The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae

by Stephanie Butland

  ‘Have you been talking to my mother? You sound just like her.’

  Seb laughs. ‘I know what you’re saying. It’s none of my business.’

  He sounds so un-offended that she says more. ‘I feel a little bit adrift, sometimes. I like the wisdom of strangers.’

  ‘But no one knows you as well as you, surely?’

  Ailsa thinks about the feeling of being a body out of time and place, an uncertain host. It’s insignificant to doctors and would be puzzling to the people who love her and thought they might lose her. She’s well. And she must never say anything to suggest that she isn’t Lucky. Capital L.

  ‘Honestly? Not this me. I knew ill me pretty well.’

  Seb nods. ‘I suppose it’s like getting famous. Before and after.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ailsa says, ‘before and after.’

  Seb says, ‘I was thinking about us on the way up. Radio, tango, photo. All the Os. We’ve made a Venn diagram for ourselves. Of ourselves.’

  ‘You’re very philosophical tonight,’ Ailsa says. She’s thinking of the two of them, circled and circled and circled.

  ‘It must be all the Shakespeare.’

  The waitress clears the plates. Seb might be watching the waitress walk away. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t. When she’s gone, he asks, ‘Are you OK? Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ailsa says, because for so many years, being like this – sitting in a bar, not too tired, not ill – was her living definition of OK. But then she thinks of all the things that are making her not OK. A moment passes, another. Seb is checking his phone.

  ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Not really what?’

  ‘Not really OK.’

  Seb nods, takes a drink. The lights are lower – it’s just passed seven o’clock, so it must officially be evening – and he takes off his sunglasses, blinks cautiously once, twice, lays them on the table. ‘Why not? What’s wrong? Is it still that Sun business?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Well . . .’ Ailsa thinks about how often she thinks about it. Which is every time she goes to the fridge, where she’s stuck the article to curb her appetite. ‘No. It’s not that. I mean – it’s been on my mind more than I’d like to admit. But – no.’

  She thinks about all that’s not wrong, exactly, but unsettling. The memory of Lennox, made greater by being around the people who will never be able to put his loss behind them. The things that only she knew, and that she can never speak about: Lennox crying, late one night, when he knew that it was too late for a transplant and all there was to do now was die, and how they’d talked about suicide and how they could contrive it.

  Then there’s the retrospective stress of the photoshoot: how tired she is now, by all of the attention, the pushed-and-pulled feeling of it. The lipstick. Having to give ninety-second answers to questions like: ‘What does your transplant mean to you?’ and ‘What’s your message to anyone who isn’t on the donor register?’. Plus, she’s thinking about the last time she saw Seb, and the way it felt to dance with him: the solid heft of what happened/didn’t happen afterwards is buckled around her, biting into the skin at her waist. She’s not sure what she wants to tell him or where to start with it all.

  But New Ailsa, with her coffee-shop job and her possible legal career and her bravely beating heart, needs to say something, because shutting herself off isn’t the life she is planning to have. She thinks about one of those consultants who made her feel that her heart was the beating/failing heart of the universe. He would come into her room, sit down on the end of her bed (he was the only one who did that, and it was against the rules, but he didn’t seem to care and neither did she) and simply say, ‘OK. Start anywhere, Ailsa.’

  Start anywhere.

  ‘You know Lennox and I were close?’ she says.

  ‘I’d gathered that,’ Seb says. ‘I assumed you were a couple?’

  ‘Yes. No. He was my first boyfriend. We split up not long after we went to uni. We kept in touch. Then when he was back here, and ill, and I was ill, we sort of got together again. But not – not physically.’

  He is looking at her, waiting, face serious. Start anywhere. Start somewhere else, maybe.

