According to YES (25 page)

Carol Noble – for being brilliant, and joining me on the first leg of this adventure

Emma Kilcoyne – for never-ending encouragement and ferocious intelligence

Sue Hunter – for endless patience and typing

Debs Walker – for protection and scanning

Dave, Sammy, Emma and Mike – for keeping the home fires burning

Jono and Judith – for being true friends

Louise Moore – for keeping the faith

Jill, Liz, Huw and all at Michael Joseph – for hard work

Maureen Vincent – for anchorage

Robert Kirby – for foresight

Nicole Kidman – for being a mensch

Leigh, Liz, Jennifer and all my Spence buddies

All the kids I babysat in Manhattan

Ma and Pa Bignell – for pasties and support

Billie, Lils and Oly – for being my purpose

Nigel Carrivick – for excellent reading and kitten heels

The mighty B. F. – for reading aloud and for EVERYTHING else

Biggs – for all the endless love

Dolly – for bein' my faithful chum

AN EXTRACT FROM

My mother is, like, a totally confirmed A-list bloody cocking minging arsehole cretin cockhead of the highest order. Fact. In fact, I, of this moment, officially declare my entire doubt of the fact that she is in fact my actual real mother. She can't be. I can't have come from that wonk. Nothing in any tiny atom of my entire body bears any likeness to an iota of any bit of her. It's so, like, entirely unfair when people say we look alike because like, excuse me, but we properly
DON'T
thank you. And I should know. Because I look at her disgusting face 20/7
and
excuse me, I do actually have a mirror thank you. Which I've looked in and so
NOT
seen her face, younger or otherwise, staring back at me. If I do ever see that hideousness, please drown me immediately in the nearest large collection of deep water. I would honestly be grateful for that act of random mercy.

At 5.45pm today she had the actual nerve to inform me that I will
not
apparently be having my belly button pierced after all, until my eighteenth birthday. She knows I booked it for this Saturday. She knows Lottie is having hers done. It was going to be our like together forever thing. Fuck my mother and all who sail in her. I hate her. She's fired.

All things considered, that went rather well. Big pat on own back, Mo. I am definitely getting better at not letting her appalling language upset me. No one likes to be referred to as an ‘evil slag', or ‘hell whore', let's be honest, but I've suffered worse at the sharp end of her tongue, so ironically I'm grateful for these comparatively lesser lashings.

I am reminded of the trusty old David Walsh mantra I often recommend to my clients, ‘When, in argument, you feel like taking the wind out of her sails, it is a better idea to take your sails out of her wind.' It certainly was no breezy zephyr I felt battering my aft as I purposely walked away, it was a Force 10 brute, but I am broad in the beam and made of suitably sternish stuff. As yet, unscuppered. If lilting a tad.

Yet again, no sign of Husband at the eye of the storm. He scuttled off to a safe port in the study to spend time with his ever-ready, ever-understanding lover, MAC. His endless muttered bleatings about female politics being a mystery are weak and wobbly to the point of jelly. Why does he constantly refuse to back me up at these critical moments? I have repeatedly explained the importance of consistency and continuity as far as the kids are concerned. We must present a united front. We should share my opinion at all times. I am, after all, the qualified child psychologist in this family. Other than fathering two children (total of six minutes' commitment to the project), I'm not aware of his training. However, have to give it to him, he is certainly a supremely skilled slinker-off-er when voices are raised, no one can better his retreating technique. He certainly gets the gold in
that
backwards race. Oh yes.

Then, he had the audacity to sit in Dora's bedroom with her for an hour whilst she apparently ‘emptied out' and explained to him that she feels she and I are enemies and have been for years. I am
not
her enemy, I am her mother. Sometimes it's probably the same thing. It needs to be. I am not here to be her friend.

What
am
I here for actually? To be a guide, a judge, an inquisitor maybe? At the moment I am purely transport, bank and occasional punch bag.

Everso recently, it would have been me sitting next to her on that bed getting a wet shoulder complete with smeared mascara splats.

