The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae (ARC)

by Stephanie Butland

  But now that I’ve a longer life ahead, not knowing where half of my chromosomes come from feels like too much missing information.

  I don’t think the man who didn’t bother to wait to see me born can be curious. I still live in the flat my mother bought just before she got pregnant. There have been no letters or birthday cards.

  But my parents were twenty-four when I was born. I’m twenty-eight and I can’t even organise my washing so I’ve always got a clean pair of jeans.

  Will I look back on the decisions I’m making now and think I’ve done everything right? Or will I look back and wish I’d done some things differently?

  Here’s the question. And I really don’t know the answer to it. I can line up all the arguments, one way and then the other. But Apple has no idea which way to jump.

  Do I find my biological father?

  To vote YES click here.

  To vote NO click here.

  I’m giving you a week.

  ‘It’s in,’ Ailsa says, and then, looking at the clock, calculating, building in a bit of slippage in case she’s sliced the aubergines too thickly, ‘it should be ready at about eight. Do you want another beer?’ She’d insisted on buying the food, but Seb had taken his own basket and filled it with wine, cider and beer. There’s now more alcohol in Ailsa’s flat than she can ever remember there being. She’d said as much. Seb had said, ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking we’d drink it all tonight.’

  ‘I’m OK for now,’ he says.

  ‘Right you are.’ She sits down next to him; he pulls her in, like he did on the top deck of the bus.

  ‘I read what you wrote,’ Seb says. ‘I can see why you’re thinking about it.’ He rests his cheek against the top of her head for a moment, squeezes her shoulder, and then, ‘You’re not going to put this on your blog, though, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’ Ailsa’s least favourite medics were the ones who tried to coax and coach her to what they thought were the right decisions: ‘Do you think going home would be the right thing to do, given how poorly you’ve been this week?’, or ‘Is your mother going to agree, do you think?’ She hopes Seb isn’t about to become her least favourite sort-of boyfriend. She suspects that if Hayley was listening in on this conversation, he would be shooting up in her estimation.

  She feels him shrug. ‘It’s up to you. But – you’ve been on the receiving end of other people writing about your life. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘I don’t think any of this is private. Give my mother two glasses of wine and she’ll tell you the story herself. With swearing.’

  ‘You and me doing the tango wasn’t private. We were in a public space.’

  ‘I suppose.’ She doesn’t suppose – she knows. She was never going to publish this, however much she kidded herself that she would. She might not like the way Hayley still wants to manage her life, but she wouldn’t do this.

  She sighs. He kisses the top of her head, and then there’s a beat, a second of waiting, before he asks, ‘Dinner at eight?’

  ‘About that,’ she says.

  ‘And ratatouille doesn’t spoil, right?’

  ‘I thought you didn’t cook,’ Ailsa says.

  ‘I don’t. I’ve got a mate who’s been in Educating Rita, though. You learn a lot from helping people learn their lines.’

  ‘Don’t you just,’ she says, and she gets to her feet, takes his hand, and leads him to her bedroom. She switches the timer off on the way through the kitchen. The stirring, after all, is optional.

  The ratatouille doesn’t spoil. They eat at nine, with candlelight and music and a plenty-of-time-for-talking-later quietness.

  And in the morning, the first thing she sees is his sleepy smile. He cups a palm over his bad eye, opens the other. ‘BlueHeart. We don’t have to get up yet, do we?’

  ‘We need to leave at ten,’ Ailsa says, sliding her body against his, ‘ten fifteen at the latest.’ She starts work at eleven, and he needs to be at the Dragon’s Nest for eleven thirty. He could, if he wanted, come and have a coffee before he goes to join the cast for the readthrough. She hasn’t asked him, because she’s not sure if she wants him to. At the moment, at work, she’s Ailsa the ordinary. It’s nice, not being BlueHeart, now that she’s been there for long enough to get to know people a bit. If she brings Seb in she might become Ailsa Who Knows That Actor Who Was On StarDance.

  ‘Are you straight back to London after the read-through?’

