I used to wonder what the worst feeling in the world was. A certain day in October 1980 told me it was knowing Freddie Mercury heard me having very vocal morning sex. Leaving my bedroom with messy hair and only wearing a loose fitting shirt and underwear, seeing the wide grin of an unexpected guest in our house said it all.

"I was going to check if you were awake but my ears told me you definitely are." Freddie had made himself at home. Shoes at the door, bare feet on our couch, he was spread out, going through my record stash while sucking back on a cigarette.

"I take it Mr Frisky is awake?" He smirked at me as I sat in the white leather recliner across from him, keeping my legs closely together.

"Mr Frisky has only just gone to bed. He was up all night in that bloody recording studio. You want breakfast?"

Roger's kitchen was the very opposite of mine. A white stone island bench, gas cooktop, two door fridge, a walk-in cupboard so spacious you could fit four or five people in it, a sink with duel mixer taps and the dining suite of a dream. Mine, on the other hand, had an L shaped bench with a breakfast bar, complete with tattered blue laminex coming off in the corners, an oversize electric stove and oven (perfect for late night cake making, though), a bashed up old refrigerator with more dents than white paint, a small sink with a caravan-style cold water pump tap and a cupboard that fitted the essentials and nothing more.

Ballet-ing myself around, cracking eggs and sizzling bacon, Freddie sat watching, his smile flashing past his thick "cookie duster" as we affectionately called it. There were many other names I used for it, Roger's favourite being "womb broom", but Cookie Duster really stuck. Razor sharp cheekbones and short brown hair, Fred had a smile like nothing I'd seen before. True childlike happiness and wonder.

"What are you even doing up and about at nine AM, anyway?" I asked, jamming bread in the toaster.

"I heard a certain pregnant lady is going to get a baby check today and I thought I might see if you needed anyone with you. For emotional support."

I nearly choked on my water.

"You want to come and emotionally support me while a colleague prods my vagina and listens to my baby's heartbeat?" I couldn't help but laugh a little bit, thinking about how out of place Fred would look. He simply nodded, grabbing dry toast out of the toaster and reaching for the butter and knife next to the sink.

"You'll have to beef it out with Roger. I ain't getting involved."
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Lying on a bed with my top pulled up, Roger on my right side and Freddie at my feet, I still to this day cannot begin to fathom the situation. I can't imagine what poor Nicola was going through, trying to remain professional whilst answering all of Freddie's questions about the first trimester. I was too busy trying to keep Roger from fainting to deal with him. Poor thing, surrounded by birth canal and womb diagrams and equipment that was foreign to him.

"Ooh! What's this for?" Freddie spun around on his desk chair, holding a rectal bulb syringe. Nicola burst out laughing and I let out a small giggle. Both boys in utter confusion, I had to offer an explanation.

"It's an enema syringe."

Blank stares.

"It goes up your arse."

Freddie soon dropped his new toy, gaining a face of stone, and sat silently for the rest of the visit. Roger, however, found it really damn funny that "You were the dipshit touching it, Fred!"

As Nicola announced it was time to listen to the heartbeat, Roger positioned himself with his elbows on the edge of the bed, both hands gently holding my right wrist and hand. He kissed my shoulder, surprisingly calmly and gently, and placed my fist to his lips. The cold metal pinard horn rested on my stomach, the entire room inhaled.

Nothing.
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Roger's sanctuary is his recording studio. It's a different galaxy. To everyone else, it's just a shed with soundproof rooms filled with musical instruments and microphones, usually littered with rejected lyrical poems consisting of dreams of cars and slamming society. As soon as he walked in the door, anger usually disappeared.

Not tonight.

He couldn't stop thinking "is it my fault?" Over and over again, as if it would answer the question we both knew was lurking in the dark. After driving Freddie home from an almost silent lunch, he had no intention of coming into the house unless absolutely necessary, as if avoidance magically solved our issue. I wish it had.

Wrapping myself up in the his bathrobe, I slowly made my way through the dewy grass in bare feet towards the shed, a hot chocolate and marshmallows in my hands. Roger stood up as I walked in, smiling weakly.

"It's still hot." I whispered, setting our midnight snack on the table near the soundboard. I instinctively placed my hand on my abdomen as I sat down, watching Roger drop marshmallows in our drinks.

"What does it mean, Luce? I thought he was meant to have a heartbeat at this stage."

"I dunno, baby. Could be a failed pregnancy. Could be that I'm not as far pregnant as we thought." I offered. Handing me my drink without looking at me, Roger uncoordinatedly plopped himself beside me.

When I thought having Freddie hearing me screaming Roger's name was the worst feeling in the world, I was wrong. It's knowing my body was failing to give Roger something we both knew he wanted.