What a huge difference between fifteen and seventeen years of age. An entire personality flip has happened. Where has my sweet little goth gone? She of the smudgy eyes and red nylon dreadlocks and Tank Girl industrial boots and clamp-on nose-rings? It was so easy to love that one. That one was endearingly injured and tragic. Why have I been sent this Tango-skinned bleached-hair designer slave? I own a human Cindy. Her insufferable rudeness grows with every waking moment. And quite a few sleeping moments I suspect. I'm sure she doesn't waste any dream time
NOT
hating me. Does hate have a cumulative effect? If so, Dora will be earning buckets of interest on her massive deposits of mum-hate. I just have to accept it, she loathes me.

Today's particular loathing is about refusing to let her have her belly button pierced. In this particular respect, I feel entirely vindicated. Was there ever an uglier mutilation? The very thought of it makes my unpierced and considerably larger stomach turn. Her choice of ‘parlour' is that nasty dirty little dungeon opposite the carpet shop in the high street, ‘Pangbourne Ink'. Obviously I've never ventured in, but I know the sister of the troll who owns it and she had chronic impetigo last year, so if Dora thinks I am sanctioning such a dreadful thing and in such a dirty place, she can think again.

Of course, soon she will be eighteen and if she chooses to maim herself
then
, she can pay for the privilege. I am not a medical doctor, but if something terrible were to happen to her belly button, an infection of some sort, wouldn't that seal her umbilical tubes? How would any potential grandchild of mine get its nourishment? She is risking any future child-bearing possibilities. Is there no end to her selfishness?

The suffering of the last hour has been unutterably awful. Both of the Battle harridans, the monstrous mater
and
the dreadful daughter, have been shrieking sufficiently enough to wake as yet undiscovered molluscs at the pit-bottom of the ocean's silty depths. I have mastered the art of ear-fugging – the application of twisted curls of wet kitchen paper administered to the inner ears. One would imagine this would provide a merciful relief. Yet still, their damnable harpy squawking prevails.

What unlovely wretches they prove themselves to be, abandoning all vestiges of class and style, allowing the vulgarity of their lower-middle-class shackles to triumph. How very very very disappointed I am in both of them. It is so extremely tiresome. I am exhausted from the disappointment. I must needs take to my bed. The confines of my room offer the succour and solitude I sorely need. Increasingly, I discover that the delights of the Nintendo III Dance Mat Challenge are my only worthy companion. There, at least, the red fires of my passion are sated. Farewell, dear diary, 'til anon.

AN EXTRACT FROM

Wednesday 10am

He sits with a sense of being watched, although he himself is the watcher. Momentarily, the others have stepped outside so he is suddenly, shockingly, alone with her. It's odd for there to be no voices. No sound, save those of two human beings just being alive. He becomes acutely aware that for the first time in a very long time, he feels irrefutably more alive than her. She's always making sure you know she's chock-full o' life. She lives big and loud. Right to her fingertips. Her presently somewhat swollen fingertips. Look at them. Someone, perhaps a nurse, has tried to remove the coral-red varnish, but it is stubborn and has bled into her skin, revealing the nails beneath to be unbeautiful, nicotiney. Blotchy red fingers. Yellow nails.

She wouldn't like him to see such a personal thing, so he tries to stop looking … but of course he can't. He is transfixed by the unusual sighting. He feels her watching, and although she isn't and although he so wants to remain defiant, he looks away.

So. Here they both are again. Alone. They haven't been alone in a room for … well, since they were married. What's that? About … God … What
is
it now? Five years? Something like that.

There she is. Breathing.

Here he is. Breathing.

That's it.

Pretty much like it was at the end of the marriage, really. Two people occupying the same air. Nothing else in common. Just oxygen. He remembers when sharing breath with her was exciting, intimate. He would lie close to her in the night, happily breathing in what she breathed out. The breath of life, their joint breath from their joint life.

This breathing now, though, is very different.

He hears his own. It's quick and halting. It fits with his heartbeat, which is anxiously fast and occasionally missing altogether, when he finds himself holding his breath whilst urgent frightening thoughts distract him.

Her breathing is entirely unfamiliar. It's regimented and deep. Her lungs are rhythmically resonating loudly around the room, chiming in with the bellow-like wheezing of the machine. She's being breathed for, through a huge ugly tube in her throat.

Because Silvia Shute, despite all the supposed life in her, is in a coma.

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