Castles Made of Sand by Gwyneth Jones Page B

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