The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae

by Stephanie Butland

  ‘I don’t think that’s entirely fair,’ David says, ‘and anyway—’

  ‘No,’ she says. It’s never too late, Ailsa. Say what you want to say. ‘You said in your email I was never a secret from Gemma. Do your boys know about me?’

  ‘Well . . . ’ He looks bewildered now. Ailsa imagines Gemma joking about having three children, not two, and drinking a lot. ‘Gemma said we should see how this went. And then we could introduce you to the family. Slowly.’

  ‘What, first I’m a friend, then I’m a cousin, and then, if everyone votes that they like me, I’m allowed to be your daughter? I’m sorry, David, this was a mistake. Have a safe journey home.’ And she turns and walks away. She’d like to think she’s dignified but there’s a panicky half run to her pace.

  It’s an hour until rehearsal. She hopes that Hayley will answer her phone.

  Voicemail. Ailsa never used to get her mother’s voicemail. Another perk of being no longer dying. She’s walking, walking, her breath fast and ragged, people looking at her. She heads for the graveyard of St Cuthbert’s church, which adjoins the gardens, and stops when her anger – at herself, at David, at the stupid, stupid world and how complicated it is, even when you’re supposed to be normal – runs out.

  She stops in a part of the graveyard where the palest of sunlight is picking its way through the trees. Sitting on a low wall, she notices how the Edinburgh skyline is hidden. She could be anywhere. Even the graves have their backs to her. She can hear voices as people walk nearby, but apart from a seagull glaring at her as though it knows how ungrateful she’s been, she’s on her own. Well, sort of. There’s just her, and Apple, and the seagull, and all of the dead people.

  Inhale. Exhale. She closes her eyes and tilts her head to the sky. When she opens her eyes again she sees that it has changed from grey-blue to blue-grey. It’s a small change, but it matters.

  She’s about to call Hayley again – even if she doesn’t answer, she’ll hear her mother’s voice on the message – when her phone rings.

  ‘Ailsa?’

  ‘Mum, it’s me. I’m sorry,’ she half says, half cries.

  ‘Are you OK, hen? Breathe. Calm down. Is this about that thing in the papers?’

  Hayley had called, to see that she was OK, after the story about her and Seb; Ailsa hadn’t got around to calling back, or that’s what she had told herself. She hadn’t wanted to talk about David, hear the hurt in Hayley’s voice.

  ‘No. That’s – that’s OK. It’s just that – I’ve just met him. It was today.’

  ‘Who? Oh,’ Hayley says, and Ailsa hears her shock, how her voice has a shake in it that’s the shadow to the way her own voice sounds. ‘David? Has it not gone well?’

  ‘He’s – I thought I’d feel something, but I just . . .’ She’s fumbling for a tissue in her satchel. A couple walks past, and the woman glances at her, concerned, but at least in a cemetery she has a good chance of being left alone to cry.

  ‘Has he upset you? That fucking man. Honestly, Ailsa, if I’d known it was today I’d have –’ Hayley’s voice, furious, pauses, as they both imagine what she might have done.

  ‘Yes. No. Only by being – by being the sort of person who would do what he did.’

  A sigh, down the line, and the sound of what might be tears. ‘Oh, Ailsa. I’m sorry. I wanted to protect you from all this. I just made you more curious.’

  ‘It was my fault, Mum,’ Ailsa says. ‘I should’ve . . .’ But there’s such a long list, and she doesn’t know what she should have done. Taken her mother’s word that he wasn’t worth the bother? Not asked the question about him? Not asked the blog? Not gone with the vote? Trusted the love her mother’s always shown against the curiosity Apple kindled in her, now she has the time to wonder?

  ‘Well,’ Hayley says, with a sniff/sob, ‘we are where we are. Are you OK? What are you going to do now?’

