By the time I finally awoke, night had fallen hard and the sun was gone.  With a sigh I removed my journal from my eyes, to find the most beautiful spread of indigo sparsely flecked with bright, silvery white stars stretched above my head.  In the very middle shone the perfect white wafer that was the moon.  Evening had cooled the air, which made lounging outside much more pleasant.

I checked the balcony door handle, which of course was also locked.  Freddie hadn't come back yet; I peered into the windows and saw no lights in the hall.  I picked myself up off the balcony. 

Naturally, I started to fret, wondering how he would behave once finding me.  Freddie might indeed report me this time.  Or else, perhaps he'd think it indescribably comical that I should come crawling back to him, and therefore laugh me into oblivion. 

Worrying about what might be or might not be won't help, I told myself.  Worry eats holes in your stomach.  He might not be back for hours yet. 

I remembered for once that I actually wore a watch and squinted at it.  Nine forty-nine.  The night was just beginning in Freddie-land.  I stood to stretch my legs.

And the sleek Silver Shadow pulled up to the flat. 

Crap!  I ducked back down, watched through the bars as the car halted by Freddie's door.  Rudy hopped out of the front and hustled around to the back to open the passenger door.  Out stepped the man himself.  From my angle I couldn't read his face, but he looked like he was in a hurry to get inside.  Was he being followed?  I mean, by someone besides me.  But no other autos rounded the corner.

The front door didn't shut.  Odd.  Inside, the hall light flicked on.  He was running up the stairs; faintly I heard the thump-thump-thump of his feet ascending to my level.  Grabbing my journal, I swung myself over the balcony and more or less fell to the ground, unhurt.  I didn't want him to know I'd been up there that long.  Too late I remembered my shoes, but I'd kicked them to the side, and so weren't immediately in view from the window.

All of a sudden I felt at least three pairs of eyes boring into the back of my neck.  I turned to see three men (including Rudy) in the car, two of them whooping and shouting slurred, unintelligible things.  My jaw dropped.  No!  I'd been spotted! 

"Oi, Freddie!" the one with a face like a plum pudding called.  "Get out here!  'S a intruder!"

"Do something, man!"  The other guy poked Rudy's headrest. 

Rudy didn't move.  He just watched me to see what my next move would be.  And, since the flat door was indeed ajar, and Pudding Face was yelling at me to explain myself, I hotfooted up the steps and dove into the flat. 

No doubt that Pudding Face and/or the other guy - a good-looking black fellow with a loud, cackling laugh - would give me away once Freddie came back down.  All I could do right now was hide.  I crept into the dining room and ducked beside the table. 

His footsteps came down much slower than they had gone up.  I peeked over the top of the long table, waited till he walked into view.  At last he reached the foot of the stairs, and I could get a better look at him.  In spite of myself I smiled.  It was good to see him again.

Clearly Freddie hadn't found what he was looking for; angst that had shown on his face after the Tony Parsons interview sharpened his features again.  But it wasn't angry angst, there was no horrid chill.  No protective mask.  Just a very real sadness.  His eyes were lowered, his hand resting quietly on the railing. 

"Damn," he whispered.  "Bloody f---ing hell.  How stupid could-"

Then Pudding Face and Cackles burst through the door and shattered this introspective moment. "Are you okay, Fred?" Cackles asked breathlessly.

"Guys, I told you I'd be right back," Freddie said.  "I know you missed me but sometimes I just need to-"

"Quiet, we're not alone," Pudding Face ordered, his Irish brogue showing through.  I almost fell over.  Who was this guy, thinking he could order Freddie around like that?

Freddie turned to Cackles.  "What's he shitting himself about, Peter?"

Atta boy, Fred.  So Cackles is Peter?  Let's see, Peter, Peter... Oh, now I know!  It's that darn cat Straker!  That's why he looks familiar.  Who's Pudding Face though? 

"There's someone sneaked in here," Peter said. 

"Really?"  Freddie turned to Pudding Face for confirmation, his eyes wide- and, from where I saw, hopeful.

"Yeah, some UGLY little c---," Pudding Face said in a loud voice.  

I seethed, I don't know who you are, you Irish prick, but I hate you. 

