Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

47. Roger

You thought that I'd forget to ring Skylar, didn't you?

Just admit it. You thought I'd get too busy or there would be some sort of medical emergency or a band thing or whatever.

You don't have much confidence in me, do you? I don't blame you for your pessimism; it's only natural given how things have gone thus far.

Well, ye of little faith, listen up: I can, on occasion, manage not to fuck things up. I've made mistakes, yes. But, every now and then, I manage to get things right.

For starters, I didn't forget to phone Skylar. In fact, I called her from a telephone booth at the airport the moment I arrived. And then I called her the next day. And the day after that. We quickly went back to our old routine of sitting in the dark late at night, just listening to each other's voices and trying to block out all the baggage and the noise.

When I returned to London, we had dinner at Luigi's, a hole-in-the-wall joint near her flat that we used to frequent. We shared a pizza with black olives and mushrooms, a nice bottle of wine, and it was lovely. Afterward, I walked her home and, like a true gentleman, kissed her on the cheek before she headed inside.

Then I flew back to Munich. And, the next time I was in London, we went to see The Shining. I'm a real Kubrick fan, so I was dead chuffed to see it. However, Skylar hates suspense films, so she spent most of the film with her head buried against my shoulder and her nails digging into my palm. I loved every second of it.

I broke things off with Chelsea, who briefly threatened to sell photos of us being, er, amorous to The Daily Mail. After a visit from a Queen Productions attorney, she fucked right off, and I haven't heard from her since. Skylar also ended things with Pierre; at least, I think she did. We haven't yet spoken about the fact that we're both single, every conversation dancing around the subject for reasons unknown.

And here we are, two months later, on the eve of my flight to Venezuela to finish out The Game tour. We're at Le Caprice, getting steadily sloshed in celebration of Skylar's promotion to chief of paediatrics.

"Are you nervous?" Skylar takes a bite of her steak and sets her fork down while she chews.

"I'm always a little nervous," I admit, taking another sip of champagne. "This year has been grueling."

"It's almost over," she says sympathetically.

"And then back to Munich," I reply glumly. When our manager had come up with the scheme for us to be tax exiles--basically not spending much time in the UK and definitely not recording any music here--I'd gone along with it. But now, I was very much regretting it.

We finish and pay the bill, Skylar slipping her hand into mine as we walk towards the taxi stand.

"Do you think we could walk?" she asks. I slip an arm around her waist and nod, even though it's strangely cold for late September.

We meander through London for a half-hour, not really talking, each lost in our own thoughts. We're standing at a traffic light waiting to cross when Sky looks up at me.

"What is this, Roger?" She chews her bottom lip nervously, her eyes boring into mine.

"Ah," I reply. "I'm glad you asked. This neighborhood is known as Covent Garden, located in the West End of London. Over there," I say, pointing to my left, "is the Royal Opera House, built in 1732 and home to both ballet and opera productions."

Skylar tilts her head to one side and rolls her eyes. She pulls my hand, tugging me across the street into the crowd forming in front of the Tube station. I keep my head down as we weave our way through the masses, praying not to be recognized.