  Oh, yes. If in doubt, be practical. ‘I’ve got rehearsal. Seb’s staying. I’ll be – I’ll manage.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She isn’t. Not really. But being not quite sure seems to be what a lot of normal life is about.

  www.myblueblueheart.blogspot.co.uk

  25 July, 2018

  I’m Sorry

  I’ve talked a lot, this year, about learning what it means to be normal. I’m sure you’ve laughed along as old BlueHeart here has found out that some afternoons are long and doing your washing is boring. I like to imagine you chuckling at my discovery that how much you weigh is directly related to what you put in your mouth, and mountain climbing takes a bit of preparation and practice.

  Here are some of the things I’ve discovered that being three heartbeats from death allows you to do, even though you can’t get away with them (most days) in normal life:

  Falling asleep during a conversation

  Asking someone to make you a sandwich in the middle of the night (and them doing it)

  Feeling sorry for yourself

  Not thinking about/planning for the future

  Having your wishes/needs treated as more urgent than everyone else’s

  Claiming that life’s not fair and expecting sympathy.

  In summary: generally behaving as though you are more important than everyone else.

  Well, I’m here to say, with you as my witnesses, that I accept I have no excuse for behaving badly anymore. I can’t claim tiredness/anxiety/impending death. I can’t even really claim drug imbalances now that we seem to have got that right.

  So if I am rude, inconsiderate, or plain disrespectful to someone that I love, I have no get-out-of-jail-free card. Of course, I never should have had one, or used one, but – well, I did. When you’re the one that’s dying, it’s easiest to ignore the pain of the person who’s watching you die.

  This last few weeks, I’ve behaved unforgivably badly to my mother. I’ve been rude and unkind, and I’ve chosen not to make the effort to understand things that are not black and white, though I’ve tried to make them so.

  You’ll also recall that I saw my birth father. (Your suggestion of a walk for our meeting was spot-on, by the way. I was able to – literally – run away. Well, walk fast, at least.) All you need to know is: I won’t be seeing him again.

  I’m doing my best to patch things up with the only parent I’ve really ever had. It will take time.

  I’ve got time.

  But, as a start: I’m sorry, Mum. And I love you. You’re right – some things are private. But sorriness and love don’t need to be.

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  30 July, 2018

  Dress rehearsal. The show opens tomorrow.

  The eight members of the cast, the three musicians and all of the dancers taking part are here – thirty-odd people in total. Eight members of the tango club will be in the audience every night.

  Over the last few weeks these sessions have been jokey and relaxed. There’s no sign of that tonight. It’s as though they’d all forgotten what these rehearsals were actually about, until now.

  The actors are wearing jeans and white shirts, with yellow sashes for Montague and green for Capulet. The dancers are in black – Ailsa’s old dress fits again – and will have scarves tied around their throats or wrists; on performance nights, scarves on the back of chairs will reserve their seats, and masks will be concealed beneath. The scarves are red. Of course they are. Ailsa’s scalp prickles. She sort-of wishes that she hadn’t volunteered now. Or at least that she’d put it to the vote so these feelings wouldn’t be her fault. Did you notice that? Apple asks. She’s not sure when her heart became her emotional auditor. Maybe when she began to trust her.

  The central dance floor has become a stage, thanks to blocks stacked at one end, arranged so that there’s a stairway up one side, a shape that might be a doorway in the centre, a smaller half door at the other side. Other, loose, blocks are scattered around the edges of the dance floor. Ailsa thinks of Seb describing the balcony scen
e in rehearsals, Meredith asking that Roz walk through all of her moves first, to make sure that it was safe. She can see Meredith’s point.

  Roz steps forward, smiles. ‘Welcome,’ she says, ‘all of you. This is our final time together before the show opens. I hope you’re excited. You should be. We’ve worked hard and I’m proud of what we’ve done.’

  There’s a ripple of applause, led by Eliza. Roz holds up a hand. ‘But this is not a school play. This is a professional production of a classic of the English language. It’s a timely and thoughtful show. We have worked on it hard and we stake our reputations upon it. I am not standing here to ask you to go out there and enjoy yourselves. I’m standing here telling you to find the best of you, the strongest and the bravest, and bring that to this space, every night of the production. Do justice to yourselves, to your fellow actors and dancers, to your teachers, to Shakespeare, and to your audiences.’

