I said I would turn Freddie's flat upside down.  Well, I did.  As soon as I'd cleaned up the kitchen (and the roast chicken was delicious, if I do say so myself, even Freddie proclaimed it excellent), I attacked the couch cushions, scoured the shelves, peered under the furniture.  I checked the cabinets, and even glanced into the freezer in case I'd been so dense as to store the Relic there for future freshness. 

The search halted for the night as I caught up with Day 3's happenings in my journal, and continued again early the next morning, because when your existence hangs in the balance of whether or not you find your phone, you don't sleep too soundly.

When Freddie came downstairs, I still hadn't given up.  I'd shoved myself behind the entertainment center to such a degree that the only visible parts of me were the bottom part of my striped pajamas and my bare feet. 

A shadow fell over me.  Squinting up, I found Freddie's silhouette looming in front of my light. 

"Good morning," he said. 

"Hi!  Did I wake you?"

"No, I just felt like getting up early.  Found the buried treasure yet?"

"Not yet, I started the tea, it should be boiling in a minute or two," I said, pointing at the kitchen. 

He folded his arms.  "Eve.  You're not wearing those slippers I bought you."

I rolled my eyes.  Is this important, Freddie?  Does this look like a good time?  "I don't wear slippers."

"You don't?"

"No.  I'd go barefoot everywhere if I could, even in public."

"Why didn't you say something?"

I tried to sit up, and failed.  "I did.  You just weren't listening."

He shifted out of the light's way and knelt down by my defenseless feet.  "You really should. Wear slippers, I mean.  They're great protection."

I knew as soon as I asked this, I was done for.  "From what?"

"From evil people who do this." 

Freddie ran his finger along the arch of my foot.  I couldn't stand it.  I'm not even ticklish anywhere else, but my feet, especially my arches, are my Achilles heel (no pun intended).  I kicked at him. 

"Well, at least we know your reflexes work," he said thoughtfully.  And kept tickling me.

"You dog!  Stop!  This is serious-" I gasped, waving my feet in the air so he couldn't touch them. 

He sighed, grabbed my left foot and did his worst.  "You have such a sexy way of flailing about.  How do you do it?"

"Oh!" was all I could splutter- not out of anger, but because I couldn't keep myself from laughing.  Then I realized I couldn't sit up and I cried, "Why don't you do something useful for once and help me out of here?"

"All right, all right."  Freddie stood and put his hand out.  I took it and he pulled me back upright.  I found that his hair was tousled, he hadn't shaved, and he wore nothing but a robe (or as the English say, a dressing gown) under which his bare chest was half-exposed.  He'd probably just rolled out of bed.  Still, I couldn't help thinking he looked cute this way.

"Thanks," I growled facetiously.

He beamed, saying, "Where would you be without me, darling?"

I made a big show of not wanting to answer that.  "I'll, ahem, go and make the tea now."

I rushed into the kitchen where the teapot shrieked like a banshee.  Freddie had shown me on Day 2 how to put together a proper cup of tea.  On this fourth day, though I had it down pretty pat, I missed my father's coffee back home.  Tea's great and all, but I'll stick to my cup of Joe with two sugar cubes and a spot of cream.

But tea in the morning was a small price to pay as opposed to sleeping on a park bench somewhere.  I switched on the radio, and heard Donna Summer doing what she did best, singing "I Feel Love" against Giorgio Moroder's trailblazing synth programs.  I'd forgotten we were in the apex of the disco era, and while most disco bores me to death, I loved this song.

"What would you like for breakfast?" I asked Freddie, who was taking the cups out of the cabinet.

 "I'm not too hungry this morning.  You can make me an omelet or something tomorrow."

"Assuming you let me stick around that long, right?"

"Right.  I may turn you in still, though I'm pretty sure you'd have a hard time getting all your clothes and stuff into the cell.  Maybe I can reserve a suite for you."  Face deadpan, but eyes otherwise, he plucked a ripe, yellow banana from the bunch.

"You and your bananas," I smiled, and sang under my breath, "Ooo, so good, it's so good..."

"You know this song?" Freddie asked.

"Oh, yes, I love Giorgio Moroder.  Not so much Donna Summer, but Moroder is the best." I said, then realized I could be giving myself away by spouting so much about so new a song.  I mustn't get careless.  I know it's been three full days now, but I need to stay in control. 

