February 1975

"You hang up."

"No, you hang up," Roger huffs into the phone.

I smile into the receiver, the first real smile in weeks. Peeking down at my watch, I see that my lunch break ended five minutes earlier and, right about now, someone is realizing that I'm not where I'm supposed to be.

"I actually have to hang up because I've gotta go earn my keep," I say as I inelegantly shovel the rest of the turkey curry sandwich into my mouth.

"But we were bantering!" Roger protests. "And I'm in--" I hear a shuffling of papers in the background. "--Madison, Wisconsin, and don't know when I can ring again."

In response, I make a series of sounds that are one-third loud chewing and two-thirds vowels squished together.

"Elephant juice? Did you just say 'elephant juice'?"

"I love you," I say as soon as I've swallowed the final bite, enunciating each word.

"Oh," Roger replies. "I love you too, silly."

"Call me from Kalamazoo?"

"That can't be a real place... is that a real place?"

"Bye, Rog. Call me when you can."

"You still have to hang up first," he says stubbornly. "I refuse."

I roll my eyes playfully and am about to do just that when I hear voices in the background. A man's voice, probably Fred or Brian, or their new PA. And then, in a moment that wipes the smile off my face, a woman's voice saying Roger's name in a manner that can only be described as coquettish.

And then, just like that, the line goes dead.

I sit in the telephone booth for a moment, the receiver sitting in my hand. My stomach suddenly feels off, and I feel unexpectedly jittery. It's as if my body is reacting to something that my mind hasn't yet processed.

And then I do what I do best: Compartmentalize. 

Wiping the crumbs off my lap, I slowly stand up and replace the receiver on the hook. I close my eyes, take a deep breath--1, 2, 3, 4--and then walk back into the pediatric unit. The rest of the afternoon is a blur: medically-speaking, it's a shitshow. Too many cases, not enough staff, we're even running low on surgical masks.

At half six, I finally leave the hospital. The bitterly cold air hits my face. Fucking hell, it's begun to snow. A harsh wind swirls, creating a twister effect with the snowflakes, making it difficult to see where I'm going.

As I very gingerly make my way down the steep staircase towards the sidewalk, I hear my name. Squinting through the snowflakes, I struggle to see much of anything, especially the person attempting to get my attention. 

Finally, after a few seconds of searching, I see Mary Austin standing halfway down the staircase, slumped against the railing. She shifts uncomfortably and gives me a small wave.

"Mary!" I say, surprised. "What're you doing in this corner of the world?"

"Oh, you know," she replies with a little laugh. "I just popped out to the shops..." she trails off, perhaps realizing that there are no shops in the vicinity that are even remotely worth popping into. I blink, wondering why Mary is standing in the freezing cold waiting for me.

"Well, it's good to see you," I finally reply, walking over to stand next to her. "You must be freezing. Should we grab a cup of tea across the way?"

She nods gratefully, and we walk companionably across the wet street into the warmth of the tearoom where Roger had waited for me so long ago.

"I talked to Roger today," I say as we wait for the waitress to bring us our tea. Mary's hair has somehow survived the weather intact, the blonde waves falling gently over her shoulders. As always, she's dressed fashionably and looks cooly in control. I, on the other hand, resemble a drowned rat.

"Does Roger ring often?"

"As often as he can," I reply. "Usually in the middle of the night just as I've fallen asleep. You know how it is with the time zones."

The waitress brings over two steaming cups, both of which will be too hot to drink for quite some time. I inwardly curse, wishing I'd picked a less time-consuming activity. Not that I mind spending time with Mary, even though it's not often just the two of us. She's lovely. But all I want right now is to go home so I can obsess over what happened at the end of the conversation with Roger.

"Freddie used to call more often," Mary says and pauses as if she wants to go on. When she doesn't, I fill the silence.

"Roger too," I agree. "This tour seems different. Rog says that they're recognized everywhere they go, people taking photos of them, asking for autographs. I can't imagine."

"And a lot more parties," Mary adds, and I suddenly realize that it's never occurred to me that Mary, Chrissie, and Veronica likely all have the same worries that I do.

I hum in agreement, and we silently take the first, hesitant sip of tea as we determine whether our tongues will be scorched.

"Has he--" Mary starts to say, trailing off. Then, taking a deep breath, she forges on.

"Has Roger said anything?"

I pause, suddenly realizing why Mary had pretended like she hadn't been standing in a snowstorm waiting for me.

"About what?" I ask, trying to sound innocent. Although, I am actually innocent because Roger hasn't said a word to me about Freddie. We dance around the issue, both of us knowing that the other knows something.

