3 May, 1978

Julia

There wasn't much drink left in my glass. A few sorry-looking, melted cubes sat there at the bottom, swirling around and around in the pinkish dregs when I absently moved my hand back and forth. Already I had slammed three tall glasses of the stuff, but I was far from ready to stop. 

"One more, please," I called to the bartender when he passed me.

With a slight, irritated sigh, he nodded, quickly poured me up another sinful amount of straight cranberry juice, and slid it my way before returning to his other, more serious patrons.

Since the day I came back from Brussels two weeks before, I had spent every night here at this bar down in old Soho -and before you ask, no, I had neither been propositioned by any transvestites, nor had I found out if the champagne really did taste like cherry cola.  As much as I still wanted to get absolutely trashed and forget about everything even for just one bleary minute, I didn't drink anything but what I was drinking now.  Whatever my anger, whatever my grief, I was way too pregnant to behave that foolishly.

"Sure would have been nice if you'd waited, though," I murmured with a sniff.  "You could have at least waited to cheat on me till after the baby was born.  That way, I could get wasted and go out of my mind and commit a crime of passion, and the only person it would directly affect would be me- and you too, technically, since I would have put a bullet between your eyes- but at least this little guy would get a chance to have a new, better home.

"But no, you're impatient, and you're horny, and you don't care, so- you did it at the one time, the one f---ing time when I can do absolutely nothing about it," I exclaimed, my voice thickening all over again.  "Thanks a million, darling.  You're so considerate."

My throat constricted on that last sentence, my face heating up.  Oh, God, not another crying jag, I cry every single time I come here, please, no tears tonight.  Please.

No sooner had I finished thinking this when the aforementioned "little guy" kicked my side.  On instinct I looked down to see the faint outline of a tiny foot as he pulled his leg back again.  I couldn't help but smile sadly, grazing my fingers against the spot.

From the moment I first felt him move inside me, the baby had been extremely active, even restless.  It was as though he couldn't wait to come out and see the bright world outside of his dark, warm home.  When I told the doctor, he suggested I play him some calm, classical music to help settle him down, but it had the opposite effect.  All I would have to do is put on a record, and that pop of the needle as it hit the groove would set him to rock and roll even to the most restrictive Mozart concertos. 

As much as I loved my baby's energy, occasionally it interfered with my sleep, kept me up all night while he moved to a rhythm only he could detect.  In those moments, there was only one thing that seemed to ease his rowdy little soul.  I had lost count how many nights during and after the American tour that I would lie awake for hours, waiting for the baby to cool off, till finally I couldn't take it anymore, and I reached over and tapped the shoulder of my sleeping husband.

And every single time, he would stir a little, yawn, and whisper something like, "Mmm... is he dancing again?"

"Mm-hm," I would sigh.  "Make him stop, would you?  Please?"

"Right," he would mumble, then proceed to do the same thing every time: scoot a little closer to the great big watermelon that was my belly, poke it a couple of times, say, "Cut it out," and pretend to go back to sleep.  Then, while I laughed, he would come back again, nestle his lips against one side of my stomach and lay his hand gently upon the other, and very softly, sing to his unborn offspring.  Sometimes he would merely hum, sometimes he would vocalize, sometimes he would sing full-blown lyrics, depending on how tired he himself felt- but no matter what, the baby always grew still, listening intently to the sound of his father's gentle voice while I stroked his dark hair, asking myself if it was even legal to love someone as much as I loved him.

But two weeks ago, that "happily ever after" facade had shattered, and I knew now what a fool I was, and had been ever since July of last year when I chose to stay on with him.  I should have known it would never last.  K, C, and Mary herself had warned me as much.  At the time I had only thought they were being cruel when they said he would tire of me, when they asked me what I would do "when the love runs out." I now realized, albeit too late, they were only being realistic, and that I, so caught up in my rose-colored perspective, had been too afraid to face the truth, a truth I was now living every day.

My husband was bored with marriage, bored with the domestic, bored with me.  Very well.  I would accommodate him.  Far be it from me to keep him living a life with which he had already clearly grown so disinterested. 

