The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae

by Stephanie Butland

  Oh, but she is tired before she wants to be. Yet Seb seems to know that, in the same way that his palm’s pressure on hers knows how to tell her which way he’ll take her next. At the next break in the music, he jerks his head towards the stairs, a question. Her nod, his grin, the clasp of his hand, leads to a squeeze through the dancers and the watchers to the bottom of the stairs, a trot to the top while others wait to come down. Ailsa does a quick shoe-change: her big toes are begging for release.

  The music fades as they walk along the pavement; warm, gentle rain falls.

  ‘Do you feel at home now? With the rain?’

  ‘The rain would not get this warm in Edinburgh,’ Ailsa laughs, ‘or if it did, we’d all think the apocalypse was here.’

  Seb magics a cab to the kerb, stands back for her to get in. She fumbles with the seatbelt, hands damp from the rain, and Seb helps, clicking the tab into the slot and then resting his hands on her waist for a minute, laughing, asking if she feels secure enough or would she like a safety helmet too. Ailsa watches London speed by: it’s all lights and blur, and the clearest thing to see is the raindrops on the window. Funny how they travel up the glass when the cab is moving. Her hand is warm in Seb’s. They’re quiet.

  The steps up to the building where Yusef lives feel like too much. Ailsa’s muscles realise, having had the chance to rest, how hard they’ve worked, and her feet are no longer letting her ignore their blisters and rubbed-away skin. She stops to give her body just a second or two of recovery time, rummaging for keys as a pretext.

  Seb stands next to her, waiting, and it doesn’t occur to her that on previous evenings, he’s dropped her off and had the cab take him the rest of the way down Haverstock Hill to his home.

  And then she pulls out the keys and goes up the first of the dozen steps to the flats, and he’s standing on the pavement behind her, and he says her name, and she turns, and they are face-to-face, and he kisses her. She tastes hot wine, the salt of sweat; feels dizzied, violently awake.

  The kiss is soft, almost gentle, but – like stepping onto a dance floor – full of possibility. When it ends their foreheads touch, nose tips resting against each other.

  ‘I’m glad I suggested the dancing,’ Seb says.

  ‘Me too.’

  A pause, a moment. Another kiss, gentle again at first, then becoming firmer, more intent. Seb’s hands, which had held her at the waist, draw her towards him; one slides up her spine, pulling her body even closer. Or perhaps she’s the one who’s moving, trying to rid them of the space between them. Certainly every cell of hers is alive, alert to him –

  Then his voice, just a notch above his breath, as though he’s telling her a secret, ‘Shall I come up? I changed my pants too. They’re blue.’

  If the kiss had woken Ailsa’s senses, then the words dampen them down, and engage her brain, fast. Her mind fast-forwards to what happens next: switching on the lights in the flat, taking him into the bedroom, where her clothes from earlier are abandoned on the bedroom floor, her open make-up bag spewing the lipsticks she had tried and wiped away. And, more importantly than any of this, the fact that it has been so long. And that the last man who kissed her with intent was Lennox. Apple stills in the cooling night, breathless, waiting to see what Ailsa will do.

  She is standing on a step in London, aching and elated with dancing, looking into the face of a man with a half-unpicked star in one eye. She is being offered the chance to reclaim the part of her that loves, and longs, and can feel the possibilities of what the body can give and take.

  And she wants to take it, she does.

  But then she thinks about her scar, ugly and bright against her clammy skin.

  Oh, for the chance to write a quick blog post, and give herself five hundred words to talk some kind of sense into herself. Or let the universe decide.

  Seb’s hands are at her waist again; at first they pulled her close so he could kiss the part of her neck that shows above her coat, but now they are holding her a little away, so that he can see into her face, a question.

  She knows what the waitress in the restaurant would do: lead him upstairs, run a bath or invite him into the shower with her. It would only take a moment to heap the clothes she discarded into her suitcase and close it, light a candle so the room was kind and soft.

  But Ailsa is not the waitress. She isn’t even the woman who had looked at Seb on the dance floor, said: Yes. And meant: Anything.

  The longer they stand there, the worse it gets.

  *

  Three hours later, Ailsa is still awake. Her feet ache, but most of the hurt is elsewhere. It’s in the centre-of-me heart, the I-didn’t-know-how-lonely-I-was-until-tonight heart. Apple is, it seems, catching up.

  Even closing her eyes is difficult, because as soon as she does, the images she has stored today are focussed, bright: Seb, close up, intense, smiling, leaning closer, laughing, kissing. The words that weren’t theirs, written for star-crossed lovers, making a way for them to look at each other, to hold hands, to feel. The step-and-slide of the dance, the sound of the music running through her body, the fact that the only way to make the movements work were to trust Seb, to listen to what his body was telling hers to do, as she stepped into the spaces he made for her, pulling the sole of her shoe across the floor the way she’d been taught, keeping her heart close to his.