Mary doesn't reply. What could she say? "Skylar, I know we aren't best mates, but do you know if my fiance is shagging someone else? Does everyone know but me? Also, is it possible that it's a man that he's shacking up with behind my back?"

"Hey," I say, reaching my hand across the table to lay it on top of hers. "I worry too. All the time, if I'm honest. I didn't used to, but now... now everything seems different."

Mary nods and squeezes my hand just before I slowly pull it away to pick up the mug.

"Rog would never do that," she says emphatically. I give her a pointed look, knowing that she was around long before I came into the picture, which means that she's seen it all.

"Okay, yeah, he has a history," she concedes. "A long history. I won't deny that. But-- but I've never seen him like this, Skylar. You don't need to worry."

"A lot can change on tour," I reply, my eyes glancing up to the ceiling as I shake my head. "Their whole lives are just... different... now. But we're all here, still the same."

I think back to last month when Roger surprised me outside the hospital, grinning like a Cheshire cat in his new Aston Martin. Since I'd already made plans with friends from work, I invited him to join us at the pub nearby. He grumbled that there was nowhere safe to park his car and that it would be "distracting" with everyone coming up to him, but he finally came along. Ten minutes after we arrived, he realized that no one was agog that they were in the presence of Roger Taylor, the drummer of Queen. He spent the rest of the time grumpy and annoyed as if he'd been disappointed to discover that, in some corners of London, he was still a mere mortal.

Across from me, Mary clears her throat and looks like she wants to say something big. But, suddenly, I can't. I cannot sit here and listen to her encourage me about Roger when I know that I can't in good faith reassure her about Freddie.

She's about to speak when I feel an overwhelming wave of fatigue surge through my body. It's all I can do not to lay my head on the table.

"I'm so sorry," I mumble, rummaging through my handbag for money. "I have to go home. I just realized that I've been at the hospital for 13 hours and all I've eaten today is a sandwich."

I take several coins from my wallet--enough for my tea and for hers--and lay them on the table.

"I'd love to do this again," I say to her. "Let's make plans to get dinner or a drink sometime soon, maybe even with the other girls?"

Mary looks at me, a brief flash of disappointment in her eyes. Truly, I don't know what she expected me to tell her tonight, but it saddens me that I can't fulfill her wishes, and I make a mental note to talk to Freddie as soon as the boys are home. It'll be a hugely uncomfortable conversation but, clearly, this can't go on. 

"I'd like that," she says, pushing the coins back to me. "This one's on me."

I leave Mary to finish her tea and walk back out into the cold night, the snow even worse now. There are no taxis to be found, so I'm left with a forty-minute, two-transfer Tube ride back home.

The wind blows the front door shut behind me, and I slump against the wall, worn out by the day's various crises. After a minute of sitting in silence, I realize that it's inexplicably frigid in the flat, to the point that I can see my goddamn breath in the air.

"Fuck me," I say out loud as I force myself to stand and walk over to the radiator. The apartment is still filled with moving boxes, which I haven't had the energy to deal with. And Roger has been zero help since he's only lived in the flat for a handful of days... even though he delights in referring to "our" kitchen and "our" dining room.

I bang my hand against the radiator, which finally emits a little clank and, I hope, some heat. Grabbing a blanket from the sofa, I huddle underneath and stare at the mess of boxes. My stomach growls, which I ignore.

Who was that girl? Why was she in my boyfriend's hotel room?

The emotions from earlier in the day surface. This wasn't the first time--and would be no means the last--that I worried about why a nameless girl was in my boyfriend's hotel room or dressing room or tour bus.

I'm here in our apartment, surrounded by all these fucking boxes, and he's off doing God-knows-what in America. And then he'll be off doing God-knows-what in Asia. And then in Australia. And then the recording studio. The cycle will just continue forever until one day they decide they've had enough and no longer want to be rock-n-rollers. The narrative is so very tiring, and, all of a sudden, I feel small and helpless.

All the boys have been different, even John. How could they not be? All of a sudden, they're a big fucking deal. Everyone wants to be them and, I'm sure everyone wants to be with them.

So what chance do Mary and I have? How can you compete with fame and fortune? We're just ordinary people living our regular lives. Sure, Roger is proud of the work that I do, but has it occurred to him that I'm not going to give it up? That I'm not going to follow him blindly around the goddamn world when I could be saving actual lives? That I will always think of him as a fallible human who has to live by society's rules and expectations?

And who was that girl? What does she want with him?

Confused and angry, I fall asleep on the sofa. It's a night of deep, dreamless sleep. So deep, in fact, that when I awaken the next morning with my arm twisted uncomfortably underneath my torso, I have no recollection of the phone ringing in the middle of the night.