I don't get it.

In the one split second of lull, I thought this to myself, remembering the phone call I'd hung up on about half an hour ago.  Not the Relic call, but the one with which I left you hanging at the end of last chapter.  (I mention so many different phones in this tale, it's easy to get them all mixed up.  At least, it is for me.)

I reclined in the back of a minicab, my hands folded, my brows fixed in a confused little furrow.  Here I had been sitting ever since I traipsed out of Freddie's flat.  I would have liked to use this trip to sort my head out a bit, for my heart was still in a whirl, my love and emotions fighting valiantly against cold logic and facts.  However, I had made the mistake of engaging the cabbie, a sweet, older Indian man named Siraj, in conversation.

After I told him my destination, he had nodded and said, "How lucky, I took someone to that area yesterday.  No need for maps!"

Then as we drove away from Freddie's flat, I asked him a single question: "Oh?  Have you worked as a cab driver long?"

Five minutes later, I knew the names of his wife and his children, along with their respective ages; that they had immigrated to London from Bombay three months ago, and that he had been working as a cabbie for the last month, adding to his regular job, in order to make enough money to open up his own curry restaurant in Soho.  The man talked my ear off all the way there, barely pausing to take a breath.  And since I do try to be a good listener (to be one is essentially a prerequisite for a therapist, anyway), I focused on his words as closely as possible, trying to make out everything he said in his fairly thick Indian accent, and wound up fully distracted from my life story and forcibly enthralled by his.

But I still had the voice of another ringing in my head, aside of Siraj and Dr. C.  Of all the people I expected to hear on the other end of the telephone, I never thought Brian May might be one of them.

Yet when I answered the phone that morning, I was met with a low, unimposing "Uh, hello.  Please tell me who's on the line?"

"C'est moi," I said.

I could almost see him bite his tongue in the brief pause before he spoke again, "Freddie, are you coming in today?"

"Wrong Freddie, Mr. Clogs," I murmured in my normal accent.

"Oh, it's you.  Uh... Eva, yes?"

"Close.  Eve."  That's right.  To everyone except Rudy, John, Veronica, and of course, Freddie, I'm still Eve Dubroc.  So many names.

"Right, ahem.  Eve, do you happen to know whether or not Freddie is en route to meet us here at Wessex?"

"He just left a few minutes ago, he's on his way, I think," I replied. 

"Fantastic."

"Were you going to leave a message or something?"

"No, no, I just wanted to know if he would be here."

"Don't you worry.  Freddie's in the zone today.  He's ready to work, work, work."

"Mmm.  We'll see."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I know he's going to be distracted again.  It's inevitable."

"Awww.  What's distracting him?"

"No one but you."

"What?  But I'm not even there!"

"Not yet."

Brian then went on to ask me if I wouldn't mind dropping by Wessex in about an hour at the latest, as my services were required. 

"Services, huh?" I repeated.  "That doesn't sound very kosher."

"Oh, no, no, I mean, remember that jazz song of Freddie's?  The one he dragged you in to sing on?"

"My Melancholy Blues?"  I blinked.  "What about it?"

"We're rerecording it, but a slower version- so would you come in, too, do the harmonies he said you two worked on?  That is, if your laryngitis is gone."

"Are you saying," I giggled, "you guys want me up there to record again?"

"That's basically what I said," Brian confirmed patiently.  "It's a simple song, it probably won't take but an hour or two.  Have you that much time to spare?"

Happy birthday to me! I thought to myself in excitement.  "I- I won't be a hindrance, will I?"

"Don't be silly," Brian dismissed.  "Do hurry, though, we've other things to tackle as the day progresses, so-"

"Oh, I'm already there," I assured him.  "Just give me thirty minutes, I won't be that far behind Fre- also, was this your idea, Brian, or-?"

"Kind of a unanimous decision, actually," he replied, and added with a chuckle, "One of the few."

"I'm on my way," I said.

"Right, we'll expect you in forty minutes or so?"