  ‘When Lennox died it was the most horrible time of my life. I’d have died if I could. It was – I was crushed by it. I was really ill. But I didn’t know which pain was which – grief or my body shutting down.’ Just remembering brings back an echo of the pain, a shadow through her body, Apple turning her volume down in respect. ‘Then I had my heart transplant. I’ve got – I’ve got scars, a big cut down my chest.’ She puts her finger at the top of it, an inch below her clavicle, just below where the first button covers the press-stud at the top of her shirt. Her other hand goes to the bottom of the scar, three inches above her navel, although it’s hidden from Seb’s view by the table. ‘And no one’s ever seen the – the damage. From the transplant. Except – except doctors. Nurses. My mother.’

  ‘You’re telling me that you haven’t—’

  ‘Yes. So that night when we went out, and you sort of – assumed – and I could see why you would, but I just – I panicked.’ Ailsa thinks of all the people, everywhere, having sex and fucking, making love and shagging, without thought or analysis, – or conversations like this. She knows she’s not the only person carrying a scar, of course. ‘I’m being ridiculous.’

  But now Seb’s hand is reaching for hers across the table. She slides her palm against his and their fingers interlace. ‘It’s not ridiculous, Ailsa. Not at all.’

  She looks at him, waiting. She can tell that he’s thinking, recognising his expression from their two weeks of line-learning. The closeness in the memory seems to change something in the air between them, because he squeezes her hand and smiles before he speaks.

  ‘I want to make sure that I’m clear. You’re telling me that you haven’t had sex in’ – he tilts his head at her, an invitation to put a number on it, months, or years, but she decides not to – ‘a while, and so when it seemed to be on the agenda, and I can tell you you were right, it was very high on my agenda, you . . .’ The hand that isn’t joined with hers holds the palm up, an explain-to-me gesture, and maybe it’s the fact that it’s him, or that after this afternoon, standing under the apple tree, thinking-not-thinking of Lennox and wearing red lipstick, anything is easy, but she opens her mouth and this time the words are all there, unedited and ready, and they spill into the air.

  ‘I wanted to, but I – I don’t know, I realised I didn’t know the rules, or whether I should say anything, and I didn’t know what you were expecting from me, and,’ she laughs, but the sound that comes out is too high for her, the sort of laugh that would make her mother put an arm around her and say, steady on, hen, ‘if I’m honest, you know’ – she gestures up and down with her free hand, taking him in – ‘you. I know I didn’t know who you were to start with, but I googled you, and there it all is, arse of the century, and all your models and what have you, and – well, I couldn’t see how it wouldn’t go really, really wrong. It seemed – ambitious. For the first time in – a while. Like having your first riding lesson on a – a racehorse.’ Seb’s face is a picture: amusement, bemusement, an attempt at seriousness, something like horror. Ailsa takes her hand back from his and lets her temples rest, heavy, on the bases of her thumbs. Her hair falls forward, spilling that hairspray scent again. ‘I’m going to stop talking now,’ she says. ‘Make me stop. Please make me stop.’

  Seb laughs, low and warm. ‘Wow. OK. Just – you’re going to have to give me a minute. Here, have a drink.’ He’s waving her glass of wine around under her nose. ‘Drink me, Ailsa, drink me.’

  She laughs too, a calmer sound now, takes the glass, takes a sip. Well, it’s more of a gulp, but who’s measuring, under the circumstances. She looks at him, waits. He puts his glass down, sets his palms flat on the table, rocks back on his chair, something that must take a bit of effort because these chairs are solid velvet buckets of things, not light. He looks straight at
her.

  ‘Well, first of all, it was Rear of the Year, and that was in 2014, and it’s all gone to hell back there since, anyway. Second, you shouldn’t believe all you read in the papers, about models and whatever. People think because you’re in the same photo, you’re sharing a bed, and it’s just not true, most of the time. Third, as we’re going to be spending a bit of time together come August, I think it best that I take the racehorse thing as a compliment. Especially from a unicorn.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’ Seb returns all four legs of his chair to the ground and leans over the table, beckons, smiling. Ailsa leans in, close enough to smell wine, something musky on his skin that makes her think of his bathroom in London, the line of Molten Brown bottles at the edge of the bath. He kisses her, gently, on the forehead, then he takes her glasses off, presses a kiss to the bridge of her nose, and puts her glasses on again. Then he sits back.

