Girl, you really got me goin'
You got me so I don't know what I'm doin' now

An old song by The Kinks blares from the radio of the taxi as we zoom towards through London. We're at the end of a 60-day heatwave, so the cool breeze coming through the open window is a welcome treat.

"You going to the concert?" the middle-aged taxi driver asks, looking at me from the rearview mirror.

"I am," I reply loudly, fighting to be heard over the music and ambient noise of traffic.

"It's starting soon," he replies. I know, I respond in my head. I'm really fucking late.

"My daughter is going," he continues. "She wants to see the bloke with the glasses and the feathers-- Elton Whatshisname."

"He's not performing," I reply.

In the background, The Kinks continue to sing You really got me! You really got me! and the music seems to get even louder.

"What?"

"Elton John isn't performing," I reply. "Queen is."

"Her Majesty will be there?" he shouts, turning around halfway to look at me with disbelief. "What sort of concert is this?"

"No, the band called Queen," I reply before realizing that he can't hear me and that he probably doesn't care just so long as his daughter makes it home in one piece. Giving up, I look out of the window and try to control the nervous feeling in my stomach.

Roger is going to kill me. Things had been awful since our fight a few weeks ago. We'd barely spoken and had masterfully avoided being at home at the same time. He'd left the backstage pass on the counter yesterday morning with a hastily scrawled note: If you still want to hear us play.

And now I'm so fucking late that he probably thinks that I'm not coming at all.

In my mind, I recite the perfectly legitimate reasons why I'm late, all of which have to do with emergency procedures and tardy colleagues. But it doesn't matter. Nothing changes the fact that I hadn't even told Roger that I'd be there.

I'm lost in my own thoughts when the taxi comes to a halt outside of Paddington Station.

"No, I said Hyde Park--" I say, momentarily confused, but, slowly, I process the fact that the streets are swarmed with literally thousands of people headed to the same destination.

"This is as close as I can get you, miss," the driver says somewhat apologetically. "The police have blocked off the roads." As you can bloody well see remains unspoken between us.

Mumbling thanks and shoving a wad of cash his way, I leap out of the taxi and get my bearings. I look with dismay at the crowds of people, all young and beautiful, and skimpily dressed. Of course, I'm thrilled that they're all here to see the boys perform, but this makes it much less likely that I'll see them perform.

Right, I'll just have to make a run for it.

Twenty minutes later, I arrive at the VIP entrance. My white camisole is plastered to my skin, and I can feel the damp tendrils of hair stuck to my forehead. In other words, I'm a hot, sweaty mess.

"General entry is that way," a security guard says to me sternly as if he's said the same thing a million times today, which he likely has.

"I'm with the band," I pant, fumbling in my pockets for the VIP pass and praying that it hasn't fallen out of my pocket during my sprint here. 

"That's what they all say, sweetheart," he says with an eye roll. I retrieve the pass and triumphantly brandish it in front of his face. With a surprised grunt, he waves me through the makeshift barrier to the small village of white tents that have been erected behind the stage.

Once through security, I pause to catch my breath and look around. The backstage area is bustling, and I've no idea where Roger is.

"Excuse me," I say to a spindly roadie walking by hurriedly. "Where can I find Roger Taylor? Or anyone from Queen?"

He grunts something unintelligible and motions with his head to our left before continuing on his way. I look in the direction he indicated, and, far off into the distance, I see Roger having a chat with Ray Davies. I just heard your song on the radio!, I have the urge to shout gleefully to The Kinks frontman.

Roger stretches out his arms, flexing his wrists around in small circles. He looks somehow relaxed but nervous at the same time, and I pray that the latter isn't because he's anxious that I won't show.

"Rog!" I call, hoping against hope that he'll hear me, but, at that moment, Kiki Dee shouts, "Thank you, London!" into the mic, and the crowd goes wild. Wiping my sweaty hair out of my face, I start to walk towards my boyfriend.

I'm halfway there when a pretty brunette walks up to the two men. She says something that earns a broad smile from Roger, which apparently gives her the right to touch his forearm lightly as if to say 'oh, don't be so silly!' It's all too chummy if you ask me. He grins in response and steps towards her, huddling together to read something on the clipboard in her hands.

