Castles Made of Sand by Gwyneth Jones

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