"Slow it down."

John's voice crackles through the speaker on the wall in the recording studio. He and Freddie are sitting in the control room, tearing through a package of Jaffa cakes.

"Nope, this is just right." Twirling a drumstick impatiently, I lean my head back in frustration. The songs we've written for the new album are strong, but it's been a bitch to record them under the intense scrutiny of the record label.

"Brian's gonna say it's too fast."

"Well, he's not here, is he?" I call out towards the intercom. "The song is creeping. I couldn't go slower if I tried. It's not meant to be a fucking ballad, right?"

"It's not meant to be a ballad," Freddie agrees, his voice booming over the intercom.

"So then let me make the bloody click track so we can get on with it. It's as if you lot want to be here forever."

I reach one arm over my head to stretch my weary back muscles before counting off. Bah-dum-dum Bah-dum-dum Bah-bah-pow! I hit the tom-tom with a flourish, which isn't strictly necessary for this sort of thing, but it's oddly satisfying nonetheless.

At the end of the track, I look over to the control room questioningly. Freddie nods and motions me in.

"You ate all the biscuits!?" is the first thing out of my mouth when I enter the cramped room.

"It's called comfort eating," John retorts.

We're beyond stressed. We've been holed up at Rockfield for the past three weeks, under punishing pressure from Trident to finish the album. The whole ordeal has been exhausting and, while I wouldn't freely admit it, I'm not too keen on being away from Skylar just when we got to a good place.

"Come listen," Freddie replies, holding out a pair of headphones. "I think we got it."

I'm putting on the headphones when our producer strolls in. "Special delivery, boys," Roy announces, holding up the latest issue of Sounds. "Hot off the press... well... it was hot off the press a few days ago, but--"

"--but we're miles away from civilization," I finish the sentence for him as he passes the magazine to Freddie, who immediately starts flipping through it.

We'd done a series of interviews before leaving London. I usually don't mind doing them, but this one had been particularly nerve-wracking. It hadn't been at all evident if the interviewer was friend or foe. She had alternated between flirting with me and asking pointed questions, a cunning scheme that had resulted in me being on edge the entire time.

"Godammit, they used the photo," Freddie complains, holding up the magazine so that we can see him posing against a metal gate, daffodil in hand and a rather smug half-smile on his face.

"What a lovely flower, Fred," Roy comments with a grin. Freddie rolls his eyes and points his long finger angrily at the facsimile of his face.

"She promised she wouldn't use it, the crafty bitch."

"Well, there's your problem," I point out. "You should have insisted that she use this one. There's no way in hell she would have used it then."

Freddie grumbles under his breath before turning his attention back to the interview. Deaks and I crowd around him, peering down at the tiny text. Of course, I'm too blind to read it from here, so I walk over to the mixing desk to wait for my turn.

After a minute of skimming, John runs his hand through his hair and makes a scoffing sound. "Oh, for fuck sake, Freddie."

"What's it say?" I look up with interest.

"He said that being the supporting act to Mott was one of the most 'traumatic experiences' in his life. That's a bit hyperbolic, Fred, don't you think?"

Freddie harrumphs while continuing to read, his eyes darting back and forth as he skims the interview.

"She calls you a 'louche rock-n-roller,' Rog," Freddie notes without looking up. "Probably because you wore that jacket."

"You gave me that jacket!"

"I hardly gave it to you, I simply said that I didn't want--"

"What does 'louche' mean?" Roy joins the conversation from across the room where he's fiddling with the bass levels on the first cut of 'Misfire.'

"Of questionable morality," Freddie responds distractedly, his eyes still glued to the article. Suddenly he sits up straight and grips the magazine more tightly.

"Rog..."

"What is it?"

"Have you, uh, talked to Skylar lately?"

Now that he mentions it, I haven't. Not in a bad way... I think? As a general rule, we try to chat every day, but the past few times I've phoned, she hadn't picked up... but that's normal, she's busy at work, and we're cranking out the album, and--

Fred is still staring at me with a funny look on his face, his questioning hanging in the air.

"Not for a few days, why?"

"Does she read Sounds?"

I give him a blank, confused look as he silently slides the magazine to the other side of the table. I lean forward to grab it, my hand covering part of the grainy black-and-white photo of me. God, why had I worn that stupid jacket?

Folding the magazine in half, I quickly skim the article. I wasn't the most articulate I'd ever sounded, but it was alright. A little rambling; I'm not sure so much space needed to be dedicated to my dislike of the term "hype." So what is Freddie worried about....?

It's then that I see it.

My eyes scan a standard question and, for anyone who doesn't know me or my situation, an innocent answer.

Wait, what? What the fucking fuck?

I blink and re-read the exchange, hoping that my brain was playing tricks on me. It wasn't.

Fuck. FUCK.

Looking up, I see Deaky, Freddie, and Roy staring at me. The AP walks in holding a wobbly tray of coffee cups, his eyes swiveling between the four of us as if to discern what the hell is going on.

"But I didn't--" My voice sounds strangled even to my own ears.

There's been a mistake. A huge fucking mistake.

I look back down at the interview, reading and re-reading it for the third and forth time.

"No, no, no, no..." I mutter under my breath as I ball up the magazine and throw it against the mixing desk. "No! I didn't fucking say that... right?"

The boys sit motionless as I stand up too quickly, my right foot getting caught under the wheel of the chair. My legs in a tangle, I crash into the soundboard and boomerang into the side of the chair. Before I know it, I'm flat on my face staring up at the black-and-white speckled ceiling of the control room.

Swearing creatively, I manage to make it out the door and into the bucolic field separating the recording studio from the main residence. Once inside, I take the stairs two at a time up to the second floor, where I breathlessly dial Skylar's number.

C'mon, Sky, pick up.

Just as I'm about to give up, I hear a whoosh as the receiver on the other end is picked up.

"Hello?"

"Jenny, hey, it's Roger, uh, Taylor. Listen, is Skylar there?"

Jenny gives a little laugh that manages to sound somehow condescending. "Uh, no, she's not--"

"Will you tell her I rang? Ask her to phone me back at the studio... any time of night, it's okay. I just need to--"

"How're the Welsh girls treating you, Roger? You enjoying the single life?"

My heart sinks at Jenny's words.

Fuck.

"Jenny--"

"I'm sure she'll phone you if she wants to talk."

Before I can reply, the line goes dead. Throwing the receiver at the wall, I hightail it back to the recording studio. Freddie and Roy are huddled up in the corner talking about overdubs while Deaky re-tunes his bass.

They all look up as I fly into the room, racing wordlessly to pick up the crumpled magazine. Smoothing out the creases, I, for the fifth time in ten minutes, re-read the offending words.

"John, can I borrow your car?" I ask, my eyes still glued to the words written on the page.

"Asks the man who, just yesterday, said that he'd neeeeeever be caught dead in a Mini Coop--" John starts to say, stopping abruptly when I look up at him with anxious eyes. "Uh, yeah, sure, Rog... Just be careful with it, okay?"

"See if Brian wants to drive back with you, will you? He said he might feel up to coming soon." Freddie finally speaks, a hand on his hip. He doesn't look surprised in the least that I'm dashing off to London, and, to be honest, I'm a bit shocked that no one is yelling at me for abandoning the album.

"I'll be back tomorrow night," I say, catching John's keys in mid-air.

"Freddie, do not fucking dare slow down that track, or I'll--"

"Christ, Rog, go. We'll survive without you for 24 hours."