Even Freddie looked horrified.  "The f--- was that?" 

"I can only tell the truth, Freddie dear."  He smiled a sick, reptilian smile.

Freddie scowled and turned back to Peter.  "Are you any more help?  What's she look like?"

Peter was impressed.  "Whoa.  How'd you know it was a she?"

"Fifty-fifty shot."

"Oh, well, she's got long brown hair, dressed stylishly.  And I think she was barefoot.  That's all I got."

"Really,"  he said softly.

"And she just dropped down out of nowhere," Peter went on.  "I think she was up on your balcony."

"Really."  Freddie's hands now were confidently planted on his hips.  He gazed through and past Pudding Face, his eyes glazing over. 

"Hadn't you better call the police?" Pudding Face suggested impatiently.  "She might be some renegade guerrilla journalist!  You know how hot those buggers are for a juicy tidbit.  They'll do anything!"

"She's no journalist," Freddie said to himself.

"Wait.  You know her?"

My host snapped back to reality, and crooned in that fancy tone we all know so well, the one he saved for his dandy friends, "My dear ladies, I shall deal with the girl myself.  You two go pick up David for me and I'll meet you at the club after I take care of her."

"Call the bobbies already!" Pudding Face demanded.  "Th' little p---y could be dangerous!"

Freddie whirled on him.  "F--- off, Paul!  I know what I'm doing!"

Paul!  Not the Paul?  Not Paul Prenter?  Not yet another (and perhaps even the very worst) lowlife that paved the way for Freddie's demise?  Ooo, now I was feeling it.  In my mind I screamed, Get out of here, you ugly bastard!  But Paul stood there and stared Freddie down, which made Freddie roll his eyes.

"I'll call them after I find her," he explained.  "How's that?"

"I'll help you look for her," Paul stated.

"No, my love, you're coming with me to get sweet Mr. Minsy!" Peter trilled in a very annoying falsetto.  "We mustn't keep the poor dear waiting!"  He took Paul's arm and led him outside before he could protest. 

Freddie walked over to close the door, when Paul shouted something at him.  "What?  Huh?  Oh, yes, I promise, I'm a man of my word."

"So am I," Paul hollered back.  Freddie thought this was a laugh riot, threw back his head and guffawed.  Yet in my ears, the words rang as ominously prophetic. 

Click.  The door closed.  Freddie stood by the threshold a couple of minutes, looking up the staircase.  I took shallower breaths so he wouldn't hear me.  After a moment he rubbed his shoulder, wincing.  I was reminded of those unfortunate comments he'd made about last night. 

I thought for sure he would begin tearing the place apart trying to find me again.  Paul and Peter (and David Minsy?) didn't seem like the kind who'd willingly wait.  Instead, he strolled out of view into the living room.  He's being strangely calm about this.  He knows I'm here.  Why doesn't he act on it?  Then it occurred to me, he was playing head games.  By not searching for me, he's defying expectation, inciting my curiosity, and therefore luring me out.  Genius! 

A couple minutes later, sweet piano music filled the flat.  What could I do but take the bait. 

As if in glass slippers did I delicately creep out of the dining room and peep in at Freddie, who sat slightly hunched over his black grand piano, hands flying over the keys.  He had his back to me, so I could watch him a little less carefully.  He was playing his stream of consciousness: he began with a heavenly chromatic scale reaching both ends of the piano, then crashed into the first few bars of "We Are the Champions," before tiring of that and playing some operatic aria that sounded like Verdi.  It went on from there.

Now's a good time; maybe I can slip up to my room without him noticing, I thought to myself.  I'm starving, and not emotionally prepared for any further confrontation.  And so I heel-toed it toward the steps, slowly walking up. 

And, of course, when I was about halfway to the second floor, Oscar popped up from the couch and saw me.  He scrambled toward me and meowed.  Distracted by the orange menace (not really, I loved that little guy), I lost my balance, tripped and knocked backward into the railing.  Thump.

Freddie didn't even pause playing as he said, very coolly, "So where have you been?"

I rocked back onto my feet.  Well.  That was anticlimactic.  But I'll play along.

I said, "Are you talking to me?"

"No, I'm talking to Tiffany.  Come here."