I'm nearly in their sight when I hear a strange noise from behind one of the tents. Peeking around the edge, I spot a tall, gangly fellow dressed all in white crouching behind a billowy white tent. He's practically camouflaged except for his raven hair and heavily lined eyes.

"Freddie?" I say, slowing my gait and rounding the corner.

"Skylar!" he says, looking up. "We didn't know if you'd make it!" His tone is jovial as if he's not hiding in the shrubbery. He looks me up and down critically.

"I'm so glad you dressed up for the occasion, darling," he says tongue-in-cheek. "What'd you do, run here?"

"Are you alright? Where's Mary?" I ask, concerned. Roger has told me that sometimes Fred gets nervous before the big gigs--well, they all do, of course--but something about him looks particularly off.

"Oh, fine, fine," he replies, self-assuredly, ignoring my second question. A pause and then, more sheepishly, he admits, "I'm just a little... terrified."

"So, you're hiding behind a tent?"

"So I'm hiding behind a tent," he affirms. "And I've been sick twice. But let's keep that between us. Doctor-patient confidentiality and all that."

He pats the ground next to him and motions for me to come closer. I sit next to him, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

"You'll be great. They're going to love you. What's not to love?"

Freddie gives me a small smile and then looks down at the sandy dirt on the ground. We sit in silence for a few moments. Another band starts to play in the background, but I couldn't say who because all I can hear from this side of the stage is the bass.

I'm about to suggest that he finish getting ready or let someone know where he is when he finally breaks the silence.

"We've played big gigs before, it's just... there are a lot of fucking people out there right now. And I know that the new songs are strong. They're solid, they're good, but... But what if..."

He trails off, poking his finger around in the sand.

"This whole thing about what's not to love... I'm just thinking... Skylar, you're always so self-assured, like you have it all figured it out--"

"I don't have it--" I interrupt, but he holds up a hand. When he continues, his voice is quieter and more vulnerable. Something about the way he looks at me makes it clear that he's giving me an unusual look into the turbulent emotional life of someone who is usually much more closed off.

"I guess what I'm trying to say, in a very sort of roundabout way, is that, well, Skylar, I saw you that night. And I know you saw me."

"Which night?" I furrow my brow, waiting. When Freddie declines to answer, I inhale sharply. "Oh. That night."

My mind is suddenly in overdrive with images of the long-ago night at the bar in Islington. I'd been drinking with my friend, Nate, and his partner. We'd been nattering away for ages when I saw a couple in a darkened corner out of the corner of my eye.

"They're really going for it," Nate had observed. "Oi, get a room!" his partner called out jokingly, earning the V sign from one of the blokes who had his back to us.

We'd gone back to drinking until, a few moments later, I happened to turn around and saw that, Oh, good Lord, Freddie was one-half of the couple, and the other person was a sandy-haired man.

I didn't judge the fact that it was two men together so much as that Freddie was cheating on his fiancee. I turned back to my friends, red-faced with embarrassment, and quickly made an excuse to leave. I darted out of the bar and had never breathed a word of what I'd seen.

"You saw me?" I ask Freddie, who's watching my reaction closely. "You never said anything."

"Well, you never said anything either, darling," he said with a little smile.

We sit in silence for a while longer before Freddie speaks again.

"I thought for sure you'd tell Roger."

I shake my head emphatically. "It's your business, Freddie."

"They all know, anyway. I mean, it's not something we speak out, naturally, but... Well, anyway, I think--"

He trails off again and swallows.

"I think it's possible that--" He looks down at the ground, once again tracing circles in the dirt. I reach out to clasp his dusty hand, and he finally looks over at me with a cautious small.

"Well, I suppose you know all my secrets now. I sometimes get so terrified before gigs that I hide, and I'm having an affair with a man."

I squeeze his hand and look out into the distance. Despite the madness going on just behind us, this little area behind the tent seems strangely tranquil. It's as if it's only the two of us here, and there aren't 150,000 cheering fans congregated nearby.

"I'm pregnant, Freddie," I whisper. It's the first time I've said those two words out loud, and doing so terrifies me.

"You're-- what?" He looks at me as if I've just announced that I'm an alien with three heads, come to conquer the planet. "Pregnant?"

