Castles Made of Sand (9 page)

Fiorinda was having nothing to do with either of them. If rumour could be trusted, she spent the night in a hospitality benders, with Cafren Free of DARK and/or three or four husky and thrilled male crewpersons.

It could only be a matter of time before things went horribly public.

The last Saturday of May was invite-only Dance Night at the Blue Lagoon. Snake Eyes were playing, the Few were to be there in force. It would be a private gala, and everyone was hoping it would be more fun than Mayday. In the afternoon Ax called Fiorinda to say he couldn’t make it. She decided to go by herself, took the train and flagged a taxi at Reading station, dressed in her best and feeling defiant.

‘I had that boyfriend of yours in the back of my cab the other day—’

Oh yeah, thought Fiorinda. Which one? The one who dumped me, or the one who’s too busy saving the world? The people of Reading were privileged: they didn’t have to pretend the Few were invisible. Equally, the Few didn’t have to be polite. The driver met a stony, glacial stare in his rear mirror and shut up until they hit Richfield Avenue.

‘Blue Gate, Fiorinda?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Drop me here.’

The taste-free Leisure Centre buildings were being demolished, to make way for something…not yet fully worked out. The tented township stretched into the distance, drainage ditches twinkling, nylon hummocks and teepees, turf-roofed shanties and lake-village platforms; the firetowers with their banners standing out like marker bouys on a rainbow sea. She took off her shoes and walked barefoot through the site gates, where chickens scratched, every conceivable support was festooned with tomato vines.

What a
hideous mess
we made here, in Dissolution Summer. Dear Lord, we reached new depths. My God, the mud, my God, the cans, the trashed cars, the plastic fires, the streaming middens of human excrement. What a way to start an eco-friendly revolution. Yet there was logic in it. The kids came to the rock festivals, trusting little lambs, and had their own souls sold back to them, bubble-packed; and I remember what a feeling it was to break out of that damned trap. No sense,
no reason
, no ideology. Just NO, actually. No, I won’t shuffle obediently into the slaughterhouse, not today, thank you. There’s this plate-glass window saying
throw a chair at me.
It was mad and stupid, filthy and infantile, nothing built on it can possibly last, and I’m still glad I was there.

In the arena she stopped to put her shoes on and stood for a moment gazing: the Counterculture’s rockstar Titania in a froth of cream tulle over gilded net petticoats, peacock feather mandalas scattered over her bodice and skirts. Her subjects parted around her, smiling and respectful. She didn’t notice. She was trying to see this place as it had been one evening in July, years ago. A sunset, red and gold. A road-worn, angry little girl, too scared to use her backstage pass, lost in the crowd, looking for a friend.

The sky over the Thames valley was pale and mild, with rafts of lemony cloud. Another rockstar party had arrived and was moving through the staybehinds. In the midst, like a prince among his courtiers, strolled a very tall blue-eyed blond, magnificently built yet slender, hands in his pockets, moving like a dancer, and wearing an extremely beautiful suit, sand-coloured, with a glitter of gold in it.

The Heads saw Fiorinda and came straight over. They lined up: Sage in the sand-colour, George Merrick big and broad and ruggedly goodlooking in slate-blue, Bill aquiline and sardonic in rose velvet, Peter in crumpled dark brown linen: an owlish post-modern gangster. They gave her a twirl and a bow, and launched into a short burst of the synchronised dancing. The onlookers clapped and cheered. Sage faced her with a smile that was like a plea for mercy. Under the suit jacket he wore a white teeshirt, a little too small, bearing the timeless message:
I’m naturally blond, please speak slowly
—

Fiorinda made a swift, pragmatic decision to accept the peace offer, even if it was only for tonight. It would be a fucking pleasant change to be with him in public, and not have it be a hateful, publicly awful experience.

‘You finished it,’ she said, smiling back.

>She knew about the secret album called
Unmasked
.

‘Yeah. Finished the master, about four o’clock this afternoon.’

‘Are you pleased?’

He shrugged. ‘As I ever am. God knows what the punters will think.’

It was a shame things had to turn out this way.
Unmasked
had been planned as a surprise present for Ax. Something that would make him laugh, but he would also love it. It featured the masters of techno-weird not only unmasked, but singing classic covers, and dancing like an apotheosis of Take That.

‘He’s pleased,’ said George. ‘It’s fucking good. You wait.’

Sage glanced around. ‘Where’s Ax?’

‘He isn’t coming.’