  ‘How long since Lennox died?’

  ‘Just over a year.’

  ‘And how long were the two of you’ – he considers – ‘together-not-together?’

  ‘About a year before that.’

  ‘And how long—’

  Ailsa can’t stand it anymore. ‘It’s two and a half years since I had sex, OK?’ And that had been a bit of a write-off, an exercise in proving to herself that she wasn’t too unwell or too tired. It had been Marcus, who she had studied with sometimes, mainly because the two of them were taking all of the same courses. He was back in Edinburgh for a friend’s wedding and had sent her a message, they’d gone for a drink, he’d walked her home, she’d asked him in and, well, hadn’t exactly thrown herself at him, but not far off. When she’d woken in the morning he was gone. And there had been an eight-month dry spell before that. Seb doesn’t need to know these things. He’s looking incredulous as it is.

  ‘OK.’ Seb rocks back again. ‘Jesus.’ He looks into his lap, as though he’s discussing the prospect of no sex for two-and-a-half years with his genitals. Looks up. ‘Little Seb and I are having a bit of trouble computing that.’

  A blush hurtles up Ailsa’s neck, across her cheeks. Seb laughs. ‘Arse,’ she says.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

  ‘You’re not sorry,’ she says.

  ‘No. Not really. But you shouldn’t believe all you read about – people like me. My last thing was with Fenella, and shagging your partner is more or less mandatory on StarDance. It wasn’t serious.’

  ‘Um – thanks.’ Ailsa picks through his words, trying to work out whether this was meant to make her feel better and, if so, how.

  ‘No worries.’ They look at each other across the table. There’s a directness here, an honesty; Ailsa hasn’t felt it since she and Lennox used to talk about everything, their real lives and their hypothetical ones. Maybe this is just normal for relationships.

  ‘Something springs to mind,’ Seb says, and as she looks at him she sees what’s coming, feels it in her belly, at the back of her throat, ‘and that is – you’ve got a bit of catching up to do. And if the reasons you sent me home that night were really what you say . . .’

  ‘They were,’ she says. ‘I’m not going to admit to something that embarrassing otherwise, am I? If there was any other explanation, believe me, I’d have told you.’

  ‘Fair point. So, as I’ve understood things correctly, you would have invited me to come up, if it wasn’t for the scar. I mean, it wasn’t me.’

  ‘No, Seb. It wasn’t you.’

  ‘Don’t roll your eyes. Even former rears of the year have feelings, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Ailsa makes her face a parody of seriousness, lips pursed, eyebrows low, and he laughs. ‘It wasn’t you.’ Now that she knows where this conversation is going, she’s desperate for them to say it: to make it real.

  ‘In that case, would you like to – have another go? We could go back to your place, I could ask if I could come in, and you could say yes, and we could see how it went?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ailsa says. Her mouth has gone dry.

  ‘We can just – take it easy,’ Seb says, ‘see what happens.’

  ‘Yes.’ A bit clearer, more confident, this time.

  He smiles. ‘Unfold the imagined happiness,’ he says.

  From: Seb

  Sent: 10 June, 2018

  To: Ailsa

  Subject: Morning After

  Hey BlueHeart,

  I might need to call you PinkCheeks from now on. You’re very pretty when you’re . . . happy.

  Thanks for a fun night. See you soon. Take care

  Seb x

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Hello,

  Thank you for a fun night too. And thank you for my shoes. I tried them on properly after you left this morning, and did a bit of solo pivoting. They really are perfect.

  How was Juliet? Shouldn’t you be with her now?

  Ailsa

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  Solo pivoting? You’re insatiable.

  Juliet/Meredith is asleep on the train. See pic. Or maybe feigning sleep, but that’s the trouble with actors. You can’t trust them. She is snoring, though, and it sounds pretty authentic.

