Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

29. Skylar

Galileo
Galileo
Galileo Figaro
Magnificoooooooooooo

I'm sitting in a telephone box, the receiver jammed between my ear and my shoulder as I listen to Roger and Freddie's taped voices.

"So, what do you think?" Roger asks eagerly as soon as the singing stops. "Do you like it?"

"I-- Well... The thing is... I'm not sure what it is exactly--"

"Oh, this is just a demo. It'll sound much more polished in the studio. Plus, Brian has to do his takes, and we'll mix it all together." Roger's tone is matter-of-fact as if having more overdubs will make the track less confusing.

There's a muffled thud as the phone is passed from one member of Queen to another.

"Darling, what's not to love?" Freddie's voice echoes through the receiver.

"Hey, Freddie," I reply with a grin.

"Don't 'hey Freddie' me," he responds good-naturedly. "Please don't tell me that you're going to be like all the others and say that the song doesn't make sense."

I pause, because, in all honesty, the bits and pieces that I've heard telephonically ever since the boys left for rehearsal in Surrey don't make any sense.

"All the others?" I ask innocently. 

"You know, all the others: Mary, Chrissie--"

"She's dodging the question, Fred," Roger says in the background. "You'll never get a straight answer now."

"Fucking hell, fine, you'll have to listen to the whole thing properly in person," Freddie grumbles. "By the way, Rog here is very excited for your visit, in fact, just this morning, he said--"

Another round of rustling as, I presume, the receiver is wrestled away from Freddie. I chuckle while I wait for my boyfriend to come back on the line.

"So I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

Roger's trying to play it cool, even though we're both dying to see each other. It's only been three weeks, but it feels like three months. We've been separated for much longer, and it's usually fine. I throw myself into my work, he focuses on the band, and we're reunited at the end. But, this time around, he'd been in London for a solid two months and, I suppose we'd gotten used to seeing each other almost every day.

"I can't wait," I reply with a smile on my face. Roger starts to speak, but my attention is diverted to a fellow doctor rapping lightly on the telephone box's glass door.

"They're ready, Skylar," he says. I nod and grasp the receiver with my left hand.

"Rog? I gotta go. I'll see you tomorrow."

**

Twenty-six hours later, Roger and I are sitting on a threadbare blanket in a field that's a 20-minute walk from Ridge Farm Studio.

It's the first time that we've been alone since I arrived, as I was treated to a command performance of Freddie's song the moment I stepped out of the car. It was still choppy in parts and missing a few lyrics. Despite his promises that it would make sense once they got into the studio, I still couldn't sort out how all the bits would fit together.

Next to me, Roger unpacks the meager picnic dinner that we managed to scrounge up: a dense loaf of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a bottle of wine. He begins to attack the wine cork, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"I've missed you, Rog," I say, reaching over to still his hand. He looks up, his expression softening.

"Me too," he says, his voice even hoarser than usual due to weeks of 12-hour rehearsals. "I know we can't talk every day, but I think about you all the time."