‘Huh? Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. Oh, don’t panic—’ (Sage had looked alarmed.) ‘I don’t know where he is, because I didn’t show enough interest, but he’s with some barmy army netheads. He hasn’t been kidnapped by terrorists, not yet, he just isn’t going to get here, okay?’

‘Okay.’

They looked at each other for a long moment, then turned together and headed for the marquee, Bill and George and Peter forming up around them.

Sage suddenly realised it was much easier than usual to look Fiorinda in the eye. ‘Hey.’ He grinned at her, sidelong. ‘Nice!’

‘Enjoy it while you can,’ said Fiorinda cheerfully. ‘Until I break my ankle. There’s a way to walk in spike heels, but I can’t never get my head around it.’

‘Ah, you can lean on me.’ He slipped his arm around her shoulders. She hesitated for a split second, then leaned close; and they walked into the Blue Lagoon like that.

This was the third version of Reading arena’s major covered venue. It had been destroyed twice in the Reich’s history, once by arson and once by storm damage. It had a sprung floor of fireproofed reclaimed timber and a classic rock-fest décor of marquee membrane, naked scaffold and coloured lights. Tonight it was laid out cabaret-style: dancing in front of the stage, tables, a bar. “Cigarette” girls and boys in fancy dress were sashaying about, proffering trays of spliff and Meanies (the lethal Reading Site dance pills). The floor was hopping with campers, dancing to their resident DJs, the rockstars and friends were busy socialising. Fiorinda, Sage and the Heads were instantly surrounded. Fiorinda had to repeat countless times that Ax was tied up and wasn’t going to make it. A stream of people wanted to congratulate Sage and the band on their new baby. Everyone was fascinated by the suits, the naked faces, the whole concept. ‘Is this the way it’s going to be?’ Dian Buckley, the media-babe, wanted to know. ‘Have the demons of techno morphoed into an elderly Boyband?’ The Heads declined to commit themselves. ‘We’re takin’ it a day at a time,’ explained George. Sage admitted he had a copy of the master in his pocket, but no, it wasn’t going to get played.

Even Allie admired the suits, though she deplored Sage’s stupid teeshirt.

‘Yeah,’ said Bill, maliciously. ‘Shame ’e couldn’t get it in his right size, either.’

Friends, acquaintances, schmoozing strangers came and went. Fiorinda and Sage stayed put, maybe both of them afraid to move, afraid to break this bubble. It could have been a night of long ago: Aoxomoxoa and his brat, with the Heads as a protective guard, drinking hard, talking nonsense, entertaining everyone with firework towers of repartee. And if Fiorinda’s sallies were a little barbed tonight nobody blamed her, least of all the boss: who took his licks like a gentleman, grinning sweetly, and not making the slightest attempt to retaliate.

The Snake Eyes band went off to get on stage. The group diminished, and still all was well: until Laurel Merrick and Minty LaTour, Bill’s posh girlfriend, came back from a table-cruise and took George and Bill away with them. Fiorinda suddenly realised that Peter had slipped away too. The cabaret was still crowded, a sea of chatter and colour, but somehow she and Sage had been left alone.

The merry banter had died, she wasn’t sure just when. Probably the moment they’d realised they had no audience. She stared at the tabletop, almost wishing he would jump up and flee. How terrible to be with Sage, and struggling to think of something anodyne to say. She had lost him. Such a pain in her heart—

She looked up to find a pair of blue eyes watching her, so contrite and so tender she forgot everything she’d been trying to script and just said, ‘You look amazing.’

‘So do you.’ He reached over to brush the froth of tulle at her shoulder with the tips of his crooked righthand fingers. ‘I
love
the dress. Wanna dance?’

‘Yes.’

She followed him to the floor. At first they danced the way they’d often danced together: not touching, just loving the rhythm, loving their own skill. But maybe everything had been decided in that moment outside the marquee. Their eyes met in the music, question and consent. They moved together and danced like lovers, first time ever.

