"That's a shit ton of people," I murmur to John and Brian as we stand in the wings about to take our places on stage. The sun has just set, and, in the rapidly fading light, we look out onto the largest audience we've ever seen. My God, the rows of bodies never seem to end.

"I heard a copper say that there are over 150,000 people here, easy," my new drum tech says, snapping his fingers to emphasize the last word.

"What? That's more than when Pink Floyd played here," I reply. "Really? There are one hundred and fifty fucking thousand people? Out there? Right now?"

"Or more," Dominique says matter-of-factly, coming up to stand next to me, her ubiquitous clipboard in hand. She looks cool as a cucumber, despite the sweltering heat.

We all stand in silence for a brief moment, taking it all in.

"Well, then let's not fuck it up, boys," Deaky says. There's a brief pause just before the operatic section of Bo Rhap booms through the speakers. "Shall we?" he gestures grandly towards the stage, yelling over the crowd, who, by now, is in an absolute tizzy.

The stage is mostly dark when I hop up on the drum riser and take a seat on the stool. I'd spent ages this afternoon tuning and re-tuning the drums, adjusting and re-adjusting the mics. Partly because I'm a perfectionist, and partly because it took my mind off wondering if Skylar would show tonight.

Mama Mia
Mama Mia
Mama Mia let me go

I adjust the wristband on my left hand and pick up the drum sticks. Orange spotlights roam the stage, which is rapidly filling with special effect smoke. I can barely hear myself think as I place my foot carefully on the drum pedal.

The music is blaring, the crowd is in a frenzy, and all I can think is, fuck, man. Hyde Park. We're playing Hyde Park. Tonight, right this very second, we're going down in history as having performed on the same stage as The Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac. Eric fucking Clapton stood on this stage.

For me
For me
For meeeeeeeeeeeeee

My recorded B-flat shriek recedes as the Red Special roars to life. Freddie bursts out on stage in his white coverall, brandishing his mic as if he owns the world. Every spotlight is on full blast, and the smoke is dense. For a moment, I'm in my own little world, barely able to see the other blokes, much less the crowd.

"Good evening, everyone!" Freddie exclaims after the song ends. You all look very beautiful, I must say. Thank you!"

The smoke begins to clear, and I sneak a quick peek over at the wings. It's unusually crowded tonight with journalists and fellow musicians. As I scan the area looking for Skylar, I see our manager chatting with the bloke from The Who whose name I can never remember. Richard is next to them, pointing out something to Kiki Dee. Finally, my eyes land on Skylar, who's standing with Mary and Chrissie. Raising my hand slightly, I give her a small wave, and what I hope looks like a genuine, I-miss-you-and-I-love-you smile.

"Thank you very much," Fred says again, fussing with his hair as he walks across the stage. It's one of his nervous tics, although not many people know that. This is by far the biggest gig of our career, and we're all on edge. Don't get me wrong, we've performed most of these songs about a billion times. We've been touring for the past year, and we're in tip-top shape, but... we're introducing a few new songs tonight, and, well, what if no one likes them?

"And now," Freddie continues his banter with the audience, "We have a softer, quieter number for all you delicate little people out there tonight."

Brian begins to play the opening chords of 'Sweet Lady,' and off we go. The show flies by quickly; before I know it, we're at the halfway point. My hair is damp with sweat, my drumsticks getting slippery. Night has fallen, so I can't see the crowd past the first few rows, but it's as if a million people are singing and screaming and dancing. I'm high on adrenaline and loving every second of it.

Just before the medley, Freddie walks over to the side of the stage for a drink of water. Our manager motions him closer and says a few words into his ear. Freddie nods and walks back onto the stage to sit at his piano. Taking a deep breath, he leans into the mic.

"Now then, my darlings, listen," he says in his most authoritative voice. "I've been requested by the, uh, constabulary... for you not to throw your things around, your tins cans, or whatever. Let's make this a peaceful event, okay?"

The crowd shouts its approval, and I once again look over at Skylar, who mimes throwing something my way.

"Sit on your asses and listen!" Freddie commands light-heartedly just before he launches into 'You're My Best Friend,' which is on the charts right now. We'd gotten into a huge row about using the electric piano on the track. Freddie had refused to play it, so John had finally told him to sod off and learned to play it himself.

Watching Freddie and Brian move about the stage, I'm struck how odd it is to be stuck behind my kit for the whole show. I'd never admit it to a soul, but sometimes I want to prance around the stage and get to make the witty remarks. One day, I swear to God that I'm going to get my image stenciled on the drum skin so that people remember that I'm back here keeping the beat.

Before I know it, we're at the end of the first set. "Thank you and goodnight," Freddie shouts into the mic as the stage goes dark. Everyone else tromps offstage, but I decide to conserve energy and stay put.

I'm taking a massive gulp of water when Brian appears at my side. I'm not expecting him, and I can't see a bloody thing in the darkness, so when he calls my name, I do what anyone would do: I spit out my water in surprise, right into his face.

"Godammit, Rog," he sputters, still cloaked in darkness. "What the fucking hell was that?"

"I didn't--" I start to protest before he cuts me off.

"We've been shut down," he says. "We gotta go."

"But it's barely 10:30pm," I protest. "We have six more songs to play!" In front of us, the crowd has realized that we should have already come back to the stage. Encore! Encore! they start to chant, the spotlights now focused on them so I can see that yeah, there are a fuckload of people out there.

