𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧' 𝐆𝐮𝐲 ➺ 𝐵𝓇𝒾𝒶𝓃 𝑀𝒶𝓎 & 𝒬𝓊𝑒𝑒𝓃

28. Fashion is a Statement

"Got an eyeful, have you?" Emma snapped at the older-looking man who cat-called her. We were aware that Soho could be a bit dodgy, but we underestimated its true nature.

"Not an eyeful, sweetheart, but I'm sure you'd sound much better with a mouthful," he retorted, reeking of alcohol from where we walked.

Emma, fuelled with anger, moved forward to confront him, but I managed to restrain her and guide us away. St Anne's Court was just around the corner, and I didn't want any trouble or witness a potential altercation. Let's face it, Emma would have taken him down.

"Go home, mate, before you get yourself into trouble," I scolded the stranger, but he dismissively waved his hand and stumbled away, clearly intoxicated.

Emma shrugged me off, straightened her attire, and huffed to herself. "You're so lucky you don't get cat-called," she muttered, resuming our walk. I raised my eyebrows, slightly hurt by her assumption, but I couldn't deny that she was right. I caught up with her, and together we turned the corner, heading towards Trident Studios.

As we approached the main entrance, my heart sank into my stomach. The realisation that Queen was inside, recording in a professional studio for their big break, overwhelmed me. I had to make sure I looked and behaved perfectly. No one had told me to do so, but I felt it was the right thing. I didn't want to disappoint Brian. As we neared Trident Studios, panic surged through me.

"Emma, Emma, Emma!" I babbled, grabbing her arm and pulling her back. I stuttered nervously, feeling my throat tighten. "Um... do I look okay?" I asked, patting myself down. Emma quickly scanned my outfit, giving it a brief once-over. I had chosen my nicer, darker flared jeans with beautiful stitching around the waist. They fit snugly around my thighs, accentuating my figure in a flattering way. I spent hours going through my limited selection of shirts, settling on a pastel blue off-the-shoulder shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. It revealed some of the scars on my arms, but I was trying to be less insecure about them. The scars were barely noticeable unless one looked closely, but they occupied my mind constantly. It was quite cold outside, being January, so I wore a coat. Completing my look were slightly platformed boots and a subtle touch of mascara. When we left the flat, I felt confident, but as we walked, insecurities crept in.

"Yeah, you look great. Only..." Emma reached out and pulled my sleeves down, exposing more of my skin. "You need to look perfect, right?" I furrowed my eyebrows, pushing her hands away slightly. She must have noticed my offended expression because she shook her head vigorously. "No, I didn't mean it like that! I just think you could go all out, you know?" She shrugged and started walking again. "And tuck your shirt in. Fashion is a statement," she added with a mischievous smirk.

Feeling less confident, I hastily tucked my shirt into my jeans and followed Emma up the stairs and through the large glass doors of Trident Studios. Inside, we found ourselves in a spacious reception area that was still undergoing renovation. The recent influx of money was evident, showing that Norman Sheffield was making strides in the business side of the music industry. For once, I felt like I had one up on Emma, as I recognized the headshots of Trident's clientele adorning the walls. Emma, not paying much attention to her surroundings, seemed more focused on escaping reality and running into Roger's arms.

The receptionist glanced up at us with a puzzled expression, momentarily assessing our appearance before parting her glossy lips to speak. Her voice carried that quintessential Queen's English, the kind Americans often imitate, and it had always been a pet peeve of mine, even though I knew it wasn't their fault. I tried to hide my grimace behind a polite smile.

"Uh..." I looked at Emma, silently pleading for her to take the lead. She understood my anxieties and thankfully stepped in.

"We're here to see Queen," Emma beamed, leaning forward on the desk.