  She didn’t give me a lot to work with during the reading we did, and was quite quiet over lunch, but Roz never stops talking so I was probably quiet as well. I think we were supposed to chat/bond on the way back to London, but she was asleep before we crossed the border.

  Roz gave me a thumbs-up at the end of the reading, so I think we’ll call that a result. She doesn’t get her thumbs out for just anyone. I think I managed to look like I was reading. Just focussing on the page numbers kills my eyes. You saved me. We did a bit of vaulty heavens and I aced it. Not faulty, not vaulted. Praise me.

  S x

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Well Done You.

  I expect Juliet was disappointed with your rear. It’s all gone a bit downhill since you won that award, hasn’t it? Did she get the thumbs? If not, she might be offended.

  Seriously, the sunglasses thing is a little bit off-putting at first. Even when you know the reason for it – it’s really hard to have a meaningful conversation with someone when you can’t see their eyes. I know you know that, but I think you’re maybe so used to wearing your shades now that you forget that other people are having to deal with them.

  Ailsa

  P.S. It’s very rude to take photos of people while they’re sleeping. Although Juliet looks like a (snoring) goddess, so she probably won’t mind.

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  We both got thumbs. I was trying to impress you by leaving Juliet’s thumbs out. I’m a terrible person.

  You’re right about the glasses. Our evening definitely picked up when I took them off.

  Now I come to think of it, Meredith went quiet after Roz got into how we were really too old for the parts, with Romeo and Juliet being teenagers. Not that teenagers were invented. But she talked a bit about ‘recapturing gaucheness’. I don’t think Meredith liked it much. She must be twenty-five or twenty-six, which is as good as dead for a lot of pretty actors/actresses. Roz says we need to reconnect with our younger selves. When I was sixteen I caught genital warts at a bus stop. I don’t think I’m prepared to go that far.

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  Well, I’ve never got thumbs from Roz, so I’m still impressed. I’ve never caught genital warts at a bus stop either.

  You’re talking to the wrong person if you want sympathy because you’re getting older . . . I’ve been as good as dead for most of my life. Bring on the being too old for things, I say.

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  Oh, God, Ailsa, I’m sorry. That was tactless.

  Have I upset you? I really didn’t mean to.

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  If I had a pound for every time I was asked to join in a general moan a
bout being old, I’d have an awful lot of pounds. I’m not offended at all. I was trying to be jokey. I forget that if you haven’t spent a lot of time around hopeful transplantees you develop a sense of humour that might look macabre to The Normals.

  At ease.

  From: Seb

  To: Ailsa

  Thank you.

  We need a safe word. As in – this is a joke. For email purposes. (Vegan unicorn?)

  You seem so well to me. When I think about you, I think of dancing and the way you always have almonds in your bag. And blue eyes. And cleverness. The way you say arse. Nothing to do with dying.

  From: Ailsa

  To: Seb

  That’s lovely. Thank you.

  I’m to Glasgow now to see my mother. Take care.

  A

  Edinburgh Journal

  14 June, 2018

  Edinburgh Dancers Take Centre Stage

  Well-known Edinburgh dancers Edie and Eliza Gardiner – known as ‘The Tango Sisters’ – are adding to their showbiz CV at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe this year.

  The dancers run tango classes and events throughout the region, and have also appeared in films and TV shows with their dance partners Guy Peart and Simeon Graveney. They’ve made a point of remaining in Edinburgh, though, saying it’s the city that supported them through their early career.

  This year, in a new direction for them, they will be providing supporting cast for the production of Romeo and Juliet, starring Sebastian Morley and Meredith Katz, already hotly tipped as a Festival Fringe highlight.

  ‘We’re really excited,’ Eliza says. ‘We’re always looking for opportunities to introduce tango to a wider world. We didn’t get to see Seb tango on StarDance last year but we’re going to see it now!’