Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

6. Roger

I listen to the telephone ring, ring, ring, ring.

"Come on, pick up, Skylar," I mutter, lightly kicking the edge of the metal booth. The tinny, recorded voice of the operator comes on the line telling me so sorry! better luck next time! you'll be lucky if she's ever home again, you overeager twat!

As I hang up, my eyes are drawn to a massive heart that's been crudely etched into the wall, the names Ethan and Penny scrawled inside. I wonder idly how in love you have to be to necessitate defacing a telephone booth at a motorway service area. Because, if that's true love, then I've most certainly never felt that way.

Stepping out of the booth, I see Brian sitting on the curb poking the ground with a small stick that he's found. I motion to him that it's his turn to use the telephone.

"No luck?" he asks as he ambles over, his large hands rifling through his pockets for change.

"Nah, I'll try again in London." I've been trying to get in touch with Skylar to sort out a time to meet up, hopefully for more than coffee. Ever since she started working shifts at the hospital, our schedules are opposite to one another.

Well, that's what she says, anyway. With my luck, she's met another bloke and they're halfway to getting married by now. I'll just have to figure out a plan to win her over once we're in the same city again.

**

Three nights later: the four of us are in the dressing room of The Odeon, waiting for the second gig of the night. We're knackered. These double-headers are the worst: you go on at 6pm and give the audience everything that you got. Then, two hours later, you have to do it all over again.

So, we're sitting in the cramped room, each of us doing what we can to recharge our weary bodies. I'm stretching out my back and shoulders, Freddie is sipping hot lemon water whilst chatting with Mary, Brian is reading a thick book... and Deaks, well, he's the cleverest of us all, as he's passed out dead asleep across a row of three chairs.

As I stretch my arms high over my head and lean to the left, my mind shifts to Skylar. I've gotten so used to chatting with her before shows that it feels a bit weird not to. I still haven't been able to reach her, and it's driving me a bit mad. I plan to casually stop by her flat tomorrow before she goes to work. The lads, who think this whole situation is hilarious, have assured me that it's a totally normal thing to do. Allegedly, she won't think that I'm a creeper, but I have my doubts.

I like Skylar. Not in a googly-eyed way; I haven't gone all soppy quite yet. I've still had my fun while we're on the road. But she intrigues me. Sure, it helps that she's fucking gorgeous, but it's her mind that really turns me on.

At first, I hadn't been certain if she actually enjoyed our chats or was just humoring me. It could have gone either way, really. But then one evening, in the middle of a fierce debate about The Kinks, I'd run out of coins for the telephone box. I started to say goodbye, but she offered to phone me back so that we could continue. So, either she's a Ray Davies fanatic or she's into me.

"You still want to close with 'Big Spender'?" Brian looks up from his book to ask Freddie, who is whispering sweet-nothings to Mary over by the illuminated mirror.

"Let's not fix what ain't broke," Freddie responds in a bloody terrible attempt at an American accent. He's been practicing ever since our manager floated the idea of joining Mott on their tour of North America in a few months.

"Stick with your normal voice, Fred," I say with a smirk, lightly poking his ribs as I pass to grab my embroidered jacket from the chair behind him. Shrugging it on over my bare chest, I walk over to the mirror and pick up the kohl pencil.