Freddie didn't notice, too busy was he stirring his tea.  He said through bites of banana, "It only came out a couple of days ago.  I heard it in the car coming back last night."

"Do you like it?"

"I love the beat, but on the whole it's a bit, um, repetitive for my taste," he said.  "I can't see myself writing a song like this."

Give it four years, Freddie, I thought.  You will.  Give it seven, you'll be working side by side with this guy.

He went on, "Funny, I never would have pegged you as a disco girl."

I shook my head.  "I'm not, really.  Disco girls dance.  I can't."

His eyes gleamed.  "Prove it."

"Oh, no.  I haven't had my tea yet."

"I'm sure you're a wonderful dancer.  You don't give yourself enough credit."

I shrugged.  "You going into the studio today?"

"I am.  How about you?"

"I'm continuing my quest for the Relic.  I'm going to go back to the stores and ask around, see if any Good Samaritans brought it to the front."

"So it didn't turn up?"

I shook my head.  "I've looked everywhere but your room, and I know beyond a doubt it's not there."

"Why wouldn't it be there?"

"Because it's the one place I haven't trespassed."

Freddie again looked shocked.  "Not once?"

"Not once.  It's your bedroom, I don't have the right."  To myself I added, I could walk in and see something that I really didn't want to see, so I'm just staying out of it.

I think he might have been a little disappointed.  "Don't you ever do anything risky, dear?"

"Not if I can help it.  I've got a life plan."

"Forget a life plan.  Life doesn't like plans.  You need a vice.  I'm going to find you one."

"You have my permission to give me a vice as soon as I find the Relic.  Deal?"

"What if you don't find it?"

"Oh, God, Freddie, don't say that, don't even think it," I murmured with a shudder.  The tracker round my neck was still dead.  My stomach flipped as I again considered the very real chance of the worst-case scenario.

Freddie put his hand, warm from holding the cup of tea, over mine.  "I'm sorry, Evie.  I didn't mean it like that.  I don't want to frighten you." 

"You don't have to.  I'm already frightened."  Behold, probably the most honest thing I'd said to Freddie yet.

"Darling," he purred, putting his arms around me once more.  His cheek was rough and scratchy against mine; I loved it.  The feeling, of course, not him.  I'm weird like that.  It could have been from anyone, just simple physical responses.  But it helped.

"It's all right," I said, pushing away from him a bit.  "Of course, I know what this is.  It's karma."

"How could this possibly be karma?"

"This is what I get for not going to church yesterday."

"There!  You see?  If you sin big a little more, God won't notice the small stuff quite so much and then things like this won't happen."  He snapped his fingers as if that explained everything.

I laughed, "I'm not sure that's how it works, Freddie-"

"Yeah, yeah, well that's how it ought to work, anyway.  But my God, we've got to get you to remember to break the rules.  I can't do it all for you, you know!"

****************************************************************************************

Day 4:  My favor du jour: I addressed and stamped and sent off formal invitations for some sort of party Freddie is hosting in a week or so.  I'm kind of a jack of all trades lately.  I almost feel useful.

Relic is still missing.  I've been everywhere twice in a row, it feels like.  Every time I've seen a department store, like Harrods or any of those other places, I get this impulse to run in there and ask if anybody's found a cell phone (as if anyone knows what that is). I may develop OCD because of this, and Dr. K, that will all be on you.  I've spent hours retracing my steps of yesterday.  I'm okay if after this is said and done, I never see another JCPenney or Macy's or anything like that as long as I live.  But I'm terrified I won't-

Sitting in the back of a cab, I furiously rubbed out the last five words, then continued, striving for optimism:

I can't give up.  There's still such things as miracles.  But I'm on borrowed time here, and I don't want to know what Freddie will do when he finally tires of me. 

N.F.O.s: He loves bananas.  At this stage, not crazy about synth programs.  This will change in a matter of years.  A very willing comforter when I get upset.  Complete logic-free zone, says things that make no sense whatsoever and somehow gets away with it.  And he smells like licorice.

I stopped, squinted at the last sentence I'd written.  It was true, Freddie did smell like licorice.  I'd discovered that when he hugged me that morning.  But why was that necessary to write down?  I didn't even like licorice.