  ‘I’m booked on the six o’clock train,’ he says, ‘so probably. There’ll be drinks afterwards, I would think. Nearly everyone’s from Edinburgh, or Glasgow. Roz isn’t stupid. She’s not paying to put people up for the run if she can help it. But we can go and have a drink at the station, if you like.’

  ‘I don’t finish work until six,’ Ailsa says.

  Seb, who has been starting to sit up, stretch, both eyes cautiously open now, while Ailsa lies beside him, stops mid-move, looks down at her. The angle makes him look like a hall-of-mirrors version of himself, all chin and nostrils. ‘Can’t you bunk off early?’

  She laughs. ‘Coffee doesn’t make itself, you know.’

  ‘But I thought you could come, towards the end, and we could show them how to tango.’

  The laugh bursts out of her. ‘Us? Tango? In front of everyone? I can’t imagine anything worse.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Seb says. She has to check to see that he’s not really offended – it’s funny, how sex and sleeping can make you think you know someone – and she takes his hand. His fingers are warmer than hers.

  ‘I mean – I’m not used to being on show. And I’m not that good. If you want to show them the tango, you need someone better than me to dance with.’

  A squeeze to her hand. ‘But we’re great at tango. It feels – like something.’

  ‘I know.’ She thinks about his heart, her heart, always opposite each other, and the way he moves, making it so clear what her next step should be. And then she remembers the photo. ‘It feels great, dancing with you. But I don’t think I’m exactly demonstration standard. And I don’t like people looking at me.’

  ‘Ah, you’ll soon get used to that,’ Seb says. ‘We could practise. Right now.’ He straddles her, kneeling, runs his hands over her; his eyes watch his hands, or maybe her body beneath them, learning her. She watches his face, to see if his fingers or his gaze snag or falter on the scar, but they don’t seem to.

  She laughs and says, ‘This isn’t tango.’

  ‘No,’ Seb says, ‘next best thing, though.’

  It’s ten thirty by the time they are dressing. Ailsa squeezes past him, to the wardrobe – this bedroom has only ever been arranged for one, even though there’s a double bed in it – and he holds her by the waist, pulls her in.

  ‘I know I said you were looking better and better, but I might need another look.’

  His skin is damp, his hair, where he’s towelled it dry, sticks up and makes him look a bit more like a man who hasn’t just stepped off a screen. She’s in her underwear and tights, is heading to the wardrobe for her purple skirt. She usually wears jeans to work but she didn’t do her washing yesterday, didn’t want damp clothes all over the radiators.

  She sticks against his skin, stands there for a heartbeat before she moves past. ‘I’ll be late if I don’t get a move on.’

  He lets go of her. ‘Are you sure you can’t bunk off?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’ His tone is light – or rather, light-ish.

  ‘Because it’s my job.’

  His brows draw together in what’s presumably meant to be comic puzzlement. ‘It’s making coffee.’

  ‘That’s not the point. I need to earn.’ Hayley’s voice in her head: I didn’t bring you up to be a WAG.

  ‘It’s only a day.’

  ‘It’s my job. It’s all I’ve got, for now.’ She zips up her skirt, pulls a top over her head and straightens it. Seb’s s
till naked, apart from the towel slung across his shoulders. Well, if he’s not ready, she’ll just have to go without him.

  ‘You’ve got me.’ He’s pouting. The sash windows give a rattle. It might be the last of the wind that blew all night, although right now, to Ailsa, it seems more likely to be Hayley’s laughter coming all the way from Glasgow and trying to get in. He has to be joking.

  She kisses him – it’s so good, to be wanted like this, to want. But she is her own self now. ‘I know. But we didn’t really plan today. And anyway, what am I supposed to do? Sit downstairs in the bar? Bring the drinks?’

  He pulls on his boxer shorts and jeans, and turns to her as he finishes buttoning his fly. She isn’t quite ready to reach for him, touch him, now that he’s half dressed. ‘I thought you’d want to make the most of me being here.’

  He sounds wounded. More wounded than he has any right to feel. She glances at the clock. ‘I’d say we’ve made pretty good use of the time we’ve had.’ She closes her hand around the hand he’s held out, smiles at him. ‘I really do need to leave in five minutes.’