I had to check on my backpack, make sure he hadn't destroyed everything.  "Just a minute."

"No, now."

"Say please."

Freddie looked up, met my eyes.  "Now... please."

That was more like it.  I scooped Oscar up into my arms and came back down.  My allergies really had calmed down since the first day; his fur simply tickled my nose, where before a cat this close to my face would have started an endless sneeze attack.

I walked up to his side and stood quietly.  I listened as the music melted into a new song, one I'd never heard before.  It vaguely reminded me of "Jealousy" in the manner it progressed, but with a much more flowing, connected rhythm and not that one-one-two, generic brand drum beat that he excelled in during the 80s.  This instrumental piece was exquisite; I wondered why it never found its way onto an album.

Abruptly he stopped, spun himself around on the bench.  "So tell me, where have you been all day?"

I blinked.  "Um, I was... out."

"Where did you go?"

I half-smiled.  "Who wants to know?"

Freddie sighed through his nose, cementing the notion that now really wasn't a good time. 

"I just walked around," I said in all honesty.

"Mm," he nodded, and patted the space beside him on the bench.  "Have a seat."

I sat down, and he situated himself in front of the keys once more, but his eyes were on mine. 

"You don't seem very surprised to see me," I blurted.  Smooth move, Julia.  Played right into his hands.

"Well, I'm not, you know.  You were bound to come back.  You're very predictable like that."

"Oh, was I?" Again, that dig at my pride.  But I had had enough spats for one day.  For the most part, I let it go.

"Well, yeah.  You left all your things."  He pointed upstairs.

"I did.  Are you saying I should go get them?"

"No.  That is, unless you really do think I'm dirt under your feet."

"When did I ever say that?"

'You didn't.  I did.  Remember?  I said you should leave if you think that little of me."

"I don't think little of you at all.  I think you're wonderful."  The second sentence left my lips without my permission, but I couldn't take it back without looking like a jerk.

Freddie's face remained motionless, yet I saw the smile shining in his eyes.  "And, anyway, it would have been a shame if you didn't come back.  You see, I, um, I think I'm getting used to you being around.  Cooking for me, things like that."

"Oh yeah?" I felt myself blush.

"Yeah.  You've spoiled me rotten."

"Oh, no.  That damage was done long before I ever stumbled into the picture," I smiled.  "I am sorry about Mary though.  Did you guys work it out?"

He nodded.  "Yeah, we're all right."

Very gently, I pressed, "What did you tell her?"

"What, about you?  Oh, I simply backed up everything you said.  We're lucky you at least tell the truth."

Ha, yes, sometimes I surprise even myself, I remarked.

Freddie paused a moment, looked ready to say something, but he talked himself out of it and turned back to the piano.  He started playing, eyes focused on the ivories, but his mouth was twitching with unspoken words. 

Suddenly I recognized the song he was playing.  It was an older, rather melancholy tune of Elton John's, one of my very favorites.  "Spanish Harlem are not just pretty words to say..."

Freddie glanced at me.  I closed my mouth, embarrassed.  I didn't realize I'd started singing out in front of this rock god.

"It's all right.  Keep going," he purred.

My cheeks burned, but I did as I was told, though softly.  "I thought I knew/ but now I know that rose trees never grow in New York City..."

Now he was smiling like he meant it.  I don't think he expected me to hit the low C.  My voice became stronger.  "Until you've seen this trash can dream come true/ you stand at the edge, while people run you through..."

Suddenly two voices sang the next line together: "And I thank the Lord there's people out there like you-"  I turned, and he was grinning right at me.  We sang it again, this time pointing playfully at each other on "you."

We sang the whole five minutes of "Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters," harmonizing on the chorus ("Okay, take the top line, I'll do the low notes," Freddie directed), and trading lines on the next verses.  It startled me, how nicely Freddie's and my voices blended, till I recalled with delight the seven years I'd spent training myself on his songs.  Thank God, I have at least something to show for so long obsessing over him. 

Something happened during this song.  I can't put my finger on exactly when, or what the two of us were doing, but our relationship changed.  Whatever it was, by the end of the song, I'd accepted his unspoken apology for that morning, and our mutual angry shots were forgiven and forgotten.  Before I knew it, Freddie had stopped being just my wisecracking host with loose (to say the least) morals, was no longer just my obsession in a younger day.  We clicked, and a lasting rapport was formed.