  Eliza opens her hands, ready to applaud again; Edie puts her own hand out to stop her sister. All of the faces in the room – Ailsa’s too, she suspects – have the same expression: serious, bright. And all of a sudden she could cry, just because she is here, part of this. She’s not sitting on the sidelines, blue, waiting for Lennox to score a goal. She’ll step forward.

  She can.

  Roz has let the silence thicken; she drops her voice now. ‘You are not being paid. That does not make you amateurs. Please be on time, play as we’ve rehearsed, and do not let yourselves get slack. Every audience is a new audience. Every show deserves all of your love and your best mind and heart. Expect notes from me after every performance. And know that it’s been an honour to work with you all. Those of you who have worked with me before will know that I don’t make a habit of saying that.’

  There’s laughter, and a sudden sense of relaxation in the air. ‘One more thing, before Edie gives you a briefing about this evening. Romeo here has got himself into the papers again, and any of you might be approached by the press for gossip. They tend not to declare themselves. If someone downstairs offers you a drink and asks you how it’s going, by all means speak your own truth, but please do not speculate about the others in this room, or comment on things you know nothing about.’

  Heads swing away from Roz to Seb, then to Ailsa. Seb looks at Roz. Ailsa looks at Seb, then down at her feet, and slows her breath.

  ‘Meredith and Seb will give a few television interviews tomorrow afternoon. There will be some pieces in the Sunday papers with Meredith. We’ve made no arrangements with the tabloids, so anyone who approaches you claiming that they have is not telling the truth.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ says Seb, and there’s a soft sound of laughter.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Roz says, and the enchanted circle breaks apart.

  Ailsa looks at her feet again. She hopes they remember everything. They love to dance, but boy are they tired. When she looks up, Seb’s standing in front of her.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing like a Roz pep talk to make me nervous as hell. I’m glad one of us will know what I’m supposed to say.’

  She puts her hand up, touches the side of his face, smiles. And then someone calls his name and he turns away.

  As Montagues and Capulets, Ailsa and her fellow dancers, sitting among the (for now, imaginary) audience, leap to their feet and howl support and derision as the arguments unfold. Ailsa can hardly bear to watch the fights, which seem like fights, nothing acted about them. The power of the words is the greater force, though.

  She knows almost every line. Romeo’s lines, and the ones either side of them, she could have written down, perfectly, from memory; most of Juliet’s she knows, too. And the rest of the play has found its way into her, from watching the films, from reading the play, and from the snippets of gossip and explanations of rehearsal that Seb has given her. It’s as though she’s been taking in these words with her immunosuppressants every morning and evening. When she hears the words, the cells in her body all react, like daisies turning to the sun.

  Romeo’s speech, before the music that is the dancers’ cue in the party scene, takes her back to Seb’s flat, sitting in her chair, listening to him stumble over the last lines, Romeo’s last words before he first sees Juliet. ‘Bitterly begin his fearful date.’ She had forgotten that this was poetry, and love, and life, because they were just lines to memorise.

  Seb is word-perfect. And Ailsa knows that this new heart is really hers, because it feels the beat and fall of each syllable as she does, breathless, waiting:

  ‘For my mind misgives

  Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,

  Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

  With this night’s revels and expire the term

  Of a despised life, closed in my breast,

  By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

  But he that hath the steerage of my course

  Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen!’

  And then the music begins. It’s a sparse, traditional tune, slow, the sound of the bandoneon strong and steady, two violins crying and praying over the top of it. She steps forward, towards the stage, and Murray catches her eye, takes her hand. And even though she’s had to tie the red bandanna around her wrist – this is not about her, she’s not an amateur – every step works, every move feels true.

  Perhaps the spell is broken.

