Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

41. Roger

One year later

My Aston Martin purrs as I drive down the quiet street in Shoreditch, coming to a halt outside my sister's building. I honk the horn to announce my arrival and pat my trousers in search of a cigarette. I'm fresh off the red-eye from LA, where we'd played three sold-out shows at The Forum.

Clare appears downstairs, her boyfriend in tow. He's not even carrying her bag, the tosser. He gives me a suspicious look and, before I know it, they're locked in a very heated embrace. It goes on for longer than is reasonable considering that they're in broad daylight, and on Christmas Eve no less.

I honk the horn again. "I can see you, you know!". Clare breaks away from her boyfriend, whose name I didn't even bother to memorize, and rolls her eyes at me. However, she quickly grabs her suitcase from the pavement and hops in the car.

"Like I've never had to watch you snog someone," she says as I pull away from the kerb.

"He's too old for you."

"Mind your own business," she grumbles.

An hour later, I'm speeding north on the M11. It's the first time I've driven the car, as it took them four months to build it. By the time it was ready, I was already on tour, so it sat in the garage at The Cottage for six weeks.

"You're going too fast."

I look over at my Clare, who seems quite comfy in the leather seat. Bing Crosby's voice fills the car, informing us that it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

"Depends who you ask," I counter.

"Me, that's who's asking," she replies. "Anyway, you can't be trusted with these decisions. You caught your bloody Ferrari on fire."

"It wasn't my fault!" I protest. "One of the chains broke, which affected the cooling system--"

"And the thing that'll make 'em ring--" Clare harmonizes loudly with Bing, putting a finger in one ear to drown me out.

"--the thermostat valve mustn't have opened properly--"

"--is the carol that you sing, right within your heeeeeart--"

"--and I was lucky that I wasn't vaporized right then and there," I say, concluding my monologue.

"Yes, we're fortunate that you're still with us. I don't know what the world would do without the great Roger Taylor. But maybe you should consider slowing down, so that doesn't happen again," she counters. "Or let me drive."

"God, no, you drive too fucking slow," I reply with a groan. "We'll never get there."

I hit the gas just to prove my point, the engine revving loudly. Clare rolls her eyes again, muttering something about cars and penis size.

I rub my eyes wearily, battling both jetlag and general sleep deprivation. I've no idea why we decided it was a good idea to schedule the Jazz tour the month after finishing the album, but I'm fucking knackered.

Clare reaches forward to turn the dial on the radio. All of a sudden, Freddie's exuberant voice booms through the speakings, Two hundred degrees, that's why they call me Mister Farenheeeeeeeit, I'm travelin' at the speed of--

"Could you change it, please?"

"You don't like your own song? I'm telling Freddie."

"Of course I like it, but I've played it about a billion times over the past two months. And, anyway, it's just not done, listening to yourself on the radio."

"You've never listened to yourself on the radio?"

"Well, yeah, of course I have, but--"

We banter back and forth playfully until the radio deejay transitions to The Police's new tune. I've heard it, obviously, but have never properly focused on the lyrics. The words sweep over me, creating a whole fucking mood. Another lonely day, no one here but me, oh, more loneliness than any man could bear, rescue me before I fall into despair--