"Not anymore. The police chief says shut it down, or we'll be arrested."

"They'll arrest us for playing music? If that isn't the definition of fascism, then I don't know--"

Mid-rant, I realize that Brian has started to walk offstage, and I'm sitting alone in the dark.

"Move your asses," Freddie hisses from the wings, and I scurry down from the kit and jog off stage. A roadie throws a hand towel my way as someone grabs my forearm to steer me towards the exit.

One more song! One more song! the crowd chants.

"Where's Skylar?" I ask the roadie who's hustling me down the stairs.

"Already in the van," he replies as we hit the soft ground, jogging through the village of tents.

"What van?" I ask, confused. Just as I'm about to repeat the question, we round the corner, and a trio of police vans come into view.

"Hop in, boys," says the chief of police, who looks on edge. In the distance, I hear the emcee back on stage, telling the crowd that the show is over. "They've already left," he pleads as if the audience might think that we've somehow teleported out of the park.

More chanting, some booing. Freddie leaps into the back of the van, still in his black unitard. John follows, and I think I see Skylar somewhere in there.

"Kill the lights," the chief of police says to a uniformed officer next to him.

I'm quite literally shoved into the back of the police van, my elbow ramming into John's side, and my head bumping into what I hope is Skylar's chest. Just as they close the door, I see the powerful park lights switch off. It's pitch black, and there's a stunned silence for a moment. Then there's the sound of hundreds of thousands of confused people wondering, "How the bloody hell do we get out of here if we can't see?!"

"Where to?" the policeman calls through the grate that separates the front seat from the back.

"Just get us the fuck out of here," our manager calls back, sounding harried.

"Take us to Mr. Chow's," Freddie says serenely.

"What's at Mr. Chow's?" I ask, really really hoping that this is my girlfriend that I'm currently spooning with, and not one of the other girls.

"Hi," Skylar whispers in my ear, probably thinking the same thing. I reach out and find her arm, squeezing it and wishing we were alone right now.

"I'm a sweaty mess," I murmur apologetically.

"You are," she whispers. "But, it's well-deserved."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to dinner," Freddie announces grandly.

Forty-five minutes later, we've commandeered the entire second floor of Mr. Chow's, an ultra upscale Chinese restaurant that Freddie frequents. Somehow the who's-who of the London music scene knew just where to find us, and it's become a veritable fete.

I sit on a mauve velvet banquette, one arm looped around Skylar's shoulder, as we survey the trays of food piled on the table.

"You sure you don't want a drink?" I ask. She shakes her head and pokes at a small plate of food in front of her. Across from us, Freddie is perched next to Mary, and I notice that he's unusually solicitous of her. For months, it's been very apparent that he's having an affair, and I don't understand why he can't just break it off with her. Mary doesn't deserve this, that's for sure.

Skylar and I are deep in conversation with Pete Townsend when she excuses herself to find the loo. I'm so enthralled by his stories about the antics at the Rainbow Concert back in '73 that I barely register the fact that Freddie has followed her. It's a good ten minutes before I realize that I should check on her.

"Hey, it's Roger Taylor!" I hear from a nearby table as I traverse the main dining room filled with beautiful people. I smile humbly and wave, making my way quickly across the room. I remember the first time I was recognized in public, and how it blew my mind. Now we've all become rather used to it, I suppose.

I've almost reached my destination when it occurs to me that I can't very well walk into the ladies' and look for Skylar. Am I allowed to poke my head in the door and call her? But the ladies' room has always seemed rather sacrosanct. I don't know what goes on in there, but surely they won't appreciate a man bursting in unexpectedly.

I'm about to ask a nice-looking young woman if she'll look for Skylar on my behalf when I hear a familiar voice. Following the sound, I walk down a long, darkened hallway that leads towards the staff area.

"Just tell him," I hear Freddie say. Is he talking to Mary? A woman responds with something unintelligible.

"For fuck's sake, Skylar," Freddie replies irritably, and I freeze. What? Skylar?

My girlfriend responds to Freddie but, again, I can't hear what she says. Furrowing my brow, I slowly make my way down the hallway.

"This isn't a film or a telenovela or--" Freddie scoffs, and I imagine a look of disgust on his face "--a fucking fan fiction or whatever. Roger's a big boy. He'll survive the news."

Suddenly, it hits me.

Jesus Christ, are Freddie and Skylar...? Is it possible they've been...? My mind is a maelstrom of worries and suspicions, and all I can think about is how they were all cuddled up behind the tent earlier in the day. I knew that was strange, goddammit, it's not even like they're the best of mates, so...?

Are Fred and Sky having an affair?

My feet carry me around the corner as if on auto-pilot. My girlfriend and my best friend stand uncomfortably close in the shadows.  She's leaning against the wall looking both like she might be sick, and she might cry. Freddie has one arm on his hip, while his other hand fiddles with his stupid hair.

My fists ball up, and I can barely breathe as I step fully into the room, ready to kick Freddie's arse. I don't care if there are journalists just down the hall, nor if the whole of London will hear about this and it'll be the end of Queen. None of that matters right now.

The wooden floorboards creak beneath my weight. Startled, Skylar and Freddie both look up with guilty looks on their faces. Taking another step into the room, a murderous look on my face, I finally speak.

"Tell me what, exactly?"