I don't reply and look down at the dirt.

"Fuck," says Freddie, part in shock and part in awe.

"That pretty much sums it up," I reply glumly.

"Does Roger know?" Freddie's voice is soft and empathetic.

I shake my head.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Are you going to tell Mary?" I finally look over at him. His eyes, heavily ringed with eyeliner, feel like they're about to pierce me in the heart.

Freddie pauses for a beat and then nods his head. "I will, yeah. When the time is right."

"Oh, Fred," I say, scooting closer to him. I lay my head on his shoulder and exhale slowly. "How did this all become such a mess?"

We sit in companionable silence for a long while, my head propped on his shoulder, and his head leaning heavily against mine. From the other side of the tent, we hear people begin to call for Freddie, but he doesn't react.

"Roger's going to be thrilled," Freddie says softly. I scoff, pretty sure that Roger will be the opposite of thrilled. To be honest, I'm not sure how I feel about it either. This was neither planned nor expected, and it's going to fuck up my life.

"Freddie? Fred? Where the fuck is he?" The voices in the distance become more frantic, and I assume it's because Queen is due to take the stage.

"You should--" I start to say before Freddie makes a shushing sound and sits up straight.

"He loves you to the moon," the singer says, brushing a hand through his carefully flat ironed hair. "You two will sort it out."

Before I can reply, the person in question pops around the corner, all blue eyes and mussed blonde hair.

"Fucking hell, Fred, why are you--" he says, sounding irritated before he spots me. "Sky! I wasn't sure you'd make it."

"She's giving me a pep talk," Freddie says brightly, the earlier vulnerability leaving his voice.

With that, he stands up and wipes off his pristine white coverall. With a nod to us both, he strides away, and, in the distance, I can hear him saying, "Good fucking Lord, darlings, do you really think I'd just abandon you? Now let's get on with it, chop-chop."

I stand and walk with uncertainty over to Roger. He looks like a dream in light jeans and a blazer that we bought at a tiny shop in Asia. For a moment, we stare at each other as if neither of us knows what to do.

With a small sob, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his torso, burying my face into the crook of his neck. It's all I can do to stop myself from sobbing, probably because of the pregnancy hormones coursing through my veins.

"Hey, hey," he says softly, making a shushing noise. "What's wrong?"

I conceal my face in his neck a moment longer, enjoying the thump of his heart against my chest and the feeling of his strong arms around me. With a deep breath, I pull back and look up at his concerned face.

"I'm sorry that I'm so late," I say, wiping an errant tear from my eye. His brow furrows, and he pulls me close again.

"It's alright," he replies. "Truth be told, I didn't know if you'd show--"

"I just love you so much," I say against his chest, feeling once again like I'm going to cry. "And I'm so proud of you."

He takes a deep breath. "I love you too, baby," he murmurs against my hair.

"Now where has Roger run off to?" we hear the Scottish brogue of John Reid from a few meters away. "It's as if you lot don't want to play the biggest show of your careers."

"You've gotta--" I say, pulling away.

"We'll talk tonight, yeah?" Roger says at the same time.

I nod, and we smile at each other, the first time we've done so in weeks.

"Good luck," I say, staring into his blue eyes as if I might drown in them. He winks and reaches out to tweak my nose playfully before turning to head towards the main stage. He's all business now, his demeanor totally changed.

I hear the introduction from A Day At The Races through the speakers as Roger, Brian, and John scramble up the stairs and take their positions on stage. Freddie stands calmly at the bottom of the staircase looking serene, all his earlier worries gone.

The operatic section from Bo Rhap begins, and the crowd goes crazy. Freddie stretches his arms behind his back and bounces lightly on his feet. He looks down to the ground for a moment.

Oh Mama Mia
Oh Mama Mia let me go

He puts a hand on the handrail and braces himself for the mad dash up to the stage.

A split-second before he takes off, he looks over his shoulder, and his eyes meet mine. He nods thoughtfully as if to say that everything will come out right in the end, and, just like that, he's gone.

"Welcome to our picnic by the Serpentine!" he shouts triumphantly into the mic, and the crowd loses their goddamn minds.