Castles Made of Sand by Gwyneth Jones Page A

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