November 1975
"You're sure?"
Skylar looks dubiously at the box of hair bleach in her hands before turning it around to peer at the instructions printed on the back.
"Oh, I'm sure," I reply with a rakish grin, beginning to strip down as I walked to our bathroom. Our bathroom. We officially live together as of four days ago. We'd found the flat ages ago but, between Sky's work schedule and my tour rehearsals, we'd only just managed to collect the keys and move our belongings.
"And you want me to do it? You do realize that I've no idea what I'm doing?"
"There's no one else I'd rather give the honor."
"It's such an honor," Skylar replies with an eye roll, snaking her way through a maze of unpacked moving boxes to follow me. "It'll also be an honor when your manager comes after me for fucking up your hair just before the tour. In fact, it's almost too much of an honor. Maybe a hairdresser would like this particular honor?"
"A hairdresser? That's not very rock-n-roll, love. I have a reputation to maintain."
Skylar scoffs and places the box on the porcelain sink, muttering something under her breath that I don't quite catch.
"What was that, Sky?"
She ignores the questions and rummages through the box, finding a pair of oversized plastic gloves and several bottles.
"Alright, if you insist. But let me reiterate that I have no--"
"Life's about taking calculated risks, Sky," I interrupt, sitting on the tub's edge. "This is one of them."
Two hours later, my hair is much lighter, and my girlfriend has been thoroughly shagged. We lay in the bed, out of breath and knackered. After a few minutes, Skylar props herself up on one arm and runs a hand lightly through my hair.
"Everything is going to change," she says wistfully. Tucking an arm under my cheek, I turn towards her so that we're facing one another.
"Nothing will change," I reply firmly.
In response, she smirks and flops back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. It's a rather grand ceiling, one befitting a rather posh flat in Marylebone. I'd never imagined I could live somewhere like this, but here I am. All due hard work, John Reid, and Freddie's steadfast belief in Bo Rhap.
"Rog," my girlfriend says, still looking at the ceiling. "Have you--"
She pauses, and I wait.
"Has Freddie--"
She once again trails off, knotting her fingers nervously in the duvet. I prop my head up on one hand and watch her eyes dart back and forth as she decides what she wants to say. Finally, she turns her head to look at me.
"Has Freddie mentioned what he's doing for Mary's birthday?"
I blink, confident that whatever Skylar initially planned to ask had nothing to do with Mary's birthday. Mostly because it's months away, but also because Sky never particularly warmed to Freddie's fiancee.
"I-- no? He hasn't?" I replied with a furrowed brow.
"Oh, okay, just wondering," she says quickly, turning towards me once again. We share a long look, one that communicates that I know that she isn't coming clean... and that she knows that I know. I could press the matter, but don't want to spend my last night before the tour talking about Freddie.
Plus, I'm pretty sure I know what she's referring to, and I don't know how I'd respond.
"I'm going to miss you," I say instead, pulling her closer. I slowly move the duvet off her torso, exposing her left breast. I lean forward to press my lips gently on her clavicle, drawing my arms around her. "Will you miss me?"
"You always ask that, as if you don't know my answer," she says, wrinkling her nose in the cutest way. "Of course I'll miss you, you impossible man."
She reaches out to cup the back of my neck, pulling my head closer to hers. I close my eyes and revel in the act of kissing her, which always manages to take my breath away. Things get carried away--again--and I wonder if it'll always be like this: intoxicating yet familiar, safe but reckless at the same time.
Before finally drifting off to sleep, I eye my overpacked suitcase across the room. Tomorrow we embark on our tour to promote the new album. This is it. It isn't like any of our previous tours; no, this is make-or-break. The critical response to the album was lukewarm, but the music seems to have struck a chord with the fans. So, now our job is to perform our hearts out, making the case for why we deserve to be here.
As my eyes finally close, I wonder if Skylar is right when she says that everything will be different.
**
The phone jangles loudly next to me, startling me from a deep sleep. Groaning, I look at the clock and realize that I've only been asleep for an hour. For fuck's sake, who's calling at half two?
"Mrph," I half-murmur, half-growl into the hotel telephone. This had better be good.
"We did it!" Freddie's triumphant voice echoed through the receiver and into my exhausted, alcohol-addled brain.
"Fred?"
"Don't tell me you're asleep at a time like this?"
"A time like what? Freddie, I saw you an hour ago. In fact, I can hear you talking to me right now through the wall."
"We did it," he exclaims.
"Did what?" I'm about to hang up, sick of this back-and-forth, when I hear the most welcome news of my life.
"We hit number one."
"We... what?"
"John Reid just called," he says excitedly. "Bo Rhap will be number one on tomorrow's UK charts."
"No fucking way," I reply, sitting up and shaking off the remnants of sleep. "Number one? On the charts?"
"You're useless when you're tired, darling," Freddie says, and I envision the triumphant grin on his face. In the background, I hear another voice--male and decidedly not Mary's. I think back to Skylar's non-question and furrow my brow.
"That's wild," I reply. "Number one. Bloody fantastic! Have you told the others?"
"Hoped you'd call them," Freddie replies cheerfully. "That way you can explain how you'll be sharing all that money with me. What with your car song on the B-side and all."
"Hey, it's a solid track," I say defensively. Freddie makes a noise--maybe a snort?--and covers the receiver with his hand before saying something unintelligible to whoever is in his room.
"It's a wonderful song, Rog," he finally says. "Marvelous. A masterpiece. You're a prodig--"
"Fuck off, then why'd you agree to put it on the record?"
