Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

Prologue

September 1969
Roger

When I'd agreed to be Clare's chaperone for the wedding, I'd anticipated an evening filled with mediocre food, heavy drinking, and, possibly, a quick shag in the loo with a bridesmaid.

What I hadn't anticipated was that on the eve of the wedding, I'd have a massive row with my... well, girlfriend isn't the precise word I'd use... and end up getting absolutely smashed, skulking home at 7am.

So, here I am, arriving ten minutes late. Hungover as fuck, and feeling rather morose.

"You look terrible," my sister hisses as I shimmy down the row to sit in the empty space on the pew. Unlike me, she looks quite fresh in a baby blue dress with little ruffles on it, her blonde hair pulled back off her face.

"Give it a rest, Clare," I reply wearily. I love her to death, but my head is pounding. Even worse, I'm quite uncomfortable in the navy suit that I borrowed from my flatmate, Fred, who's either a size smaller than me or enjoys wearing unreasonably tight pants. Either way, my legs are starting to tingle from a lack of blood flow.

She rolls her eyes and ruffles my shoulder-length hair good-naturedly. "Well, at least you showered...?" Her voice rises at the end of the sentence, clearly doubting that I'd been capable of such a strenuous act this morning.

"Leave me alone, I'm not a savage," I mumble. Obviously, I had showered. But, somehow, the alcohol from last night's festivities was still oozing out of my pores, uncaring that I was currently sitting in a very posh church in the middle of Chelsea.

Before Clare can respond, the organist begins to play the traditional wedding march. I wince at the volume and silently curse the keyboardist. We all stand respectfully, turning towards the back of the church to watch the bride's triumphant entrance. The woman is a year older than Clare, which means that she's getting married far too young. Her heavily made-up face is a mixture of blind enthusiasm and sheer panic.

"You smell like a distillery," my sister whispers, prompting me to elbow her in the ribs. She lets out a subdued yelp, and I shake my head at her with mock disappointment that she would cause such a ruckus in such a holy setting.

"Shh!" A white-haired gramps in the row ahead turns around to shush us, making me feel like I'm 10. As soon as he turns back around, I waggle my head theatrically with a finger over my lips, miming an obnoxious shh back to him. Clare gives me the stink eye, and it's all I can do not to laugh at her misery.

I hear a little snicker. My pounding head swivels to find the source, finally landing on a dark-haired woman sitting diagonally from us. She's looking at me out of the corner of her eye, a mischievous smirk on her lips. We make eye contact for a few seconds before she turns her head to watch the priest as the ceremony begins.

I use the long, monotonous ceremony to covertly check out the woman. Even though I can only see one-half her face, it's clear that she's a knockout. Long dark hair, olive skin, and eyelashes longer than they have any right to be. Her saffron yellow dress is a vintage masterpiece and damn if she doesn't look gorgeous in it.

"Stop staring," Clare whispers. "God, you're incorrigible."

Despite our bickering, the bride and groom manage to make their promises to love, cherish, blah blah blah, they kiss and, not soon enough, the ceremony is over. As we file out of the church, I try to catch a glimpse of the bird in the yellow dress, but she must have slipped out ahead of us.

We climb into my van and drive the short distance to the reception.

"You're sure I can stay with you tonight, Rog?"