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 Ailsa.
‘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 st
ing’.
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 his 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.
‘Yes. Apart from the blog, and that doesn’t count. And emails.’
‘The real world’s more interesting. Have you got plates?’
‘Emily. Can we please get it over with? And I could have made coffee, you know.’
‘I know you could, lovely. But I brought it. You’ll have had enough of making coffee by the time you’ve put your first week in.’
Ailsa laughs and goes for the paper, but Emily is faster, taking it out of reach. ‘Coffee first, and a croissant or two. We’ll look when we’re fortified.’
And of course Emily’s right. Twenty minutes of chat – Jacob’s upcoming wedding, Emily’s job, Ailsa’s London trip, though she can’t bring herself to go into The Kiss – and the world feels bigger and less important than anything that The Sun might have to say.
‘Here we go, then,’ Emily says, and starts to turn the pages over. Ailsa, next to her on the sofa, feels Apple speeding up, sending a tremble to her fingertips. There’s nothing on pages two and three, four and five, six and seven. Maybe Seb got it wrong, or the story – because there isn’t a story – is too uninteresting to print.
It’s on page eight. A photograph – grainy, hard to make out the fine detail of it at first – of Seb and her on the dance floor. It’s taken from behind her, so Seb’s face is clear: he’s concentrating, square-shouldered, his extended arm moving towards the camera as he guides Ailsa back. He’s looking at her face. She’s turning her head towards the right, but only her forehead is visible.
She sits and looks at the photograph for a long time. She can’t bear to turn to the words yet.
That dress, with the yellow flowers, the one that made her feel so bright and beautiful: it’s stretched across her shoulders, tight, showing the rolls of soft fat over the top of her bra-band. Her back looks thick, her backside broad, her calves almost comically exaggerated ovals. Her arms seem triangular, widening and widening from wrist to shoulder.
Emily is reading, her arm around Ailsa’s shoulder; she’s muttering to herself about spite and
kindness costing nothing. Even before the words Ailsa feels sick, teary, and then ridiculous for being upset at this – at what is nothing more, actually, than a photo of herself. She looks at it again, and then closes her eyes, and remembers how she felt that night. Her body had seemed liquid, graceful in Seb’s arms, moving from step to step, her heart opposite his heart. When they’d left she’d looked at the other dancers – women slimmer than her, bare-armed, narrow-hipped, some smiling, some thin-lipped with concentration, some confident, some stop-starting, tentative. And she had felt as though she was one of them. When really she was the mismatched partner of the handsome man, the one that they would all go home and comment on, wonder about. She had been starting to love her body, its growing strength and ability to do most of the things that she wanted it to. But right now, although she knows that love must be there somewhere, she can’t find it.
And then she reads the words of the article. They are no worse than the words she’s just said to herself, but they hurt. She tells herself that to judge by appearances is shallow, wrong, and tries to become outraged on behalf of herself, of women. And she is, hypothetically. But mostly she feels fat, ugly, disappointed in herself for believing that being less overweight than she used to be was special. The sure knowledge that she is more than how she looks – the knowledge that replaced her fierce conviction that she was more than her illness – has deserted her.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Not really,’ Ailsa says.
Emily pulls her closer and says, ‘You know that this isn’t true, don’t you? Not just that it’s awful about you, but everything it’s built on. He’s not better than you because he’s famous. You’re not unworthy because you’re not a stick. There’s just – there’s nothing here.’
‘I know.’ Emily’s quiet anger is comforting; so is the fact that she understands it all. ‘Thanks, Em.’
‘Are you going to blog about it?’
The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae (ARC) Page 16