  At four, Ailsa puts on the light and trails the duvet to the sofa. She rummages in her satchel for her notebook, wondering if writing something, anything, down will help, or whether it will make it worse – but her copy of Romeo and Juliet comes to hand first, pages turned down at the places where she and Seb have worked. She flicks through, and starts to read the rest.

  Landing on the scene with Juliet waiting for Romeo to come to her for their wedding night, she reads: ‘   “When I shall die,/Take him and cut him out in little stars,/And he will make the face of heaven so fine/That all the world will be in love with night.’   ” She wonders if Juliet would have been quite so attached to the idea of death if she had seen it stalk Romeo every day, turning him yellow, making him weak, his room full of the smell of dead lilies, even though there were no flowers in there, and only the occasional breath of Driftwood to remind her that he was still himself.

  Ailsa goes to the window. The light pollution makes it hard to see the stars, but the rainclouds have cleared and some are visible, the brightest: she sees Orion, and, if she slides up the sash and cranes her head around a little, the Plough. She tries to be in love with night. But there is no comfort in the distant cold of the dead stars in the sky.

  24 May, 2017

  This Time Last Year

  ‘It’s a beautiful night,’ Dennis says. ‘You feel that you could touch the stars, if you wanted.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ There was a time when Ailsa would have happily spent an hour in the hospital garden, craning upwards as Lennox tried to make her see the stories in the stars, but she has no will for it now.

  ‘It is, but it doesnae look like you’re in the mood for stargazing.’

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ Ailsa says, half word half wheeze. They’re all long now, and getting longer. Ailsa’s failing three-chambered heart is running out of time. All the ingenious ways that consultants have fixed and helped and patched it over the years are coming to the end of their usefulness. She supposes – because her earliest memories are of not being able to keep up with games at school – that breathing has never come easily to her, but for the first time, every damn thing she wants to do, however small, is an effort. Words cost her. Her hands tingle, her legs ache. Her death is creeping up, beginning at fingers and toes. She’s spending more and more time on the cardio-thoracic unit, on drips to keep her heart muscle working, on oxygen to help her lungs to do their job, and the only person who would understand every lousy beat of what she’s going through isn’t here. Since the morning of Lennox’s death, Dennis has been a regular visitor. It’s as though he and Ruthie have transferred their hope to Ails
a.

  ‘I bet,’ Dennis says. Then, ‘Can you believe it’s been five weeks?’

  ‘I don’t think I even believe he’s gone.’

  She prepares herself for Dennis to cry, but he doesn’t. He takes her hand and says, ‘I suppose we’ll be saying the same thing a year from now. And five years on. I don’t think it ever goes away.’

  She’s too bone-tired to talk, or cry, so she squeezes his hand, and he looks up. ‘Lennox said you’d never had a dad and I should be yours. It’s an honour, Ailsa, but I can’t lose you as well. Remember that, aye?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she says. Don’t make promises you can’t keep. And she resolves that, when Hayley gets back, she’ll make her tell her the whole story of her father. She’s not going to her grave with ‘ah, you don’t want to hear about him, hen’ as all she knows.

  From: Seb

  Sent: 28 May, 2018

  To: Ailsa

  Subject: You’ve gone

  Hi Ailsa,

  Thank you for everything you did to help me with my lines. I really enjoyed spending time with you.

  Sorry I misjudged things on our last night. I should have remembered you were there because of the great voting public. And sorry I missed seeing you off. It probably looked like I was being petty. I wasn’t. My neighbour got back at the same time as I did and we ended up having a whisky, and then another one. Or two. It was 4 a.m. when I hit the sack. So I overslept. I hope you didn’t. Did you get my text?

  See you when I’m next up? (Maybe the photoshoot? You weren’t kidding about how organised Libby is. My agent doesn’t know whether to block her or employ her.) Keep foraging.

  Seb

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Dear Seb,

  I enjoyed spending time with you too. I did get your text. It said, ‘Apron I nodded up, see’, which I think might be autocorrect for something, or maybe a bit from the Nurse?

  I was really glad that the vote went the way it did, for what it’s worth.

  The Internet tells me that cavemen were very fond of cakes involving eggs, chestnut puree and 80 per cent dark chocolate, so that’s good news. I’ll be in the kitchen this afternoon. I might go mad and have a trip on a tram later.

  See you soon, and take care.

  Ailsa

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  I was probably going for ‘Sorry I missed you, Seb’. Or even ‘I am never, ever drinking whisky again, as long as I live.’

  You too. More stitches out later. Instead of zig-zags I’ll have Ws around the edge of my eye. I’m not sure whether knowing what’s coming makes it better or worse.

  I look forward to the cake report. It sounds a bit worthy. Like carpets made out of – whatever it is. Hemp. String.

  S

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Worse – that’s what I always found with medical procedures, anyway. Do you want me to explain the heart-biopsy-via-nasal-passage thing, seeing as you nearly blacked out when we were talking about it in the restaurant on my first night? Plus, they always explain what they’re about to do, so you think you can feel it, even if you can’t. My favourite phlebotomist never did the whole ‘I’m just doing this, and then that’ bit. She’d just lean in and whisper, ‘cat’s claw’. Or sometimes, ‘bee sting’.

