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."

"Oh, yes?" she called.  "Well, that's good."

I opened the note as he'd so politely requested, and read silently. "Hi, Sleeping Beauty.  I forgot to report you again, sorry about that.  I'll get to it sometime, I suppose.  Don't forget, we are buying you clothes this afternoon.  One thirty, sharp, Rudy will come round and bring you up to John's house.  Not Deacon, you don't know this John yet, but don't worry, he won't bite.  Much.  Don't be late, for I have a simply monstrous temper!!  Love and kisses, F."

"He's too much," I exclaimed.  "Just too much."  Still, I branded the time into my head.  I did not want to find out just how much Freddie was joking when he said "monstrous."

"Ms. Cottage, have you eaten anything today?" I asked.

"Just an apple, Ms. Dubroc.  I never eat heavy before work."

"If I made breakfast, would you like some as well?  I always make too much food when I cook for myself."

"No thank you, dear.  That's very sweet for you to offer, but I'm alright."  And in a voice she thought I couldn't detect, she murmured, "No, you're not at all like his... friends."

That confused me, but I tried not to think anything more of it save as one more blurb in the log.  At that moment, I had bigger eggs to fry. 

******************************************************************************************

Rudy was as good as Freddie had promised.  I had just gotten back to the flat after doing some grocery shopping for dinner that night (assuming Freddie would be joining me) when the doorbell rang, and the Not-So-Jolly Green Giant escorted me to the Rolls.

It had been a superbly lovely day so far.  The sky was bright blue, nary a cloud to be found.  Nearly everyone I'd spoken to had been the epitome of friendliness.  Everywhere I went, I was singing (timely songs, of course).  Under no circumstances would I let Rudy rain on my parade.

When the car door closed, and we sped off, I had a terrible idea.  I would annoy the heck out of my driver.  Chances were this wouldn't improve his attitude towards me, but I was still feeling so good, I didn't care.

"How are you feeling, Senor Rudy?"  I bubbled.

He grunted and shrugged. 

"Same as usual, I see.  Very well!  What have you been up to?"

There was no monosyllabic way out of that one.  "Acting as his bodyguard."

"It was necessary, huh?"

"Today."

"That's very interesting."  I rolled down the window, put out my hand into the wind.  He sighed through his nose.  Ah, the idiocy this poor man had to endure. 

My bad idea immediately became worse.  I began to sing.

"This one's for you, my little black rain cloud," I cried, and launched into "Bah-dum bi da dahh, Bah-dum bi da dahhh, Raindrops keep fallin' on my head..."

He closed his eyes a moment, subtly rolled his eyes.  But his right hand, the one he thought I couldn't see, was tapping against the steering wheel to the beat.  I kept singing.

Fortunately for Rudy, whose ears by now I'm sure were aching, we arrived at the New John's house in under six minutes.  That was probably because he was speeding twenty above the limit.  I wonder how often he had to put up with the same thing from Freddie himself.

Parking the car, we both got out and started walking up the steps.  As we approached the house, the door opened and a brisk young fellow with a distinctly British (but attractive) face hurried out.  His mouth was working furiously, and he gripped a tape recorder in one hand and a clipboard in the other.  I swallowed.  Something very intense had just gone down.

"Good day!" I said cheerily after him.

Without even looking back, he growled, "Bollocks!" and disappeared into a cab.

I blinked.  "What's his problem?"

I received no answer.  No direct answer, anyway.  Once we were let inside the house, we got enough of one as soon as we heard Freddie.  He wasn't visible yet, but oh, man, was he audible. I could show what all he screamed, but I'd have to market this book as one meant for mature audiences only.  He wasn't happy.

Rudy marched up to the closed door where Freddie was having his tantrum and knocked.  Immediately everything hushed.  The door whooshed open.  First, out came a gentleman with dark brown hair and a cautious expression in his eyes, as if anything he could possibly say had the risk of lighting another dynamite hissy fit. 

And then, out strolled Freddie.  I had held ice cubes that were warmer than his demeanor.  His eyes were on the floor, his mouth pressed in a tighter line than usual (what with his teeth, his mouth always looked a little tight).  His hands were firmly shoved into his jacket pockets (some nerve, lecturing me about "suitable" summer clothes and here he was dressed in a shiny leather jacket).  I got the impression that if I touched his shoulder, my fingers would blacken with frostbite. 

"I don't know what to tell you, Freddie," the man said in a thick Scottish brogue.  "I'm sorry."

Freddie didn't answer.  He pointed at the coat rack.  I watched in ever-growing amazement as Rudy picked up the scarf with hung there and placed it into his upturned palm.  Slinging it loosely round his neck, Freddie moved to the door, Rudy and I in tow.

Suddenly he turned, spoke coldly to the Scots.  "And for God's sake, do something about that f---ing cook of yours.  Whatever that was, it wasn't any f---ing salmon."

Until we got back in the car, that was all he said.  But apparently whatever venting he'd done to John (whose face I at last recognized as their John Reid's, their manager at this time) was anything but satisfactory.

I broke the silence as gently as I could.  "So, um... how did that go?"

He exploded.  "That Parsons prick!  So high and f---ing mighty, with his pen and paper.  That f---ing g--d--- NME!  Putting people in f---ing bags, thinking they know so f---ing much!  F--- the press!  God!  Who the f--- do they think they are?"

See what I mean?

"Freddie, we don't have to go shopping today, really-"

"No f---ing way. I need it.  Rudy, take us to the Square."

Rudy nodded, and Freddie fell silent again, cold as ever.

My buoyant mood now had millstones wrapped around it, dragging it down into the depths.  I tried to change the subject.

"So... that's John, huh?" I ventured.

He nodded.  "John Reid.  Our manager."

I twiddled my thumbs a little, then asked, "So what was the deal with the salmon?"

"It was f---ing horrendous, that's what."

I was already tiring of Freddie talking like a Tarantino script, but I kept trying.  "What was wrong with it?"

"Everything.  Even that prick hated it."

I nodded, staring out the window at a still very lovely day.  To myself I said, "Okay.  Salmon Man, John Reid.  And Sneakers Guy, that's Roger.  Then John Deacon, and then Mr. Clogs, Brian."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his mouth twitch.  I turned with interest.

"What?" I asked.

A smile spread quickly over his face, which he promptly covered.  "Nothing."

"Sorry, I was just trying to keep the names straight."

"I know, just... Mr. Clogs?  Really?"

"What's wrong with it?"

He snorted.  "Nothing, it just... it just makes him sound constipated or something."

I gaped at him.  "You are such a child."  But I found myself start to snicker as well, as I thought of Brian in a very uncomfortable situation, and the look on his imagined face finally had me burst out laughing. 

That gleam of yesterday morning had returned to his eyes, the mask slowly melting, and he winked.  Even Rudy sighed in the front seat, clearly in relief. 

Under mental N.F.O.'s, I marked this: Very bad influence on me, but not too bad.