  And suddenly, it’s all right. Well, sort of. The air in the room has changed from stern to smiling. He touches her cheek, looks into her face, close enough for her to see the broken zigzags of stitches. ‘That all came out wrong. Sorry. It’s just – it would be nice to spend the day together.’

  ‘Yes, it would,’ she says. It’s on the tip of her tongue to say: Let’s make it another day, let’s get our diaries. But Apple breathes a warning into her blood. She’s not sure of the rules. She’s seen him when he’s been recognised in the street, asked for selfies; as the women who’ve asked for photos walk away from him she can see that he’s made them feel like the centre of his world, for the fifteen seconds that he’s saying hello, smiling into their phone camera lens. She needs to be careful. And not just because her mother says so.

  Part Seven

  Early July 2018

  Let’s Talk

  www.myblueblueheart.blogspot.co.uk

  2 July, 2018

  A Big Decision

  Well, my dear faithful readers, today’s post is short and sweet.

  I have a dilemma and no clue what to do about it.

  It’s an espresso of a post, short and sharp, because there’s really no other way to serve it.

  All the background I can give you is:

  I’ve never known my biological father. I’ve never wanted to. But lately, I’ve been wondering about him.

  Should I look for him? What do you think?

  I’ll give you until the 8th.

  To vote YES, Ailsa, he’s part of your history, click here.

  To vote NO, Ailsa, you’ve managed without him so far, so you don’t need him now, click here.

  73 comments

  Results:

  YES

  82%

  NO

  18%

  www.celebritynewshub.co.uk

  1 July, 2018

  Romeo and Juliet Hit the Town

  American TV and theatre star Meredith Katz has been seen out and about in London this week with darling of British TV Sebastian Morley, who has made dark glasses his trademark look following a corneal transplant early this year. Morley and Katz are to star as Romeo and Juliet in a production of Shakespeare’s play at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe in August. They were snapped attending a charity auction to raise funds for a children’s hospital.

  Seb was unsuccessful in his bid to win a helicopter flight over London, but Meredith outbid all opposition to claim a bespoke, made-to-measure shirt for her new leading man. ‘He’s going to have to up his game if he wants to be seen with me,’ she quipped. ‘I know all you Brits love Marks and Spencer, but I’m looking for something with a little more – oomph.’

  Morley – who once featured in a Guess jeans advertising campaign, which won him the Rear of the Year award – laughed and responded, ‘I tried to claim I couldn’t see well enough to choose my best shirt for tonight but that excuse cut no ice with Meredith.’ The pair then got into a taxi together and headed in the direction of Chelsea, where they were later spotted talking intimately over a bottle of wine.

  2 July, 2018

  Ailsa forgot to take her phone to work. When she gets home, just after three, she finds she has nine missed calls, two texts, both from Hayley. One says, simply, ‘WTF’, and another, twenty minutes after the first was sent: ‘Finish work at 2, see you by 4’.

  Six of the missed calls are from Hayley and three are from Tamsin. There are two voicemails. One is Hayley, muttering ‘fuck’s sake’ under her breath and hanging up – she’s not a lover of leaving messages – and the other, Hayley again, says, ‘Call me when you get this, would you?’, in a voice that’s one part upset, three parts anger.

  Oh, Christ. There’s an obvious explanation for this. Ailsa opens her laptop and switches it on. While she’s waiting for it to power up, Tamsin rings again.

  ‘How are you, Auntie T? Is Mum OK? I went to work without my phone and I’ve just seen—’

  ‘Your mother’s on her way. I thought I’d best let you know. She’s not happy.’

  ‘I’d guessed that,’ Ailsa says, and then asks the question, even though the website for her dashboard is now loading, and she can see exactly what the problem is. Shit, shit, shit. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Well, that blog post of yours. It was a bit much, don’t you think? She’s mad as hell with you. And upset, o’course.’

  ‘I was going to call her this afternoon. Right now. And I didn’t think I’d published it. I was going to warn her about it first…’

  ‘Warn her? Not ask her?’

