I twist the knob all the way to the right. The water batters against my dome and drizzles down my face.

  Cold.

  Warm.

  Hot.

  Roasting.

  I count to see how long I can suffer the intensity. The scalding. The pain. The third-degree burns. Bald patch will be ripe red. I feel it cooking.

  Fourteen seconds.

  A new record.

  Twist left.

  I squeeze cheap food-bank shampoo, Cien, on to my crown. Lather. Jesus, it’s sore. Rinse off at a cool temperature cos I’m not a complete masochist. I splat some Cien shower gel on a sponge and do little circles in and around the ten-stitcher. I clean myself underneath. Finish. Prep done. Fresh and ready to face the day.

  Bring it on.

  Suddenly I remember today’s the day we get our group assignment result; excuse me for forgetting, other things have been dominating my napper. We did do some work on it in between rehearsing though. Truth: I haven’t put my heart into art school with everything else going on. Need to start, know I do. This is my chance. If I can’t be my own cheerleader, who will be? Not her, that’s a given.

  God, I can just see her pure pissing herself if I get an F. She wasn’t exactly cartwheeling with a firework out of her arse when she heard that I’d got into art school. I wish she had been.

  I wish.

  I wish.

  I wish.

  I wish she could’ve been happier for me, cos if the shoe were on the other foot I’d have been delighted. Still, deep down I wouldn’t have wanted us to be going to the same place. Not that I thought she’d have cramped my style, I just needed to scream my own words and tell the world: I am here.

  What do you mean, you’re going to the art school, Mags?

  I got accepted – they accepted me.

  The art school in town?

  Can you believe it?

  What about the local college? What about us sticking together?

  We’ll still be together.

  Not if you’re in town all the time we won’t.

  It’s a great course, Moya.

  It’ll be full of wankers who think they’re all that.

  It’s a good opportunity.

  Yeah, well, you’ll never get a job with some art certificate, will you?

  It’ll be a degree.

  What-the-fuck-ever!

  There’s a difference, Moya.

  You’ll be on the dole like the rest of us.

  Thought you’d be happy for me.

  Course I’m happy for you.

  Pure sounds like it.

  I’m just not happy for me, that’s all.

  You’re doing your beauty course.

  Just wish I hadn’t been a complete fucking dunce at school, that’s all.

  Don’t say that.

  True though, innit?

  But that day the results arrived she wasn’t there, was she? No anger. No happiness. No congrats. Now, I’d take any reaction.

  I pull on my gear, go get some water for Mum. Why am I the one bringing the bloody olive branch? I sneak into her room. Dark and fusty. What am I expecting, dancing dicks and vodka fountains? The outline of her body under the covers doesn’t move. I put the glass down on her dresser with a thud, just so she knows I haven’t totally forgiven her.

  ‘Is that you, Maggie?’ she croaks.

  ‘I brought you water.’

  ‘Thanks, love.’

  Oh, it’s love now, is it?

  She rolls over, heaves herself up on the bed. I hand her the water, which she guzzles. ‘I needed that. I’ve a mouth like an Arab’s flip-flop.’ I snigger. A little joke. Un-PC but still nice. Her joking makes me feel better. It’s basically a sorry, right?

  ‘Want me to open the curtains?’ I go.

  We both chuckle.

  That’s basically a reconciliation hug, right?

  ‘No, leave them a bit longer. Is that OK?’

  ‘Course it is.’

  And … we’re back.

  She sits further up the bed. Her pyjama top that once sucked into her frame now drowns her. Humans have a shitload of bones.

  ‘What’s the weather doing?’ she goes.

  I peek an eye out.

  ‘Well, it’s not pissing down.’ I scan the grey clouds. ‘I’d say it’ll probably be a bit clammy.’ She groans. People are funny, letting weather determine their mood. ‘How are you feeling?’ I go.

  ‘Like I’ve been in a car crash.’

  ‘Want to talk about last night?’ I go.

  ‘I’d rather not, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I feel shame.’

  ‘It’s honestly fine, Mum. I’d forgotten about it as soon as I went to my room.’

  ‘I didn’t hear you that much last night.’

  ‘I slept,’ I lie. ‘Anyway, it’s totally done.’

  ‘OK,’ she goes.

  ‘Did you get much sleep?’

  ‘I did, but I’d say I could sleep some more.’

  ‘So, sleep some more then.’

  ‘I can’t sleep my life away, can I? I need to get up and face the day.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ I go.

  She rubs her cheeks as if she’s washing away dead skin.