"Sounds good.  Anything I should bring?  Food?  Alcohol?"

Brian chuckled.  "No, I think we're set.  See you then, Eva- er, I mean, Eve."

Click.

Funny, how a week ago, I would have turned Brian down, saying I had too many other things to accomplish that morning, or some other transparent crap along those lines, in the sole interest of saving the course of history.  But if C and K were to be believed, even though my fingernails had snagged and ripped at Time's tapestry countless times, every thread still managed to stay in place, the pattern unchanged. 

And that was what I didn't get.  Why isn't anything different on their end?  I asked myself as I rode.  Or were they lying to me?  C could have been lying.  Or maybe he wasn't.  I don't know.  God, I hate not knowing things for sure.  I can't even make it a quarter of the way through a mystery novel without looking at the last page.  Ignorance may be bliss, but knowledge is power!

Ah, we accursed meddlers of academia.  Will we ever learn to leave "well enough" alone?

Honestly, though, I came mostly because it meant I would be close to my prince.  No matter what C said about Freddie, or the level of truth to it, I loved him more and more by the minute, and his nearness gave me life.

For all his chattiness, Siraj made great time; as he was telling me some amusing little story about something his youngest son did last week, we pulled up to the studio.  I tried to tactfully get him to stop jabbering on by handing him the money and saying 'Thank you, sir," but he couldn't take a hint.

"...And so my wife, she is being so upset with me," he continued as I opened the cab door.  "But I'm going to buy her a nice bit of jewelry as soon as I get off work today, she loves jade-"

"Jade, huh?" I nodded, subtly edging away.  "You'll work it all out.  I have complete confidence in you."

I managed to squeeze in a quick farewell and a "Thank you for the ride," then trotted over to the studio. 

When I walked into Wessex, though, I was struck by how quiet it was.  No wail of Brian's guitar, or raucous crunch of Steve Jones's; no clicks of tapes rewinding through the carelessly ajar door; no shrill rows between band members, or tantrums by Sid or Freddie. Even the front desk was void of any hostile receptionists.  It was as silent as a church- not a stretch, since that's what Wessex used to be. 

I recalled that Queen, like many bands, would record at several different studios when working on a single album.  Had I arrived at the wrong studio?  Hopefully I hadn't made so foolish a blunder.  Brian said Wessex, didn't he?  Yes.  But this is very odd.  It shouldn't be this quiet.

That's when I heard a whistle come from their darkened studio.  Cautiously I stepped forward, nudged through the ajar door.

I turned on the lights in the control room, which was empty.  I felt my hair stand up on the back of my neck.  "Hello?" I called.

My eyes sweeping the console's overwhelming mishmash of switches and knobs, I noticed a note by the intercom button which read in handwriting I couldn't identify, "Press Me."

On the whole, I do as I am told.  So I pushed the button.

Almost instantaneously, through the speaker I heard drumsticks clapping together and Roger's rough voice screaming "ONE TWO THREE!"

All of a sudden the pitch dark studio on the other side of the window burst into light and sound.  The overhead lamps flooded the room, and there were the fellas.  The four fellas, from a band called Queen, crashing into a song that convinced me Freddie would not ever, ever take no for an answer:

"They say it's your birth-day!" Freddie and Roger cried, followed by the Red Special's blues riff.  "It's my birthday too, yeah!" 

"Oh, my God," I laughed, covering my mouth and bending over.  The studio boomed with the Beatles song, Roger adding his own trademark fills during Ringo's drum break.  When I finally stood back up, my face red as a lobster, I looked at Freddie, who sat energized and happy, banging away at the piano.  He widened his eyes and poked his tongue out at me, looking so silly I could only laugh harder.  Roger, too, was making weird faces, but he always made weird faces when he was drumming.  So I laughed at him as well. 

