Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

45. Roger

When I arrive at Fred's flat, the party is already well underway.

"Hey, hey, hey!" I shout to Brian and Chrissie, who are situated right by the entrance. I whip off my Ran-Bans to see that, much as I expected, the party is a glorious mess that only Freddie could have orchestrated.

"Where's Chelsea?" Chrissie asks. She has a smile on her face, but I can tell she's only asking to be polite. As far as I can tell, she never warmed to my girlfriend, perhaps out of loyalty to Skylar.

"Her client is doing a shoot in Barcelona," I reply. "She's back late tomorrow."

A waiter hands me a flute of champagne, which I make quick work of. The new album is driving me fucking mad, and I'm ready to forget about everything. Spotting Freddie across the room, I raise my hand to say hello. He squints over and then waves back a little too enthusiastically.

"What's with Fred?" I ask Brian, who looks over at our bandmate and shrugs.

"Right, well, I'm going to make the rounds," I announce as I grab another drink. "Back in a few."

I'm halfway across the crowded room when Veronica Deacon sidles up to me, appearing out of nowhere like a ninja. I lean over to kiss her cheek, and she grabs my arm to steer me further into the living room.

"John was just looking for you," she says. I quickly glance around the room, but Deaks is nowhere in sight.

"I saw John two hours ago at the studio," I reply. "Everything okay? Don't tell me he's having second doubts about that bassline."

Veronica doesn't respond; she just marches me across the room with military-like determination. Halfway through the kitchen, she stops short. "Roger, love, I just spotted an old friend. Back in a jiffy!"

And, without another word, she's gone. I squint, thinking that something was slightly odd about that interaction. After a mental shrug, I turn my head looking for the nearest bottle of booze, and it's then that I see her.

Across the room, Skylar is chatting with a tall, dark-haired fellow who looks vaguely familiar. I stand frozen, taking in her very short, very sparkly mini-dress. I've seen it before: she wore it back in '76 when EMI threw us a party to celebrate Bo Rhap going platinum. She looked stunning in it then, and, despite the years that have passed, she looks even more fantastic in it now.

The bloke next to her says something, and Skylar throws her head back in laughter. Her hemline rises up a bit, showing even more leg. And, oh my God, I think Skylar in that dress may be my kryptonite.

My feet move forward as of their own accord, and soon I'm standing just behind them.

"Skylar!" I say as if I've just noticed that she was here and definitely not gawking from afar. "I didn't know you'd be here."

We awkwardly hug--if you can call it that--and I offer a hand to the man, trying to look as assertive and you-can-fucking-go-now as possible. He gets the hint and mumbles something before diving back into the crowd.

"Thanks," Skylar says with a little laugh. "He was pretty awful."

"Happy to be of service," I reply with a grin. Skylar takes a sip of her rapidly-dwindling drink, and I desperately look around for a waiter. Finally, drinks in hand, we stand there awkwardly. I can't even remember the last time that it was just the two of us--no nanny, no Cadie, no grandparents. Just us.

"Where's, uh, Pierre?" I ask casually as if I don't spend a great deal of time hating her boyfriend. He's everything that I'm not, and I'm sure they spend their evenings having delightful and intellectually-stimulating conversations about intricate medical procedures or whatever.