But it's not too bad on him.  Not bad at all.  Mmmm.

"What am I saying?" I cried aloud. 

"Miss?" said the cabbie.

"Oh, sorry, nothing," I muttered, and tucked my journal into my backpack.  I was making one last stop before heading back to Freddie's flat.  I highly doubted I'd come away successful there, but I was leaving no stone unturned.

At last, the cab arrived.  "Wessex Studio," my driver announced. 

I thanked him and paid him his dues (and if you're wondering where I was getting all this money to do everything I was doing, Freddie was giving me a kind of an allowance for things like cab fare, which I found to be very awkward since I make my money, I don't like being given it; I didn't want Freddie to be my sugar daddy, but at this point I guess he sort of was). 

When I entered, however, I saw the studio was open, and from within all these excited voices were talking at once. I tiptoed to the doorway and very carefully peeked inside. 

"There's another one, Bri!" Roger's voice whistled.

"Perfect.  Grab him!" he shouted through the intercom.

Next thing I knew, Roger was barreling toward me.  "Hey, can we borrow you a mome-" he began, before he recognized me.  His eyes lit up.  "Eve!  Fantastic to see you!  Come with me."

"What's going on?"  I asked as he dragged me through the control room. 

"We need your feet," he said. 

"My feet?"

"And your hands." 

"Why not take all of me?" I sang- a very corny joke, I decided.  But Roger didn't immediately answer.  We were now standing in the recording area, along with about fifteen other people, most of whom were perched upon the drum risers. Others balanced upon boards.

Now Roger turned, grinned his wide white grin, and said, "If you're good, I will."

He looked like he intended to say (or do) more, but Brian interrupted.  "Okay, there's room for one more up here in the corner.  Come on, love.  Set your things down over there.  Good.  Now, if you'll just stand up here by this lovely lady, we'll be golden."

Brian had me stand next to that receptionist who'd been so terse with me when I stopped at Wessex with the wine.  I smiled at her, and she looked back at me as if I had two heads.  I sighed.  Life's too short, dearie.

"Are we taking pictures?" I asked aloud.  I saw John on the other end of the risers.  I waved.  For a minute he looked startled to see me, then waved back. 

Now Brian clapped his hands for attention.  "Right.  Now, let's go over this again.  Very simple.  When that light in the corner turns on, Roger's going to count off one, two, three, four.  And then, just follow me.  When you hear the buzzer, stop.  Are we clear?  Splendid.  Let's do it one time for practice."

Where's Freddie?  I wondered to myself.  I craned my neck, looking for him, till finally I spotted him in the recording booth.  What gives?  Why isn't he out here with the rest?  Four days I've been with this guy and I haven't even seen him in action yet. 

Roger's raspy voice snapped me back into focus.  "One, two, three, four!"

Everyone started stomping.  For one split second I was confused.  In the very next it all made sense.  And I nearly died of excitement.

Stomp-Stomp-Clap.

Stomp-Stomp-Clap.

Oh, God, YES! 

I don't ever use the word "stoked" the way my generation uses it.  I'd never had reason to till that moment.  Because man, I was so stoked, I squealed like a little girl. 

And everyone heard it.  Brian whirled, stopping the practice run, and all the faces turned to look at me.  But I was on another plane of consciousness.

That is, until the intercom crackled, and Freddie's voice filled the room.  "Hi, Eve."

My cheeks were on fire, but I still waved coquettishly.  A few people tittered.

"Dear, we're not putting vocals on this track yet, but thanks for the impromptu there," he said.

I gave him a thumbs up.  Brian rolled his eyes.  I don't think he ever cared too much for me.  But that's fine.  They still let me stay.

Taking a deep breath, Brian then said, "All right.  This is the real one.  No squeals, please."

"One, two, three, four!"

This time, I did it right.  I was about to bust apart at the seams, but I kept it together until they were satisfied with the cut, which was about nine takes later.  Bloody perfectionists.

But I was there.  And I can tell you now, with God as my witness, that every time you hear "We Will Rock You" and the thunder of fifteen pairs of feet booms through your stereo, two of those feet belong to me.  Two of those clapping hands are fastened to my wrists. 

Therein is my claim to fame: I was among the first to perform "We Will Rock You." 

And it was solely because of this unparalleled euphoria, what I did as soon as I got home...