The Moon Age | Ziggy + Angie
The work of the day was over and done with. It had been a long one. The conference had dragged on, stupid American journalists with their stupid drawls asking stupid questions about his sexuality and about fucking Mars. Some of them had asked the "sexuality" question more than once, Californian accents barely hiding their Stonewall lisps. What a bore. David wasn't tired. He never seemed to be tired, and the press probably knew why. Perhaps Angie was tired — there were blue bags underneath her eyes. It looked as though they were wearing the same silly make-up! Oh, David loved that silly make-up of his. It confused people. He always liked to confuse people. He'd gone so far as to introduce himself to the press as "Ziggy Stardust". That didn't really confuse people any longer, alas. It was late, late in 1973, and he'd been carrying on like that so long. One older reporter had done a double-take, visibly recoiling. "Ziggy Stardust"? His wife hadn't as much as blinked. Ziggy Stardust.
Yes, the day's work was finished. They stood together, arm in arm, Ziggy and Angie, in a room so vast and grand that it was difficult to tell whether it was supposed to be a formal discotheque or a ballroom. There were glass chandeliers — Ziggy could stand and admire his face in them, a million Ziggy faces, flawlessly painted with rouge and heavy blue eyeliner, so accurate, so calculated, pristine in its Sybarite squalor. Everything here was so decadent. There was a punch bowl on the table; there were glasses of rosé and white and glasses of exotic cocktails he'd never seen in England; red roses lay on every surface, and somebody, some fan, had tacked up a sign, apparently marker on red satin, reading: "Welcome to the City of Angels, Ziggy Stardust!". At least they hadn't written, "our Martian Angel, Ziggy Stardust". Perhaps they'd simply run out of room for that.
Ziggy had thrown off his pleated-front slacks and flat cap the minute he'd left the conference. He wore a blazer, such a dark navy blue that it was difficult to perceive that it wasn't black, studded lapels, over a striped button-up shirt, red and green, and clashing glittered silver leggings. The spinning lights made them look like another part of the ornate, delicate furnishings, everything diaphanous filigree glass and gold and tiny bronze details. Ziggy's jewellery was more demure than his usual, simply a gilt snake in a single coil around his left wrist, long — but not stage-long — candelabra earrings, and a gold necklace that hung down like wind chimes. He found himself wishing he'd dressed up a bit more. The dancehall made him feel underdressed. The other people at the party were dressed simply, black shifts and tuxedos and all of that rubbish, but David wanted to dress like the dancehall, not the people. People were boring. Stages were interesting, and this place was a stage. He took a pocket handkerchief to dab at his nostrils, careful not to disturb the powdery red across the bridge of his nose, and turned to his wife.