  Good luck. Ws are better than zig-zags. Before you know it, they will be Vs.

  The cake’s in the oven. It smells good.

  I don’t think I’ve ever knowingly walked on a hemp carpet.

  I should have said, I’m sorry too.

  Ailsa

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  I blacked out again reading that. NO.

  If there’s ever a serial killer at large in that hospital, I think we’ll know where to look.

  If you go to events in marquees, they’ve usually put some sort of weird matting down. Not carpet exactly. They do it in soggy places too. I can’t believe you haven’t come across one in Embra.

  I don’t think you’ve got anything to be sorry about.

  What are you up to this week? How’s your flat without your mother in it?

  S x

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  I think you mean hessian. I went to a wedding where 40 per cent of the women either fell over backwards or lost a shoe (or both) when their heels sunk down the holes. I was a lot more stable (onesie and wellies).

  I’m doing some research this week. Way back I thought about studying law but it just seemed stupid given the length of time it takes and the length of time I thought I had. In the end I went for history because I was really interested in it and if you’re dying, there’s not a lot else to do than please yourself, really.

  But when I put it on the blog, I had a bit of an ‘aha’ moment. I thought I’d lay out my options as I see them, because I’ve never thought much beyond the heart/not heart scenario, but after I’d put that post up, the law was the thing that I kept wondering about. When you’re in hospital you meet all sorts and it makes you realise how lucky you are to be educated. There are people I would have liked to help. There are things that need to change. I’m trying to work out how I could qualify, whether I could afford it, all that. Havering a bit. And trying not to get nervous about starting work next week.

  It’s a bit weird without Mum. Actually, it’s pretty miserable. I’m being pathetic, I know. She said it would be a big change for us and I’m only just seeing what that means. I’m going over to visit her at the weekend.

  How about you?

  Ailsa

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  You wore a onesie to a wedding?

  And you didn’t take my suggestion seriously? There’s a real shortage of professional unicorns.

  You’d be an amazing lawyer. Lucky that option came out top, isn’t it? A more suspicious mind than mine would suspect vote-rigging.

  If you’re bored on your own you could always pop back and put me through my paces Excitement alert – I’m sending this from a bus.

  S x

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Maybe I wore a onesie to a wedding. Maybe I didn’t. (OK, I didn’t. I’m not insane. Do you know how hot a marquee gets, even in Edinburgh? And if you’re wearing a onesie, you’ve nowhere to go, in terms of layers.)

  Ah, so YOU’RE LondonRomeo? Never would have seen through that pseudonym without the clue. (That’s sarcasm.)

  I’m ignoring your allegation of foul play until I’m qualified. Then you’ll feel the cold hand of the law.

  Tango was fun (and funny) this week. Everyone’s concentrating a lot more now we’re going to be In A Show. Eliza says she’s going to start touting us around for panto if this is what we do when we’re going to be on a stage.

  Ring the bell for me. Though I might be getting over buses. Someone sitting behind me sneezed yesterday, and I could feel drops of wetness landing in my hair.

  Ailsa

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  Will do. Here’s a pic of the bell.

  See you at the photoshoot. I’ll let you know when I know my travel plans. Maybe we can meet up?

  S

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Great. See you then.

  Here’s a pic of my hessian cake. (It is basically hessian.)

  Ailsa x

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  OK, that should have been: ‘you’ll hear from me in a couple of hours’. You must be sick of me. Just wanted to let you know that I’ve had a call from my agent and we’re going to be in The Sun on Saturday. That bloody waitress. She slipped me her number, she’s obviously realised I’m not going to call. Call me when you see it, or not. I’m really sorry. The tabloids are bastards.

  Seb x

  The Sun

  2 June, 2018

  Who’s That Girl?

  Sexy Seb Morley has kept himself out of the spotlight since he opened up about hi
s eye op earlier this year.

  But we can exclusively reveal that it looks as though he’s made a full recovery! He’s been spotted dancing a steamy tango at Stephano’s in trendy Shoreditch. He only had eyes for his new girl, and the two had a long, intimate chat before getting up close on the dance floor.

  Who is that girl? We don’t know – but she’s not Seb’s usual type. There’s a lot more to this curvy lass than his usual models and actresses. But Morley didn’t take his eyes off his pear-shaped partner all night, and they left early, hand in hand.

  2 June, 2018

  ‘Have you stayed off the Internet like you promised?’ Emily was the only person to call for this particular crisis and she’s been fantastic, cancelling her Saturday-morning gym class so that she can arrive early with the paper, coffee and, by the looks of it, most of a bakery. Emily is to Ailsa as Tamsin is to Hayley. Ailsa cannot imagine life without her friend. And one of the best things about them is that – like with Seb – it’s a two-way street. When Emily got herself into credit-card debt in her second year at university, Ailsa helped her to plan her way out of it. When Emily was elected as social secretary for the student union, Ailsa was her sounding-board and general right-hand woman. Emily has never made Ailsa feel more ill than she is.