September 1976

When I was 14 or 15 years old, my parents got into a huge row. To this day, I've no idea what it was about. All I remember is walking out to the front garden where my dad was angrily smoking a cigarette.

"There are two things to avoid at all costs," he said to me in his deep voice. "You never accuse a woman of being stroppy. And you never, ever tell her to calm down. No matter what, those words should never leave your mouth. You'll thank me one day."

This advice had seemed rather inconsequential, but I'd nonetheless filed it away in my brain. I avoided relationships like the plague for most of my adult years, so I never needed to remember my father's counsel.

Until today.

When Skylar stormed out of the flat, she hadn't half-arsed it. First, she'd banged the bedroom door shut, resulting in a tiny crack in the paint above the door frame. A few minutes later, she'd slammed the front door so hard that I could practically feel a whoosh of air.

I'd fucked up.

The first mistake occurred several weeks ago during an interview with Melody Maker. I knew I'd made a mistake, but didn't tell Sky. Instead, like an ostrich hiding his head in the sand, I prayed that the journalist wouldn't find my overshare particularly interesting. It was an idiotic plan and had failed horribly.

The second error occurred 45 minutes ago when I'd accused Skylar of throwing a strop and advised her to calm down. In the same goddamn sentence.

This is the biggest fight we've had, but it's by no means the first. Things between us haven't been great. Part of it is that I'm never around, but part of it is that she's never around. I half-suspect that she's been volunteering for extra overnight shifts just to avoid me. And when she is around, she's sulky and downright disgruntled.

I mean, what the fuck, man? It's not my fault that Queen are more in demand than ever. It's not my fault that she's been working herself to the bone because she decided to apply for the big fellowship. And it's not my goddamn fault that she can't trust me to stay faithful.

I don't even know how the row started. First, we were lazing around on a Tuesday afternoon before her overnight shift. Next thing I know, obscenities and accusations were flying across the room.

"Calm down," I'd said in a tone that, in retrospect, may have come off as slightly patronising. "Why are you so stroppy all the time?"

"Calm down?" she asked quietly, her eyes narrowing. Instead of immediately realizing the error of my ways, instead, I doubled down on my male stupidity.

"Is it that time of the month or something? Christ, Sky."

"Calm down?" she asked again. "Did you just tell me to calm down?"

I don't remember the next 20 or so minutes very clearly. Many accusations were hurled my way, and I was quite busy trying to defend myself in my head.

What I do remember, however, were her parting words.

"By the way, Rog, thanks for mentioning me in the interview," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "I appreciate you mentioning all the details about my job and where I work. Brilliant work, cheers. Thanks a fucking heap. It's made my life so much easier. Everyone takes me sooooo seriously now."

"I--" I started to say before realizing that she was right, I shouldn't have done it, it was stupid and the only reason--

"Admit it, you only said that because you want people to think--" she paused, her hands on her hips as she adopted an exaggerated Cockney accent. "'Oi, Roger Taylor must not be a dumb blonde drummer if he's dating a doctor.'"

Skylar paused, her face flushed, perhaps wondering that she'd gone too far. For a moment, neither of us moved a muscle, the words festering in between us. I felt a burning sensation begin in my stomach and make its way upwards until I can't contain my anger.

"Fuck you," I spat out angrily. "I don't need this. I could have anyone I want. Anyone."

Skylar's eyes widened, and her face crumpled. At that moment, I felt like such a tosser. I tried to move closer to take her in my arms, but she took a step backward and shook her head imperceptibly. Her body was practically buzzing with anger and hurt, so I mentally braced myself for a verbal assault.

But it didn't come. Instead, all I got was a cracked wall and the sound of the person whom I desperately love marching out of our flat.

So here I am, laying on our bed staring at the ceiling. I'm late for a meeting, but I don't care. Instead, I lay here wondering where things went wrong. It was so good for a while. Fuck, I have an engagement ring squirreled away in my sock drawer, just waiting for the right moment.

But the right moment has never come, mostly because I'm an idiot—an idiot who let all this shit go to my head.

I hear a noise from the living room and prop my head up on one hand, listening intently. After a moment, it becomes clear that the source of the sound isn't Skylar, but rather the wretched mouse who insists on cohabitating with us.

My head flops back on the pillow, and I throw an arm over my face.

Fuck.

Skylar is right. I shouldn't have talked about her to the press. I never have before. Sure, people have figured stuff out, but we'd never actively promoted it. But I just had to run my stupid mouth.

The article had kicked off with "Roger Taylor has Somebody to Love," and had gone into detail about Sky. They'd unhelpfully done background research on her and included a grainy photo of her leaving work. From the looks of it, she was walking from the hospital to The Tube, wholly unaware that her picture was being taken.

She'd first seen the article yesterday morning when she'd come back from work. I'd found her in the foyer, magazine in hands, squinting down at the small text. I padded over to kiss the side of her head, and she jumped a meter in the air, unaware I was even home. She'd given me a distracted smile that didn't meet her eyes and handed me the magazine just before she walked wordlessly out of the room.

All of yesterday, we'd avoided it. I thought that maybe--just maaaaaaybe--I'd get off easy. But it all blew up in my face today.

Even worse, Skylar had hit the nail on the head with the ugly things she'd said. Yes, I'd been asked a question that set me up as the typical brainless drummer and, in retaliation, I'd wanted to prove that, oh yes! Someone so intelligent that she's a bloody pediatrician loves me. Loves me. So I can't be an idiot blonde drummer.

However, I am an idiot blonde drummer because I've fucked this up thoroughly.

God, how am I supposed to fix this if we're hardly ever in the same place at the same time? She's always at work, and I'm... well, always at work. Between touring and recording the new album and all the shit we have to do to promote it, life has been absolutely mad.