When it was over, Freddie and I looked at each other and laughed happily.  "Not bad," he said.  "Next time we'll get the mandolin in there."

"If you got a guitar, I can muddle through," I offered.

"You play guitar?"

"I know how to play it.  I just can't play very well."

"Join the club, dear.  I know three chords." 

I started to get up from the bench when Freddie drew me back down. 

"I'm glad you're back," he said.

I looked down shyly.  "You mean it?"

"Of course I do," Freddie replied, and then I noticed the gleam.  "After all, I haven't eaten anything all day and you still owe me an omelet."

Ah, yes.  Leave it to Freddie.  What would he say next?  "I guess that means you aren't going to report me tonight either, huh?  Like you promised your friends?"

"Oh, don't worry about those old ladies, they can wait," he dismissed.  "I want food, and you probably haven't eaten either, have you?" I shook my head.  "My darling, you are so helpless when left on your own."

"I know, I know, I'm a danger to myself."

"You said it, not me."

I laughed, overjoyed that we were back in each other's good graces.  I threw my arms around his neck.  "Oh, Freddie, I don't deserve you."

In return, Freddie held me around my waist.  I pulled back and hesitated in moving any further.  I noticed how near our faces were; all I could see were those black, almond-shaped gems.  A new glimmer danced in them.  It disturbed me somewhat.  He lightly chuckled; I suddenly realized his face was moving closer, his head bending to my lips.  The eyes closed.

And despite the dizziness setting in, I leaned back and squirmed out of his grasp. 

"I, um, think I'd better get that omelet started."  My eyes lowered, I ran quickly for the kitchen so he didn't see how my body was trembling and therefore get the wrong idea.

"And I," Freddie answered deadpan from the other room, "am going to have a nice, tall, mind-f---ing drink and question my existence.  Care to join me?"

"I'm good.  Thanks, though."

He sighed.  "Right."

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

Day 5 (cont.)  We're on good terms again.  I guess today wasn't the day to bear a grudge.  I made us omelets like he wanted- special omelets fit for Freddie: heavy on the ham, super cheesy, and more than just a sprinkle of red pepper.  Halfway through our dinner, Pudding Prenter- I mean, Paul Pudding- I mean, Plum Paulter (okay, okay, I'm all punchy again, and I didn't even have a vodka like Freddie offered)- Mr. Prenter called Freddie and demanded he get his arse down there wherever they were.  I could be wrong, but Freddie didn't seem too excited to leave.  But he did. 
I'm just happy we're not fighting anymore.

NFOs: Freddie is acquiescent to Paul Prenter even now.  It's nothing like it will be, but Prenter is arranging his chess pieces, the smart little two-faced warthog.  (But again, I don't like Paul Prenter, so I guess that's a sort of bias I'm displaying which I give you people full permission to ignore.)  From what I can see, Peter Straker's not a big deal.  He's just annoying as heck.  But if only there was a way to covertly tell Freddie what an evil squirt he's got in his circle. I wish, I wish so badly.  Freddie's such a delight, for all his warts.  I wish.

I paused, read what I'd just written, arched my eyebrow, then decided it wasn't all that opinionated (HA!) and continued with just a little bit more:

Also: What is this magic of his?  What is this charm?  How does he do it?  It seems the longer I'm with Freddie, the more questions I have.  How can he even go through each day being as he is?  And what is this feeling I got, when he was holding me after the Elton song?  I know kisses are a matter of course for him, but why did the concept make my heart leap?  I have to be careful.  I must be careful.  And I want to tell him so much to be careful.  The world needs those beautiful eyes.  And that voice.  And his laugh, and his heart, and his-

I threw my pen across the room, suddenly aware of what I was saying.  Of course I didn't mean any of it. I was just tired.  That was it.  Don't forget, he's on and off.  Mean, then nice.  Mean, nice. It had been a long day.  Nothing more. 

I went to bed repeating these words over and over in my brain.

But a small, meek, unimposing voice somewhere deep inside myself told a different story.