"You locked yourself in the fucking closet, Rog," Freddie chortles. "But hey, enjoy it, mate. Just be sure to let John and Brian know about our number one hit!"
With that, Freddie hangs up, and, after a moment, the line begins to beep. In a daze, I finally hang up the receiver and debate calling Skylar. She'll be over the moon, I know, but it's also 3am.
Better to wait a few hours. Instead, I roll out of bed and pull on trousers to go knock on Brian's door.
**
Skylar was right.
Everything has changed.
In the past six weeks, our lives have turned upside down and inside out.
Bo Rhap has been at the top of the charts for nine weeks, and the album itself went platinum. We're making money hand-over-fist, and our American tour sold out before we even stepped foot on the continent. Due to the success of the promotional video, we're much more recognizable, and it's challenging to go anywhere without being recognized.
It's all happening.
Did I mention the girls? They're everywhere. Oh, sure, we used to have the loyal gaggle of groupies who would show up, but this... this was something altogether different. On two separate occasions, I'd been cornered after a gig by a pretty young thing who, once I rebuffed her attempts, consoled herself by whipping out a pair of scissors to shear off a piece of my hair as a souvenir.
So, while I haven't strayed--not once, I would never--I'd be lying if I didn't say that I haven't enjoyed the attention. Who wouldn't?
So here we are, holed up in the dressing room of the Hammersmith Odeon on Christmas Eve. We'd played four shows here just a few weeks ago, but our manager convinced us to tack on another. When I say 'convinced,' I mean that the BBC had suggested broadcasting it live and, of course, we'd immediately said yes. Tickets went on sale and, within hours, sold out.
A special Christmas concert performed live for millions of people would typically be fabulous news. But I'm sick as a dog. Skylar says that it's the flu, but I say that all her medical training hasn't prepared her to recognize and diagnose the bubonic plague.
"You going to be okay, Rog?" Brian asks, peering over at me, worriedly. This the first time I've been out of bed in days, and all the makeup in the world can't cover up how sickly I look.
I grunt in response, afraid that if I move a muscle, I'll be sick again. The door opens to reveal Skylar, who rushes over with a new supply of cream crackers and some sort of homeopathic something that she swears will work miracles. With everyone in the room watching, she puts two effervescent tablets in a plastic cup and adds water.
"Drink," she instructs, handing me the cup. Reluctantly, I prop myself up on one elbow and take a cautious sip.
"Well, the good news," Deaky says, "Is that if you toss your cookies during the show, all of England will see it." He may have been about to continue but is interrupted by a magazine hitting his head.
"How supremely unhelpful," Freddie says from the corner of the room where he and Mary are curled up on the sofa. I couldn't help but notice that they seem more distant than usual. She's on edge, and he's more cagey than usual.
"I'll be fine," I grumble. "We've all played gigs whilst ill."
And it's true, all four of us have risen to the challenge over the past few years. Freddie with his laryngitis, Brian with his infected arm, John with his syphilis.
Just kidding.
The door opens again, and our manager sticks his head in, his eyes roving around the room before they land on me.
"Are we good?" he asks in his lilting Scottish brogue. "Will we have drums as part of tonight's performance?"
"We're good," I reply, sitting up slowly. My stomach roils, and my headache threatens to overtake my vision. Skylar reaches out and grasps my hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
"Fabulous," he responds cheerily. "Because you're on in five."
The other three hasten to do last-minute wardrobe checks. Freddie peers into the mirror and wipes an extra smudge of eyeliner from the corner of his eye. He straightens the skin-tight satin pants so that it falls just right.
As for me, I just sit there and will myself to stand. Usually, I would have spent the past half-hour stretching my wrists and warming up my voice. I also would have sound checked properly and tuned my drums myself instead of leaving the tech to do it.
But I've done none of that, and I'm genuinely worried that this gig will go tits up.
Skylar moves closer--cautiously I'm sure, because who would want to be infected with this scourge?--and wraps an arm around my shoulder.
"Time to take a calculated risk, my love," she says with the beginnings of a smile on her face. We look at each other for a moment before an unspoken 1-2-3 has me standing upright. I take a few deep breaths and decide that maybe--just maybe--I can do this.
"They're ready for you," a roadie says from the doorway. "It's time."
I take another deep breath, centering myself. We walk in a ragtag line towards the stage door, through which I can see the excited faces of thousands of fans. Usually, we enter the stage amidst a burst of smoke, dry ice, and flashing lights, but for tonight's performance, we're just going to walk on.
"You're in for a real Christmas treat," Bob Harris says into the microphone at stage left. The crowd stamps their feet and cheers wildly.
"What I wouldn't do for some special effects right now," Brian says, sounding nervous. "We're just supposed to... go out there?"
My heart starts to pound, my head roaring. Can I do this? As in, can I literally get through this? My drum kit seems so far away--like I'll have to hike Mount Everest to get there. I console myself with the fact that I'll be hidden away for 98% of the show anyway.
Taking a deep breath, I steal a glance over at Freddie. He briefly meets my gaze, a nervous look in his eyes. At first, I think that he's concerned that I'll fuck it all up, but, after a moment, I realize that he's just as nervous as the rest of us. This moment is huge: We're about to perform live for all of Britain. The stakes have never been higher.
I nod silently to Freddie, who nods back before stretching his arms behind his back.
"Back here in their hometown--" Bob announces grandly into the mic.
From behind, Skylar pulls me close. "I love you," she whispers in my ear as the crowd goes wild. A familiar rush of adrenaline courses through my body, and a surge of self-confidence overtakes me just before I bolt out onto the stage.
"--Ladies and gentlemen, Queen!"