The baby kicked once again, this time a bit harder.  "I know, honey, I know you want out," I whispered.  "So do I, to be honest.  As for you, though, it's only another week or two more.  It's going to take a lot longer for me- for us.  But we'll do it.  We'll do it together."

"Hm?" a young man who had just sat down at the bar beside me asked.

I looked up, embarrassed.  "Uh- nothing, um, just talking to myself."

"Ah," he nodded with a smile.  "Sorry, thought you were speaking to me." 

The man spoke with an interesting accent; it sounded German, but I wanted to be sure.  "Where are you from, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I come from Munich."

"I thought so.  I just wondered."

"My accent, it gives me away all the time," he chuckled, his smile broadening.  "Yours isn't exactly English, either.  Where do you come from?"

"America."

"Which part?"

"Texas."

"Aha, land of the cowboys," he joked. 

"Yup, that's the one," I nodded, fighting back a remark about how old that connection was getting.  "What brings you here?"

"University.  I graduate in a few weeks' time."

"You came all the way to England for school?"

"Well, I had always wanted to study abroad, and Oxford offered me a full scholarship, so it seemed like the best opportunity."

I was impressed in spite of myself.  "That's great!  What are you studying?"

"Physics."

"That sounds fun," I lied.

"Oh, it is- even if most people are not enthusiastic about it themselves."  He laughed pleasantly, his small, hooded blue eyes disappearing into the folds of his cheeks.  "What brings you here?"

I blinked.  "To England, or to this pub?"

"Either."

I answered the questions with a single, honest answer: "My husband."

"Is he here?" The German looked around the hazy room.

"Oh, no, he's away on business- as a matter of fact, he's in Munich himself tonight."  I knew the tour itinerary by heart after spending so many days staring at it, counting how many stops were left before Queen returned to the UK, so that even though I had not spoken to him once over the last two weeks, I still knew exactly where he would be.

"Really?  What sort of business does he conduct?"

"Oh, all kinds," I murmured dryly.  "You name it, he'll do it."

"I don't understand."

"That's okay, neither do I."

The poor fellow must have seen something in my face change, for his brows knit.  "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I-" Then I cut myself off, for it was here that some idiot had waltzed over to the jukebox, popped in a coin, and selected probably the one song that I could not bear to hear at this point in time.  Granted, it was not a Queen song, thankfully; to hear the voice of my husband now would have sent my sanity sailing out the window. 

No, the moron had chosen something much worse.

The minute I heard that first twang of the guitar, my heart split right down the middle.  "Oh, no," I whispered aloud, "Oh, God, please, no.  No."

But still the music played, setting row upon row of goosebumps to arise all across my arms and the back of my neck, my insides writhing so much in this moment that I didn't even notice the baby's dancing. 

And then came the first verse: "If I could make a wish/ I think I'd pass/ Can't think of anything I'd need..."

My eyes squeezed shut, hands covering my mouth as I leaned forward against the bar.  Of all the damn songs on the damn jukebox in this damn Soho pub, that fool picked "The Air That I Breathe" by the Hollies. 

I couldn't stand it anymore.  I wept.  Right there in front of my concerned German friend, I absolutely started bawling. 

"Oh, no," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.  "Oh, dear, what's the matter?"

"This song," I sobbed incoherently.  "I hate this f---ing song, I hate this f---ing place, and I hate that g--d--- motherf---ing son of a bitch, I hate him, I hate him, I hope he falls and busts his pretty skull wide open, oh God, I hate him-"

"Easy now, fraulein, easy," the German whispered.  Digging into his pocket, he put some cash on the bar and practically lifted my mad, pregnant self off of the barstool, leading me toward the door.  "Come on, let's go."

Just barely I managed to gasp out an apology, "Sir, I'm okay, d-don't worry about me, I'm just- hormonal-"

"Fraulein, those are not pregnancy tears," he said authoritatively.  "You are clearly in distress, and I want you to tell me what's going on."

"What do you care, you don't even know my name-"

"What is it, then?"

"I'm- I'm Eve Dubroc," I sniffed, somehow clear in enough in the head to not give him my married name.  "What's yours?"

He smiled gently, brightening the masculine face once again as he put out his hand for a shake.  "Michael Preus, at your service.  Come along now, my car's over there, I know a place not far away where we can speak in private."