, that's all I know.

"So what do you think?" Roger asked, startling me slightly.

"About what?"

Roger cracked a sheepish smile my way, "About the Heather situation?"

I laughed softly, "She's a nice girl, but clearly silly about you. You're lucky she didn't keep you locked in the flat."

"Well I like to think you'd have rescued me in that case."

"And go up against Heather? Not a chance." I arched a brow his way, "Well you'd have liked that, maybe thrown yourself in the middle of it."

Roger winced slightly, "I really didn't mean— I wasn't suggesting that we er— I think my brain was switched off that morning. I will allow you to make one stereotypical blonde joke, and then we'll move on."

"You'll allow me, will you?" I found myself smiling once again. My eyes were now on his tousled blonde locks, wondering if the wind created the wild effect, or did he do it himself.

A grin touched his own lips, "Yeah, but be creative with it."

Once again, we found ourselves staring at each other, but it really wasn't my fault. His cool blue gaze was dreamlike and drowsy, and I couldn't help but want to take a little lull from life in it. It made him seem ridiculously easy to talk to, which was probably how I ended up spilling half of my life's story to him not so long ago.

"I'll pass for now." I murmured and scrubbed a hand over my face, breaking the trance.

"Are you alright?" Roger shifted himself a little closer towards me, "You're looking a little..."

"Rough?

"No I wouldn't say that." Roger shook his head slowly, "You just look like you had a rough... night. Has Heather been keeping you up with any rebounds?"

I fought the urge to groan, "Somehow that would've been preferable." The full stupidity of my actions seemed to fully hit me at that moment, "I'm just after doing a runner from a man, as if he were a stranger, and as if I was twenty."

"Runner as in?"

"As in the reason I look so awful right now is because this is a walk of shame, Roger, or rather a run."

"You mean you ran off on a man after sleeping with them?" Roger gasped mockingly, as if I were a massive hypocrite. That man clearly cared too much of what a stranger perceived of him.

"Yes, but I at least remembered his name, and didn't offer to have a threesome with his colleague who caught me escaping this morning."

"I knew you were bloody judging me." Roger grumbled, and rubbed at the side of his neck. "Who's the lad?"

"My ex husband."

"Oh you're a twit." Roger laughed, and for some reason I didn't seem to mind how over familiar he was with me in that moment.  It gave the semblance that we were just two good friends having a gossip. "That poor bloke."

"That poor bloke?" I echoed.

Roger sucked in a breath, and tossed a hand through his wild head of blonde hair, "Okay, based on your expression, there's nothing at all poor about your ex, and we don't like him."

"No, we don't like him."

"Just enough to shag him?"

"Piss off." I laughed, and nudged his knee with my own.

Roger raised his hands as a sign of peace, but looked as though he was struggle to hold off on any further slagging. "Do you want to come inside?" He then gestured towards the sky, "It's looking gloomy up there."

"Thanks, but I'll pass."

Roger was not at all deterred by the rejection of his offer, it was like he hadn't even heard it. "What about— do you maybe want to go get a coffee?"

"I don't think so, Roger."

"Why not?"

The words were out of my mouth before I could attempt to make them sound less blunt, "Because we aren't ever going to sleep together."

Roger's eyes widened as if he were always the picture of innocence, and I was the first one to ever scandalise him. "What sort of fucking coffee do you drink?"

"You know what I mean." Men like him don't just do 'coffees', and don't know how to be just friends with women.

"No, I don't. Who says I even want to shag you?"

"Well you did, the other morning."

I watched as a faint flush of red tinged Roger's cheeks before he quickly secured his sunglasses back onto his face. "That really was just a slip of the tongue— and speaking of, you once kissed me, remember? So maybe I should be the one warning you that we aren't going to shag."

My mouth dropped open, "That is— that is not how it happened!"

Roger arched his brows with amusement, and leant his body closer to mine. "No?"

"No!"

We stared each other down like a pair of western gun slingers, before Roger backed down first."Whatever, it doesn't matter."

He then proceeded to huff impatiently, "We are now both on the same, non-shagging page. Brilliant. So can we go for coffee, or tea, or whatever will make you say yes?"

I paused, and with that silence, Roger continued on, "I have a girlfriend— long term—and we're trying to make a proper go of things at the moment. So I promise you that coffee, is really just coffee."

I'm sure that was meant to be... reassuring, but it just screamed that the man was a hot mess and actually had to put a great deal of effort into keeping it in his trousers. I had enough craziness in my life without potentially befriending a pathological flirt who also happened to be a drummer for a massive bloody band. Even if he does seem just a little bit nice.

"Fine. What's your end goal, Roger Taylor?"

"Fucking hell, you're really overthinking this." Roger shook his head, "Since when was getting coffee considered foreplay? Should I have led with asking if you wanted tea?"

"That really would have made all the difference."  I agreed solemnly which provoked a raspy laugh from Roger.  "I suppose, tea's less sexy."

A hazy memory of that laugh against the back of my neck suddenly sprung up in my mind when we were committing petty theft. I desperately tried to push the image back down to wherever it was I usually hid the evidence of any embarrassing alcohol-related behaviour.

"Look," Roger murmured, his hand went to the step behind me and he leaned in ever so slightly. I held my place, and my neutral gaze, even when his shoulder pressed against mine lightly.

"This is the third time we've bumped into each other out of the blue...Do you not think we're just meant to know each other?"

I placed a hand to his chest because the lad was still leaning forward as if he couldn't help himself. My lips curled in amusement at the unintentional smoulder that now touched his delicate featured face.

"That was such a line."

Roger's brows shot up, causing his sunglasses to slide down his nose and reveal his wide eyes, "That was not a line! I was just—"

"We've bumped into each other a few times," I shrugged, "Coincidence."

"Aren't you an artist? Think romantically."

"For our coffee that wasn't going to be romantic?"

Roger opened his mouth to argue, but I think he finally saw my point. "Alright, ruin the friendship the universe clearly wanted to happen."

"I'm going up against the universe now, am I?"

"Yup," Roger shook his head as if disappointed, "Foolish thing to do if you ask me, Layla."

"Fine, we'll make a deal." I held my hand out to the drummer, "If we magically bump into each other again, I'll listen to the universe, and we can get a cup of tea."

Roger's brows knit into a skeptic line, but he took my hand regardless. He shook gently, and I inexplicably found myself feeling a little flushed when he gave my fingers a small squeeze. "Deal. Even though this is clearly just a brush off because it's unlikely we'll see each other again."

I simply shrugged, and somewhat reluctantly pulled my hand out of his, which told me it was for the best that I wouldn't be spending any further time with Roger. He helped me to my feet without any prompting, and instructed me to hide out in the studio if it did start to rain, but I assured him I'd be fine.

"Goodbye, Roger."

Roger offered me a small wave and a smug smile as we parted ways, "Until next time, Layla."

——

A/N-
Hope you enjoyed! Back to Roger's PoV we go ahah.🤍