‘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
&nb
sp; 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 about 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!’
The supporting cast will be made up of regular learners from classes in Edinburgh, who range in age from their early twenties to mid-seventies.
The show, at the Dragon’s Nest pub in Minto Street in Newington, is expected to sell out, not least because members of the cast will join audience members for an informal tango session after the show. Only dancers already registered with The Tango Sisters will be eligible to take part in the production.
From: Seb
Sent: 14 June, 2018
To: Ailsa
Subject: Embra
Hello, BlueHeart,
Well, we made the Edinburgh Journal ! I was going to pretend Roz sent me the cutting but I’ve got a Google alert set on my name. (I feel as though we should have ultimate honesty now that we’ve – you know. Read Romeo and Juliet together.)
What’s new in your world? Are you onto macchiato yet? If not, don’t worry about it. It’s a stupid drink. Have a coffee or have a hot chocolate. Or have both, one after the other.
What else is going on?
I’m coming up next weekend. We’re having a readthrough. Meredith is in Edinburgh doing something the day before, so Roz is taking advantage and introducing everyone. Then Roz is coming down to London to do some intensive work with me and Meredith. Do you want to meet up? I’d love to see you. I can book a hotel.
Seb x
From: Ailsa
To: Seb
Hello, Seb,
It makes it all seem very close, doesn’t it?
What’s new? Not a lot. Except I know the difference between a mochaccino and a macchiato. (Vegan unicorn.) Everything’s pretty quiet. I’ve made a couple of appointments to find out more about the legal conversion course I’ve been looking at. The more I think about it, the more I want to do it. We’re all supposed to accept that life’s not fair but I think I could do something to make it fairer. Apple might have come from someone who worked with the law – she seems pretty keen, and jumps up and down in my chest every time I think about the people who need someone to be on their side, especially when it comes to health. Organ donation, living wills, assisted suicide – they are all places where people need advocacy.
My doctors are happy. We’re tweaking the medication down another notch. So it’s all good, I suppose, in an everyday sort of way.
It’s still a bit weird with my mother not here. I really miss her sometimes, and then I see her and we end up bickering. I got annoyed with her for calling you ‘This Seb’, as in: ‘I see This Seb is going to be in Edinburgh’. Afterwards I thought, I should have just left it.
I thought (if I’d thought) that if you were rehearsing, you’d just all do it together, for a few weeks beforehand. Still, I also used to think coffee was coffee, and dancing was dancing.
I’m off next Saturday. It would be lovely to catch up – let me know what time your train gets in and I can meet you. And you’re welcome to stay. But thank you for not assuming.
Ailsa x
From: Seb
To: Ailsa
You get more ordinary as the days go by, BlueHeart. Congratulations. I’m really pleased for you.
I can see you standing up for people. You were fierce with me
when I was slacking. One day what I’ll be most famous for is knowing you. I’ll sell these emails for millions.
If you’re being paid to do an acting job, yeah, it’s usually all in one go, and you do as you’re told. If you’re not – it’s a bit more like the director is Bulgaria, and the actors are – well, all countries with more influence than Bulgaria. The stars can choose to behave like Russia if they want to. Roz is doing the best she can with people’s free time. I’m doing my best to fit in.
From: Ailsa
To: Seb
Say no more. I’ll see you on Saturday. X
23 June, 2018
‘Well hello, BlueHeart.’ Seb is one of the first travellers off the train on this fine June day. Once he spots her it seems that he’s next to her in two strides. He puts down his bag and pulls her in to him, his arms around her waist, his nose in her hair. She’s put her hands around his neck, her face against his chest. He’s in the denim jacket he wore for Hello Saturday; the button presses into her cheek, and her glasses squash the side of her face, but she doesn’t care.
Ailsa had wondered, as she walked to the station, quite how things would be when she saw Seb again. He’s been upfront about the sex in their emails, so it wasn’t as though they were pretending it hadn’t happened, or that it had been a mistake. But there had also been nothing to suggest that it was more than a one-off. Although even if it was, it was worth it, just for the moment when he took a look at the scar, ran his finger over it, said, ‘I’ve seen worse tattoos, if I’m honest, BlueHeart.’ And then kissed it, from top to bottom and back to the top again.
And then he kisses her forehead, and then her cheeks, the way celebrities kiss each other on chat shows, and then the tips of their noses touch, pivot, and then – yes, there’s his mouth, on hers. Although Ailsa had thought she remembers everything about that night, there’s a sudden hot pulse of visceral memory, and the bump of Apple in her chest. Thinking about Seb and being with Seb is the difference between thinking about the sea and standing on the tide line.
The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae (ARC) Page 19