  31 July, 2018

  When Seb calls, half an hour after he’s left for the theatre, Ailsa assumes that he’s forgotten something. She’s due to go to work but she’s already thinking, as she answers, of where she can meet him to pass along whatever it is that he needs. But as soon as she hears his voice she realises that’s not it –

  ‘What’s happened, Seb?’

  ‘You haven’t seen? No one’s called you?’

  ‘What? Seb, what?’ All she can think is that something’s happened to Hayley, although why Seb would know about it before she did she can’t imagine.

  ‘The papers. There’s something else—’

  ‘Is that all? I know what my arse looks like, I think I can—’

  ‘No. It’s Fenella. She’s leaked something to the press. It’s online already. I’ll send you a link.’

  ‘I thought you and Fenella were over—’

  ‘We are. Were. I think she must have found out that I asked for her not to be my partner on StarDance, so she’s getting her own back—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, just watch it. I’m sorry. It looks bad. It is bad. But—’ His name is being called in the background. ‘I have to go. Ailsa, you know I love you, don’t you?’ There’s something like pleading in his voice. And then he hangs up, before she has the chance to reply.

  www.themirror.co.uk

  31 July, 2018

  Rom-e-NO: Morley Puts His Fat Foot In It

  Seb Morley fans will be shocked today when they see the sensational video Seb’s former dance partner, Fenella Albright, has released.

  The film was shot on Fenella’s phone while the dancers waited to go on stage in the second show of StarDance last year. Her partner Seb is out of shot – but we can still hear every word he says.

  Celebrity gardener Isabella Dun was dancing a rhumba with her partner Benjii Angelo. Seb scoffs, ‘Well, he’s never going to do a lift, is he? You’d need a man for each thigh.’ He then adds, ‘The thing is, she might be good, technically, but with someone her size it’s never going to look right. Nobody’s going to say it, but the real problem with fat girls dancing is they just look wrong.’

  Isabella Dun, who was knocked out of the competition in the quarter-finals, has released a furious statement saying, ‘Sebastian’s comments are disappointing and ignorant, but nothing new. Women with curves, muscles and hard-working bodies are used to this sort of abuse. I hope that by doing as well as I did in the competition, I showed bigger women – and men – everywhere that regardless of your size you should feel free to do the things that you want to do. I’m not going to say that I’m not hurt, but
this kind of name-calling reflects more on the person who is doing it than the target. I have no problem being a fat girl dancing. Though I feel the term ‘woman’ would be less patronising. You’ll notice that I have not called Mr Morley an ignorant boy.’

  Morley is lying low today, but his agent says: ‘I know that Seb is mortified to have some ill-judged remarks broadcast like this. All of us might say things we regret when we’re nervous, excited, or in a competitive, high-pressure situation.’

  Morley and Albright were a couple for a short time after the show, but have not been seen together in public since Morley left hospital after his eye op. He has sparked gossip after being spotted with a mystery plump pal. She’ll have a thing or two to say to him.

  Romeo and Juliet, in which Seb stars opposite the new face of Chanel, Meredith Katz, opens in Edinburgh tonight.

  31 July, 2018

  ‘Thanks for coming, Mum,’ Ailsa says. She’d stumbled through her shift this morning, once she’d watched the video clip, three times, maybe four, just to make sure she’d heard it correctly. By then it was trending on Twitter – #fatgirldancing – and being written about everywhere, and there was no way it wasn’t true. It nullified the happy answering shout that Apple gave when Seb said that he loved her. Love is not a get-out-of-jail-free card, any more than a faulty heart – or the replacement of it – is an excuse for bad behaviour.

  Then Hayley had texted – Seen the latest. Are you OK? – and that had been enough to make her lock herself in the loo, take some deep breaths, and call her mother for help. Hayley wasn’t working, so she could come straight away, and she did. She’s waiting at the flat when Ailsa gets back.

  Ailsa clings to her for a long time. ‘Thank you,’ she gets out.