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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Part Nine
August 2018
Unpleasing Sharps
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 scene 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, highpressure 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.
‘No worries, hen. It’s just like the old days. Without the’ – Hayley steps back, waves her hands in the direction of her chest, fists clenched – ‘paddles. Defibrillators.’
A shudder, radiating out from Apple: Don’t.
It’s been an unseasonably warm night, even for the end of July; the windows are open, and a warm breeze blows through the flat.
‘Have you eaten?’
‘I had a sandwich at work.’
‘Bread? Things must be bad. And I can see you’ve been crying.’ Hayley sits down on the sofa, waits for Ailsa to settle with her head in her lap, the way she used to when she was ill. ‘Now, tell me all about it.’
‘What’s to tell? It’s definitely him. He didn’t deny it. He rang to warn me and sent me the video clip himself, and he left me a voicemail.’ Just the thought of it starts her tears again. It’s the indignity. She is the fat girl Seb danced with after he’d slagged off fat girls dancing, as though he was making a point, or taking a holiday while he was, briefly, less-than-perfect himself. When he’s well, he’ll go sparkling away with a new dance partner, tightarsed and prancing like a – like a shiny unicorn – and even if he does think that he loves her, well, she doesn’t want to be some sort of step down for him.
Hayley hands her a tissue. ‘Come on, hen. We’ve got through worse than this. What did he say?’
Ailsa sits up, wipes her eyes and puts her hand to her chest: she has, appropriately enough, heartburn. The bread, probably. Though Apple feels cold and tired, her beat subdued. She takes a deep breath and waits for her breathing to come in waves rather than hailstones.
‘He said he was stupid. Excited. He wasn’t thinking. He said he felt like everyone else was better than him and it was his way of making himself feel better.’
Hayley says, ‘Aye, well.’
‘Aye, well? What does that mean?’
‘Well,’ Hayley says, ‘everybody’s an idiot once in a while.’
‘What?’ David wasn’t what he might have been. Seb isn’t what he pretended to be. Hayley can’t do this to her too. ‘Why aren’t you telling me all men are bastards? Or that you told me so?’
‘Would that help?’
Ailsa shakes her head, as though that might wake her up, or dislodge whatever it is in her ear that’s making her not hear things properly. ‘That’s what you do. And you said—’
‘What I said,’ Hayley says, ‘was, dinnae be a WAG. And you’re not. I should have known you knew better.’ A pause. ‘You’re not the only one with a sorry to say.’
Ailsa nods and reaches out for her mother. ‘But you were right. You said Seb was a charmer.’
‘And he is. But, like you said, I’m not exactly a good judge of men.’ There’s a pointedness in Hayley’s voice, but not a lot of it. It’s not as sharp as it should be. ‘And there’s worse things to be than charming.’
‘Like a man in a church hall in Guildford,’ Ailsa says.
‘Aye, well. To each his own.’ Oh, God. Ailsa has broken her mother. Why isn’t she raging? Looking at her daughter’s face, Hayley says, ‘Tamsin told me a thing or two. Including that I need tae turn down my lioness act.’
Ailsa nods, but then the tears start again. ‘I like it when you’re a lioness.’
‘You’ll like it better when you’re a lioness for yourself, hen.’
‘I don’t feel like a lioness –’ She pauses ‘– before I rang you that day, I ran away. From – David.’
‘Did you? Or did you take control?’ Hayley asks.
Ailsa shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’ Then, ‘What do I do about Seb?’
‘Do you have to do anything?’
‘No. Yes. I’ll see him at the theatre later. All his stuff’s here. He said he’d stay at Roz’s tonight. He’s coming to get his bag.’
‘When?’
‘He said he’d text a time –’ Ailsa looks at her phone ‘– about half three. Half an hour.’ Oh God, oh God, she can’t face him. She’s put the bag by the door already, but she’s going to have to hand it over. ‘I’ve got two missed calls from him. One from his agent. A couple from – papers, probably.’ A sob, unexpected and forceful, breaks free from the place beneath her ribs where Ailsa is keeping her tears. ‘I haven’t spoken to anyone.’
‘That’s best, I should think.’
‘What would I say?’ Another sob, another, another, and Hayley holds her until she’s calm. Maybe they’re both
remembering when a problem with her heart was life or death. ‘Why aren’t you saying all men are bastards? Because I’d agree with you.’
‘He’s been an idiot. That’s a wee bit different.’
‘I can’t believe you’re defending him.’
‘I’m not defending him, Ailsa, I’m really not. He made an arse of himself before he met you. People do that. That’s what they do. Other people forgive them. And you dinnae need me to tell you it’s what’s on the inside that counts. Because I really am a terrible mother if you do.’
‘The most important thing on my inside isn’t even mine.’
‘Well, if you’re talking about your heart, I don’t know who else you think it belongs to.’
Ailsa puts her head in her hands. Her hair feels greasy at the roots. She wants a bath, sleep. She wants Seb. No, she doesn’t. But she has to go tonight. She’s committed. She’s part of a team. She’s not the star of the Failing Heart Show anymore.
‘I’m not going to be treated like that.’
‘No, you’re not. What does your name mean?’
‘Victory. Warrior.’ It’s hardly a war cry.
Hayley looks at her daughter, strokes her hair. ‘Do you want some tea?’
Ailsa shakes her head. ‘No. I’m going to have a bath.’
‘Do you want me to run it for you?’
‘Thanks, Mum. But – I’m not ill anymore.’
‘No, but that’s not to say your mother cannae run you a bath now and then.’
And then the doorbell rings. Ailsa jumps, as though it’s connected to her by electrodes, and goes to the window, looks out, steps back as though the air outside is charged enough to give her a shock too.
‘It’s him.’
‘Do you want me to answer it?’
‘I want him to go away.’
The Curious Heart of Ailsa Rae (ARC) Page 27