  ‘Want me to do your eyebrows, Mum?’ I ask cos they look like a couple of Brillo Pads trying to flee from her forehead. Can’t have her going on a date looking like some bag lady, can I? She runs two fingers along them.

  ‘These?’

  ‘Be nice to do them, no?’

  ‘What’s going on, Maggie?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on.’

  Her eyes squint a bit; she knows this isn’t who her loony daughter is.

  ‘You’re hiding something.’

  ‘Look, want me to do them or not?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘I’m trying to be nice, remember?’

  She feels them again; any longer and they’ll have their own ecosystem.

  ‘Last chance,’ I go.

  ‘Show me your hands first.’

  I fan them out in front of her eyes. Mum inspects for steadiness and control. I excel with flying colours. ‘OK,’ she goes, ‘use the scissors and tweezers.’

  I pick up the instruments. I’m good at using scissors.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ I go.

  ‘Be careful, Maggie. Make sure they’re the same length.’

  ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘Don’t thin them out too much.’

  ‘I’ve got this.’

  Comb.

  Snip.

  Tweezer.

  Pat with index finger.

  Quick and easy.

  ‘There.’ I hold the mirror up to her face. ‘What do you think?’

  She angles her head. Nods. ‘Good job.’

  I admire my work.

  ‘You look beautiful now,’ I go, which feels weird to say.

  ‘Oh, would you listen to yourself.’

  I pure ogle her.

  God, underneath that nicotine-aged skin she is beautiful. Hard work, but really beautiful. Wouldn’t be a red neck walking around town with her if she spruced herself up a notch. Actually, maybe now’s the perfect time to say something about this actor lookalike?

  Singer

  I’m not prancing around pogo-style or karate-kicking an imaginary audience. At rehearsal, I hog the mic stand and chant the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’s ‘Hysteric’ then ‘Wave of Mutilation’ by the Pixies. I wedge Larry between the stand and the cable, tell the others he’s my lucky mascot. The epic Plum sings backing vocals. Girls are totally smashing it, sharing a smile during the ‘Wave of Mutilation’ chorus.

  Even though we’re pure chalk and cheese, I’m beginning to really like her; she doesn’t say or do much, but when she does it’s significant. I’ve a feeling she has my back, which is all anyone really wants. I’m ready for another gal pal to have my back again. She doesn’t care about stage presence; it’s all about the tunes for her. Superficial crap isn’t important to Plum; she’s the person I’m going to show my lyrics to, when the courage comes.

  So that’s it then, Mags?

  What’s it?

  She just saunters in and you forget all about me?

  It’s not like that, Moya.

  Could’ve fooled me.

  You’re easily fooled then.

  Look at the pair of you, pure eye-snogging each other.

  She’s nice. You’d like her.

  Someone like that wouldn’t give me the time of day.

  Oh, please, can you just give me ten minutes? I’m practising here.

  Do what you want. I don’t give a fuck.

  Larry gets launched to where my bag is sitting. Hope the landing’s painful.

  We go again. But my voice sounds like a strangled cat this time.

  Thanks, Moya.

  Not listening.

  Davis and Alfie have actually struck up a sound that isn’t an abomination; they’ve proper rhythm. Plum has these amazing fingers, like wands. One of these special music-prodigy weirdos. Me? All I have is a voice, and not one that’s exactly turning heads in this moment. I don’t want to be the weak link, the duffer. The angry one.

  They probably think I’m trying to copy Liam Gallagher or Hope Sandoval with the mic stance I’m pulling. Can’t really announce I’m doing my best human beanpole cos the ten-stitcher slice on my leg is hindering my movements, can I? I’d rather be anywhere else than standing here listening to the crescendo of shit that’s spewing from my gob.

  And, yes, I’m blaming you for that, Moya.

  Told you, not listening.

  I’m wearing a longish skirt with bare legs, harnessing my inner Kate Bush. They told me that letting air into the wound speeds the healing process.

  I’m still worried sick about having to tell Mum about this actor lookalike, yet our eyebrow session seemed to alter her mood. Time for another go.

  Hope she disowns you.

  After rehearsal the others want to celebrate our assignment result – hey, we didn’t get that F – but I have to bolt cos I’ve a date with a sad, old misery puss.

  When I finished doing her eyebrows I suggested chips and a walk today, which surprisingly wasn’t kiboshed. My attempt at cracking her fear of the outside world – not really. Thought being outdoors would be the best option for dropping the Ian bomb.

  Initially she offered to cook, but we both knew that wouldn’t be happening. Local chippy then local park it is. Girls’ night out. Seriously, I’m using that phrase?

  ‘Can you wear make-up if we’re going to be mingling with other humans?’ I went, before heading out to practice.