I ran into the open studio, letting the music swallow me whole.  John looked up, his eyes disappearing as they squinted tightly above the wideness of his smile, his head bobbing up and down as he bounced in place to the beat.  Even Brian was hamming it up with an impromptu solo, and did the unthinkable when he looked my direction: he nodded and winked.  And perhaps the most wonderful part of all, Paul Prenter was absent.

Roger ended the song with a violent cymbal crash, and I cheered like a maniac, clapping wildly.  In the back of my mind, I took a snapshot, made a memory. I wanted to always remember this scene, that song, and these feelings. So many of these moments had been carved into my heart, never to be erased, but there still remained room for countless more. I don't want this ride to end. It feels like I only just got on.

"Happy birthday, Mrs. Dubroc-Zuckerberg," Roger whistled through a clever little grin.

Without hesitation, I hugged John, who stood nearest me.  I had so much I wanted to say to John, but now was not the time.  Hopefully I would get another chance later today.  Then I put my arms around Brian's neck and got a faceful of wild brown curls, before marching up to Roger's nest and, yes, giving the loose, but cute, blond drummer a tight embrace. 

"Thank you, thank you," I sighed, ignoring Roger's baffled expression.  "Oh, I love you guys!"

"Don't thank us," Brian said modestly, "thank him."  He pointed at Freddie, who rose from the piano behind me.

I pulled away from Roger and turned.  I had saved the very best for last.  Tossing caution to the wind, I threw myself into- as odd as this felt to say, it was true- the arms of my lover.  (For that's what he was; not so much as a boyfriend had entered my life before, but I now had a lover in Freddie.) He held me close, and I buried my face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of him.

"Surprise," Freddie murmured.

"Thank you, my sweet prince," I replied.  "But- didn't I tell you it's not my-"

"Darling," he announced loudly, drawing away to look authoritatively into my eyes, "I'm sorry to say that, to keep things accurate, from now on, you are just going to have to resign yourself to sharing a birthday week with Brian."

"Well, I'm excited now," Brian said dryly.  "When the nineteenth comes around, what mischief awaits me when I come in to work, if this is the standard operating procedure!"

"I'll have this one jump out of a cake," Freddie offered, pointing at me, "maybe perform a lap dance if she feels up to it, or a strip routine."

"You certainly know how to make me feel like a lady," I sighed.  "Besides, what makes you think I'd be wearing any clothes while inside the cake?"

"True, true," Freddie hummed.  "I suppose that means a lap dance then.  Surely Chrissie will understand."

"Right," Brian pulled us back on track. "I don't want to keep you, love, and we are sort of pressed for time."

So after another five minutes or so, when the proper tapes were fitted upon the spools, Freddie, John, and Roger proceeded to record the backing track of "My Melancholy Blues."  But something was different this time around.  The tempo had slowed down considerably, much closer to the album cut I remembered so well.  Even more curious, Brian perched in the console room with Ratty, John Harris, a couple of other nameless sound wizards, and me, headphones on as he listened to the others play.  No guitar part anymore, thank God, I thought to myself.  And after that fuss he made about "Melancholy Blues" not being rock enough! 

However, the song still contained two verses and three repetitions of the chorus, as opposed to the shorter News of the World version, which could claim only one verse.  They did record the shorter version in one of the earlier takes, though, just in case. 

Finally, the boys considered a take worthy to record vocals over.  Freddie waved to me, and I strolled into the recording area, chin lifted to denote my would-be confidence.  By this point we had all the words memorized, so we didn't need any lyrics sheet.

"Do you need to warm up?" Freddie asked.

"I warmed up this morning," I said.  I had my voice back completely now; the last few days had rubbed away at every last bit of hoarseness, and erased the bruise on Freddie's mouth so that you could only see anything like a discoloration if you were really looking for it.

"Great.  Let's do it."

I fitted my earphones onto my head like Freddie had done, and rubbed my hands together.  "Yes, let's."

The instrumental track started playing through the headphones.  We were recording.  Easy does it.  It's just a little change of history.  This definitely wouldn't be the first time. 