…and this was so intoxicating that they couldn’t stop, except for pauses to refuel the blaze with alcohol and Meanies, until eventually, some glorious while later, Sage had the idea of bounding up on stage and romancing Felice (Snake Eyes’ bravura Trumpet Strumpet had a soft spot a mile wide for Aoxomoxoa) to lead the band into Swing. Rob attempted to remonstrate,
Hey, you get off of my stage
, but he had to give it up. He didn’t want to cause a scene, and frankly, the situation, the fabulous pair they made, those two, was hard to resist, even for Ax’s staunchest defender… Sage leapt down, caught Fiorinda by the waist and then it was no holds barred. They were lindyhopping all over the shop, a few couples crazy enough to keep up, the crowd clearing out of the way with yells of admiration, the rock and roll brat, red curls and gilded petticoats awhirl, feather-light, almost as acrobatic as her partner—

They had to take several bows, laughing (saved by the habit of performance), before they could escape. Fiorinda found a scaffold pillar unoccupied and propped herself against it. Sage was beside her, looking down, not touching, very close. Two minds with but a single thought, and the thought goes something like this:

Don’t fucking care. Devil take tomorrow. I am NOT going to pass this up.

‘You’re not even breathing hard.’

‘Yes I am. That’s a beautiful shade of lipstick you’re wearing.’

‘Isn’t it? Best colour I ever found. It’s called Pomegranate Flower.’

‘It’s very—’

‘Let’s get another drink.’

The backstage bar called Bartoli’s Hideout was deserted, everyone was in the tent. Fiorinda sat on a stool, a pint of lager in front of her, Sage’s arm around her. She played with his right hand, biting gently at the web between the surviving joint of his thumb and his palm, folding the two crooked fingers and rubbing them against her cheek. From the mirror below the optics his natural face looked on (the blunt nose, wide high cheekbones and big mouth: a blue-eyed faun, an elemental, definitely odd) with a tender, possessive,
fuck tomorrow
smile. She wondered if it was late or early. She’d lost track.

‘You coming back to the van?’

‘Yes.’

‘How about now?’

‘Sounds good to me.’

‘Okay… Okay, stay there.
Don’t move
. Got to talk to George.’

And he’s gone.

‘Aw,
Sage
,’ wailed Fiorinda, banging her head on the counter, ‘how can you do this to me?’ But he was back almost at once. She jumped down from her stool, bristling. ‘
What the fuck
did you have to go and talk to George for?’

‘I had to tell him,’ Sage explained, distinctly, as they left the bar, ‘that if anyone asks, he doesn’t know where I went, and no one is to come near the van tonight. That’s
no one
,’ he repeated, stopping to look into her face. Sage being gallant, making sure she’s not too smashed to know what they are doing.

Fiorinda nodded, and laid a finger across his lips. No more of that.

The night was dark, overcast and warm. He noticed, as they began to walk, that the top of her head had reverted to its normal position, about level with his breastbone. Wonder when that happened? Hours ago. Sometimes she has delusions of being a supermodel, but this brat can’t hardly walk across a room in high heels.

‘Fiorinda, where are your shoes?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere. I’ll find them in the morning.’

‘I’m gonna have to carry you.’

‘No you are not.’

‘Fee, you cannot cross Reading arena barefoot, at this time of night. Think what you’ll be treading in. Broken glass, bloody sharps, knocked-out teeth, pools of piss, vomit, turds, steaming diarrhoea, dead rats, dead cats, discarded body parts, oozing viscera—’

‘Nonsense. That was years ago.’

‘But this
is
years ago. Didn’t you realise? It’s Dissolution Summer. We went dancing, my brat, I’m takin’ you home: an’ look there’s a fucking
lake
of vomit, right now—’

‘Carry me.’

He carried her, at first trying to kiss her as he walked, but that didn’t work, too much, he couldn’t do both. Out into the township, and why stop here, why not keep hold of this sweet burden, she isn’t complaining, all the way to Travellers’ Meadow? There was no one about when they reached the gate in the trees, not a sign of the hippy watchmen. Fiorinda, stirring out of a tranced stillness, reached down and lifted the latch. Sage carried her through, set her on her feet, and shut the gate.

‘Kissable,’ he whispered, stooping, mouth against hers, as she stood on tiptoe—

They slipped down, kissing, into the scent of honeysuckle and heavy elderflowers, into the cool embrace of the meadow grass. He meant to take her there, Fiorinda very much consenting: but just when he couldn’t hold back any longer, when he
must have her
, she pulled away, jumped to her feet and ran—

He had to give chase, cursing and laughing. She was waiting at the door of the van. She slapped the lock, they fell into the kitchen and she leapt into his arms, legs around his waist, all he could do to get his cock free and safe inside. Instantly they were fucking like hammer and tongs, her skirts crushed between them, her heels in his back, gasping, babbling, stumbling all over the place, seemed to go on forever, sorely unromantic (you horrible brat—) but wonderful, flat out, total discharge—