I covered my face, saying, "Okay, you got me, you got me, you win. Just please don't shout at me or call the cops, all right? Because I really couldn't handle that right now."
He remained silent, then after a short eternity, he cleared his throat. "Why don't you come out from under there?"
His voice, while still musical, gave signs of neither amusement nor anger. And gray areas are the most frightening of all.
But to hide anymore was absolutely farcical. Slowly, I started to push myself out from under the bed. Dust had collected nicely within my nostrils, and dust wasn't any sweeter to me than cats; by now I'm sure I looked like a swollen-eyed tomato, a frail allergic reaction covered in gray dust fuzz. What a great first impression to present to Freddie Mercury.
Despite my appearance, I was thinking much more clearly than before. Thank God I'm at least wearing lipstick; some days I'm not so lucky. I glanced down at my passport, its constant light beam giving me courage. I must be strong, I told myself. Mustn't let him think he has any power over me.
I lifted my chin, sneezed, and looked Freddie directly in the eye. Not an easy thing to do, I might add. Have you ever seen him? The 1977 version (or any version) of Freddie? God, what a face. Those high cheekbones, that aristocratic nose, that wicked chin. And those eyes. Those two black hole suns, drinking in everything with the briefest of glances. If you stared too long into them, they drank you in as well.
"So John wasn't hallucinating after all," Freddie said. "Well! I've heard of fans going to extremes, but this is ridiculous."
I squinted because my eyes were starting to ache. Stupid cats. Blearily I asked, "What?"
"Fans like you, going overboard."
"Fans?"
"Look, I know you love us, really, darling, but don't you think that breaking into my flat's a little much?"
"Love you? Ha. I don't even know you," I said absently, rubbing my face. I sneezed again.
That seemed to jar him. My words, not the sneeze. "Don't know me?"
"Uh-uh." And it was true, what I was telling him. I didn't know him in the sense of an acquaintance, or a friend.
"But- but you don't really expect me to believe that, do you?" Freddie asked.
All of a sudden, I realized what was going on here. There was a reason he was so taken aback. Freddie wasn't talking about me not knowing him; he was looking at it in terms of, me not knowing who he was. And in 1977, when Queen were rapidly cementing themselves as permanent fixtures in music history, the idea of someone not recognizing him was likely enough to send him to the moon!
An idea hit me. Here was my out. I would not tell him that I'd all but worshiped his music all my life. No way would I ever hint that I knew anything about his public OR private persona.
He's just a man, I told myself. Let him think that's all I see. I am an unlikely intruder into his private sanctum. Nothing more. No blushing, no bashful staring at his shoes. We are equals, perfect strangers. Zero charisma, and zero recognition.
So I nodded, "Yeah, I do. I don't know you from Adam. Nothing personal, I just..." I trailed off, and shrugged. "I don't know who you are. Sorry. I have an idea what you might be, though. Are you an artist?"
"Sort of," he said, seeming to forget I was an intruder who could at any moment slit his throat for all he knew about me. "I used to do a bit of painting, drawings, things like that in colle- no, stop, you're stalling and I know it. Aren't you?"
"Possibly," I half-smiled, before my face contorted for the biggest sneeze yet.
I sniffed, feeling absolutely wretched. Oh, how I hate cats. Maybe he'll feel sorry for me and forget to be mad again.
"Are you all right?" Freddie asked.
I nodded, then savagely started rubbing my eyes. "Ugh... I'm fine... it's just... dust..."
"Of course I believe you," he quipped. He seized my hand. "Here. Take yourself in there, throw some cold water on your face. Your mascara's starting to run, you'll look like a raccoon if you keep it up. When you've gotten yourself under control, come downstairs, and we'll talk."