Freddie began to sing, sending chills through my body, "Another party's over..."

I swallowed.  Here goes.

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

"So what would you like as a birthday present?"

"I told you, you're all I-"

"That's a lovely idea, Julia, but I can't put me in a box and wrap myself up as nicely as some others can."

I had just bid farewell to the boys, my job there done after a grueling full hour.  I had sung the song all the way through twenty times in a row, and I hoped I never had to hear "Melancholy Blues" again as long as I lived.  But the take that satisfied them did indeed sound brilliant.  I knew Brian still saw me as Yoko on a smaller scale, so I skedaddled as soon as I could.  I wanted to be nothing like John Lennon's puppet master. (Can you tell I don't like Yoko Ono?)

"I don't need stuff to open," I protested.

"My dear, you are such a trick.  Then is there something you'd like to do?  A nice dinner at the- Ritz, perhaps?  Ever been there?  It's lovely.  We could do that.  Maybe go clubbing- or not, your first experience likely wasn't the best-"

"I don't even remember what happened."

"It's all right.  I do."  Freddie winked. 

"Should I be concerned?"

"Not at all."  Freddie went on nonchalantly, "You want to get married again?"

I laughed.  "Let's get the annulment of the last one finalized first, okay?"

"That's fair."

"Anyway, I thought the song was a gift."

"No.  That was just the, um, preliminary fanfare to what awaits us this evening."

"What does await us this evening?"

"Well, I would tell you," he shrugged, "but the whole sort of element of surprise would be spoiled."

"Aw, come on.  Can't I just this once be properly emotionally prepared for what's coming?"

"Just be ready for anything.  That's the best way."  Freddie took my hands.

"What am I going to do with you?" I whispered softly. 

"Love me."

"I do.  Hey, Freddie, look, it's Sid Vicious!" I exclaimed, pointing behind him.

"Yes, of course it is," he murmured sarcastically.

"'Ello, Eddie Platinum."

Freddie whirled, and saw a relatively sobered, "unwashed scamp" pass by. Without missing a beat, Freddie nodded to him and greeted him in a pretentious voice, "Good day, Mr. Ferocious."

"Don't choke on the diamonds in y' tea," Sid called.

And my prince nimbly fit this in, "And cut back on the rocks for breakfast every morning, dear, it's bad for the liver."

Sid flipped us the bird, but there was half a smile creeping up one side of his mouth before he disappeared into the studio.

"Cultured fellow, isn't he?" Freddie simpered.

"Rocks," I whispered. "Don't you mean, syringes?"

"That was my first thought, but I'm not in the mood to feud today."

I shook my head. "He's my age, Freddie," I realized. "He's twenty or something, right?"

"Around there, I think."

"That poor kid," I whispered with a sigh. "He didn't do it."

"Do what?"

Murder Nancy Spungen, of course, I said to myself, but outwardly, I shrugged.  "Nothing."

"Julia," Freddie huffed, "if we're going to make this work, you're going to have to be a little more open with me about... things."

"I will, later," I agreed.  "But I think I'd better be off right now."

"May I have an Eskimo kiss first?"

"One," I whispered, and we rubbed noses.

"That's nice," Freddie murmured, then put both hands on my face and kissed my lips.

Surprised, I pulled back.  "What was that?"

"Eskimo sex."

"You," I muttered while trying to control my giggles- and failing miserably.

"Well, you know what they say, one thing does lead to another..." He backed me up against the wall and kissed me again.  But this time, I did feel a little apprehensive.  I had no problem with Freddie getting a little friendly with me, but why was he being so public with his affection now? It was so unlike him. Perhaps that kiss in front of all his friends did it, I speculated. The secret is out, so let the whole world see.

But I couldn't forget that it didn't end with the two of us. Because, as inconvenient as it was for me especially, there was Joe to think of, and Minsy, and Mary. Freddie and I hadn't even come close to discussing these and others- and how our relationship would end up in connection with them. Who's to say he even intends to discuss it, I said to myself doubtfully. The man compartmentalized everything and everyone; why should I be any different? Is there a nice little box with my name on it, waiting to hold my heart?