  ‘I thought I’d set it up as scheduled for tonight but then I must have clicked publish by mistake – I’ve not as much time now I’m working, I did it in a rush…’ Ailsa knows there is no point in going into this, but it feels like her only defence, the only way she has of hiding from what she’s begun.

  ‘Well, it’s too late now.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should maybe have talked to her first, you know.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about posting it for a couple of weeks. It’s not a sudden decision. And she just shuts me down. Every time. And’ – Ailsa can hear what she’s going to say, how ridiculous it sounds, how childish, but she can’t stop it from coming out, and anyway, she knows that it’s a real, adult feeling. Because she is a real adult, and all she’s trying to do here is not be treated like a child – ‘it’s not fair.’

  ‘Aye, well. You of all people should know that it’s not always about fairness.’

  Ailsa feels her eyes close. She is so, so tired of this. ‘No. It’s not. But it’s not always about – her – either.’

  ‘She’s still the right to privacy. She might not want her life all over your damn blog. Eighty-two per cent of voters think you should see him, do you know that? Well, they don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘It’s my life too.’

  ‘Oh, heaven forbid that anything should be not about you, Ailsa. You’re just one of us now, one of the normal people, and all the same rules apply to you as they do to the rest of us.’

  There’s a part of Ailsa that wants to cry. And she wants to tell Tamsin that she has a right to her history – that it’s not the selfishness it looks like, really; that knowing her father is something her new long life might need. But she can’t find words, or tears; all she can do is look at the bedraggled window boxes on the sill. Looking after them was something Hayley did.

  Tamsin adds, ‘I know it isn’t easy. For either of you. But you don’t know everything. And this is not the way.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Auntie T.’

  Now Tamsin is silent on the line. Ailsa waits. Then, her aunt’s voice, gentler, ‘Well, she’s on the way. Try to be kind, if you can. She’s been through a lot for you. You know where I am if you need me.’

  It’s not the first time Ailsa has heard Tamsin say those words. In the last weeks before the tra
nsplant – which at the time were, potentially, the last weeks, period –Tamsin was often at the hospital. She’d try to persuade Hayley away, for fresh air, a change of scene or a hot meal, but Hayley was immovable. Tamsin would kiss Ailsa goodbye, then take Hayley by the shoulders, look her in the face, say, ‘You know where I am if you need me.’ This is not a memory Ailsa needs right now.

  Hayley rings the doorbell at ten past four. Ailsa buzzes her in, then hears her footsteps, slow, on the stairs. Her mother smells of cigarette smoke and she has smudged mascara at the corner of one eye. She might have been mad as hell when she left Glasgow, but she’s quiet now. Today’s scarf is all blues and greens; you only realise the pattern is peacock feathers when you spread the fabric out. It’s soft from long use. A nurse, seeing Hayley shaking out the scarf and folding it, told her that to bring peacock feathers inside was bad luck. Hayley had said, ‘Well, if that’s the case, this scarf is me putting two fingers up to luck.’

  ‘Mum,’ Ailsa says.

  ‘Ailsa.’ It’s not an angry voice, it’s deliberately neutral.

  ‘I was going to call you before the post went up. I thought I’d scheduled it for tonight.’

  Hayley has slipped off her shoes, an old habit of their home that Ailsa doesn’t bother with anymore, and walks into the living room, sits on the sofa. Ailsa follows.

  ‘It was a shock to see it, that’s for sure,’ Hayley says.

  ‘I’m sorry. I really did want to warn you.’

  ‘But you were going to do it anyway.’ Hayley still sounds calm. This is no longer good. It’s – unsettling. Ailsa has already managed to say the things she thought it might take half an hour to fit into the gaps of the furious monologue she was braced for.

  ‘Well – yes,’ Ailsa says, then, sitting down next to Hayley, turning towards her, ‘I know you don’t like the voting. Or the blog. But it’s mine. And so is – so is he.’

  ‘I’ve told you all you need to know about him.’

  Ailsa takes a deep breath. Her lungs expand, wait; then Apple beats and sends oxygen around her body, as though she understands. ‘That’s not your decision, though. I don’t want to be protected. He’s not – he’s not a virus. He’s half of my genes.’