The antique clock perched atop the dresser chimes, bringing me back to the present. Bloody hell, I'm late.

With one more glance at the crack just above the door, I heave myself up and throw on a shirt, stopping in front of the mirror just long enough to artfully muss my hair. Then I march with purpose out the door to my car.

I've fucked it up with my girlfriend, and I'm fifteen minutes late to meet Richard Branson.

Twenty-five minutes later, a flustered receptionist leads me into the conference room where John, Freddie, and Brian sit around a conference table. The Virgin Records logo is blazoned across the wall. The lads are making small talk with Richard and another bloke.

"Sorry I'm late," I mutter as I walk around the table to take a seat.

"So nice that you could join us, Rog," Brian says good-naturedly but with an eye-roll. John gives me a small wave, as everyone else continues their conversation. Slumping down in the seat, I take a proffered stack of papers from an assistant.

"Cheers," I mumble without looking up.

"Would you like a coffee? Or tea?" a silken voice asks, prompting me to look up.

My eyes meet the deep brown eyes of a young woman. I feel a twinge of interest: who is she? What's her story? I don't feel the overwhelming curiosity that I felt when I first met Skylar, but it feels good for someone to look at me with eyes not filled with anger or disappointment.

It doesn't hurt that she's quite pretty. Tall. Legs that go on for miles. Long dark hair and large, almost feline eyes. She's dressed fashionably in a wrap dress, and there's something self-assured about the way that she carries herself.

Too late, I realize that I'm basically gawking at her, and it's evident to everyone in the room. A smile briefly flits across her lips before she smoothes her features and turns towards Richard to ask his beverage of choice. He waves her away, and she goes to sit in an empty chair next to Fred.

I've known Richard ever since we were teenagers. We hadn't been the best at keeping in touch over the years, but I'd heard through the grapevine that he'd started a record store in Notting Hill Gate. A few years ago, out of sheer curiosity, I'd popped into the shop to see what it was all about. Richard happened to be there that day, and we'd renewed our friendship.

Six weeks ago, we'd met for a pint, and he'd pitched an idea:  A massive festival in Hyde Park headlined by Queen. We were fresh off our world tour, and, if I do say so myself, we were on top of the world. Richard sold the gig as a way for us to thank our local fans with the added benefit of promoting Virgin artists.

"Kiki is confirmed," Richard announces to the group, drawing my attention away from his assistant and back to the matter at hand.

"Elton will perform too?" I ask, feeling a ray of hope for the first time today.

"Probably not," the other bloke says with a shake of his head. I can't remember his name for the life of me, but I think he's the head of... marketing? "Scheduling conflict."

"She could always sing a duet with a huge cardboard cut-out of Elton," Freddie offers up with a sly grin. We all chuckle, trying to imagine what that would look like.

"Don't go breaking my heart," Freddie croons in falsetto.

"You take the weight off of me," I join in before we all start to laugh.

"It's a cracking song," John adds. "We could have cut-outs of them both with the music piped in, and people would still love it."

"Supercharge is 98% confirmed," Richard says, consulting a ream of papers as he attempts to keep us on track.

"I know their drummer," John interjects. "I'll have a chat with him this week."

"Look, boys, this will be big,' Richard says, pushing the papers aside and crossing his arms across his chest. "It doesn't matter who else performs--this is going to be your moment. I'm thinking 50-- maybe 100,000 people. All there to see you."

We sit in silence for a moment, letting that sink in. We've played stadiums, but nothing like this. This could be massive.

"What about the acoustics? Are we going to have 100,000 people there listening to shit acoustics?" Brian asks.

Richard scratches the side of his neck. "Well, when The Stones played there in '69... were any of you there? Well... I mean, it was a good show. It was epic, obviously. The guitar was out of tune, but that was more because they hadn't played live for a few years. But yeah, the acoustics were alright. Nothing like a proper auditorium, obviously, but solid. I'm not concerned."

I half-listen, not giving a toss about the acoustics. I'm more focused on the fact that Skylar is currently at the hospital fuming about our row. She'll probably move her shit out tonight. I'll return home to bare cupboards and empty drawers.

The brunette across the table delicately coughs, and I glance over at her. Our eyes meet, and she gazes up at me through the longest lashes. It's stupid, but something about the moment makes me feel like maybe I'm not just a tosser who fucks everything up.

"Roger?" John says my name, and I quickly divert my gaze back to the boys, pretending like I've not just been checking out another woman. Freddie glares at me, and Brian looks bemused.

"Uh, yeah... yeah, the acoustics, right? Well, from my end, we can just place a few extra mics so that--"

I drone on about how the sound guys can hopefully overcome the fact that it's a big fucking park with huge fucking speakers that won't carry our sound well. But I'm not concerned. We have the frontman of the century, according to Rolling Stone, so we should be fine. We also have a roster of new songs freshly recorded in the studio. So, yeah, I'm not concerned about the acoustics.

"I know we have about 5 million details to sort of in the next two weeks," Richard says, "but my assistant is on top of them." He flicks his head towards the brunette, who flashes a professional smile.

"Absolutely. Any questions, please feel free to phone me," the woman says as we all rise to our feet. I lean over to clasp my arm against Richard's forearm.

"Thanks for this," I say. "We know you're doing all the heavy lifting, and all we have to do is show up."

We chat for a moment before saying goodbye, and I walk around the oval conference table, where the woman is closing an enormous binder.

"Roger Taylor," I say, extending my hand towards her and flashing what I hope is a winning smile. She looks first at my proffered hand, and then my face before she stands to shake it.

"Dominique," she says, apparently unperturbed that we've just spent the past twenty minutes checking each other out. "Dominique Beyrand."

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A/N: I'll have the next chapter out this week, I promise!