Or maybe not. C's words again were ringing in my head. Perhaps we wouldn't even get as far as a box, if I was that much a flash in the pan...

"All right," I said, gently pushing him away.  "I had better be going.  I don't want to, but I ought to."

"I'll see you tonight?" Freddie asked.

"Of course," I smiled.  "I'll at least be home by seven, just waiting on you."

"I may be rather late," he warned me.  "But, uh, seven, you say?"

"Seven, seven-thirty."

"I'll call on the hour, make sure you're still there."

I smiled into his eyes.  Despite my doubts, I just wanted to stand here and look at him for hours.  Such a beautiful man.Freddie never ceases to amaze. He's a miracle, I love him, I still can't fully wrap my head around him but I love him so much. My God, what does this crazy fireball see in me?

Freddie studied my expression.  "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking about how much I adore you," I whispered.  "And I can't understand why you give me even a passing glance."

Rolling his eyes, he kissed me a third time, holding on a little longer than before.  Not too intense of a kiss, but intense enough to get the heart pounding.

Someone cleared their throat behind us.  We opened our eyes, turned to see Roger standing there, hands behind his back, a crooked little smile on his face.

"Eve, uh," he said, "can I- talk to you alone for a minute?"

Uh-oh. 

Freddie released me and gave me a subtle little wink.  "I will see you this evening- and I'll call even before that.  Okay?"

"Okay," I smiled.  "Happy songwriting!"

Before he walked back into the control room, though, Freddie mouthed the words I love you, which I returned.  Now I was alone with Roger.

"I saw the license," Roger murmured softly, drawing me aside.

"Mm-hm," I nodded, feeling wary of his motives.  "So do you believe I'm married now?"

He broke into a smile.  "No, actually."

"What?"  I pretended to be indignant.  "But there's the proof!"

Roger shook his head.  "Rubbish.  It might have worked, you know, if not for one thing."

"What's that?"

"The license date," he chuckled.  "It said, July 9, 1977.  You can't tell me you've been married for only two days."

I opened my mouth, then closed it, shaking my head.  "Okay, you got us," I conceded.  "I'm not married- officially, that is."  That trip to Vegas- was it all for naught?

"It's all right," Roger assured me.  "Look, Eve.  If Freddie's going to go to all that trouble to defend you, I- he's no match for me, where you're concerned."

"So," I said slowly, "you're calling off the bet?"

Roger blinked.  "What bet?"

"Oh, please.  Freddie told me everything."

"Are you upset?"

"Used to be.  Not so much anymore.  I've mellowed with age."

The blond laughed his funny little "heh heh heh" chortle again.  "Then I suppose, yes, it's off, on the grounds of, Freddie's completely mad, or he must think you're really quite special.  But my guess is, it's probably both."

I grinned.  "You know something, Sneakers?" I asked.  "You're alright."  You're like a mischievous little brother, I added to myself; somehow it didn't seem appropriate to tell him that directly.

"Thanks, Okoy.  You're not so bad yourself."

I gave him another goodbye hug.  "Say hello to Dom for me."

"Will do.  Come around again sometime, you're fun."  With his pretty grin and a small wave, Roger ran back to the control room, shouting something about "Sheer Heart Attack."

As for me, I walked out of Wessex after calling a cab, making a few wild plans of my own.  It sounded to me like Freddie had yet another little surprise in store.  That did not mean I couldn't put together one of my own.

This is technically my birthday, I thought to myself.  So I can do as I please.  And, I please to buy Freddie a little gift.  He had been such a giver (and a taker, too, granted, but much more of a giver), I wanted to give him something to open as well.  The only problem was, what was there I could give him that would really mean something?  He had everything.

I had all day to work it out- at least until seven.  A gift for Freddie.  This'll be fun. Okay, Brain, start racking.