  ‘I’ll slap something on.’

  ‘Good woman.’

  ‘I’m proud of you, Maggie. Know that?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Well, for being a grown-up for one, and being sensitive. And I’m so sorry about what happened last night.’

  ‘Whatever!’ I went, furrowing a brow. Inside I was pure dancing though, dead eager to get to practice … to belt out songs like a drunken handheld hoover.

  Girls’ Night

  So, after rehearsal I breeze in. A bit nonplussed at my performance. I hear pottering from her room. Poke my head around the door; she’s sitting on her bed, not putting her face on in front of the mirror like I’d hoped.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, you gave me a fright, Maggie,’ she goes.

  ‘That you just shifting?’

  ‘Been napping.’

  Her hair is as hostile as my mood. Total firework display.

  ‘Still want to go out?’ I go.

  She scrunches up her face.

  ‘Can we do it another time?’

  Yeah, I’ll book you in for my graduation, eh?

  Completely predictable.

  ‘Maybe later in the week,’ she goes.

  ‘I thought you’d want to show off your new eyebrows?’ I tut the head off myself.

  ‘We can make something, if you want. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘You want to eat here?’

  ‘Maybe it’s best.’

  Ordinarily I’d want to brutalise something, show my annoyance; smack her in the face with a pillow, crumple her duvet. But she has me treading shells now so I simply smile in agreement. I don’t mind. Mean, the expectation bar was really low anyway.

  Do we even have food?

  Scavenger hunt is on. I open all the cupboards and the fridge. Utterly depressing. Probably due another food-bank sweep soon. Only allowed three visits every six months though. What kind of system is that? At least we don’t need to worry about obesity in our house. Silver linings. I fight my anger; must lock it away before dinner. But I’ll have to release it somehow. It’s obvious.

  My stitches sting, or am I just imagining it?

  It’ll have to be a stir-fry: chuck the knackered veg into a wok, lob in some noodles and packet sauce, mix well, scoop into a couple of bowls and voila! One slap-up edible feast for two.

  It’s decided: I’m going to tell her about Ian. The conditions are perfect; the guilt has her all over me – suddenly I’m this pure golden girl. No better time really. Best not to create a bad atmos, Maggie. Put your actor’s face on.

  When Mum joins me in the kitchen, I morph into full-on waitress mode. Dish towel over the arm; fake smile on the chops. Welcoming eyes. She’s fashioned her locks into something acceptable and smeared colour on her jowls. Right, let’s all breathe again.

  ‘Can I get you a little something to drink, madam, before you order?’ the waitress goes.

  ‘I’ll have a sparkling water with a slice of lemon, please,’ Mum goes.

  ‘How about lemon-less tap water?’ the waitress asks.

  ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  I pull out the fold-up chair for her to sit on, flap a square of kitchen roll on to her lap. Pour water and set it down.

  ‘Thank you,’ she goes.

  ‘Would madam care to order? Or would you like to hear about our specials?’ The waitress points to the wok on the cooker.

  ‘And what are the specials today?’

  ‘A noodle stir-fry with far-from-fresh veg.’

  ‘Sounds delicious. I’ll order that.’

  I drain the noodles and introduce them to the wok. Don’t even have a chilli to pimp it up with. Ah, well.

  I place the bowl in front of her, plonk one down for myself. I sit. We look at our food. Mum fires me a massive grin. She might be able to widen her mouth, show her teeth, but she can’t hide those eyes. A bit pink. I see her trying, but she can’t force them to smile.

  Don’t think she has hunger in her tummy. She chases the noodles around the bowl as if trying to knit them into a noodle hat-and-scarf set.

  Not much of a girls’ night, but there you go.

  ‘Sure you want to be here, Mum?’ I go.

  ‘What do you mean, am I sure? Of course I’m sure. Where else would I want to be?’

  ‘Dunno, in bed watching Love Island?’

  Hold steady, Maggie!

  If you want to bring up the subject of Ian in a calm environment, keep everything light and airy, don’t assault her chi. How do you even begin a conversation like that though? Can just hear it through a mouthful of stir-fry: ‘Oh, by the way, Mum, hope you don’t mind, but I’ve set you up on a date with some dude you’ve never met before. Don’t panic – I’ve done my homework, he’s got no convictions.’ Or I could just ask outright: ‘Mum, what’s your opinion of blind dates?’

  ‘I don’t watch Love Island, Maggie. I’m more than happy to be here.’ She puts her cold hand on top of mine. ‘But thanks for looking out for me.’

  I’VE ALSO SET YOU UP ON A BELTER OF A DATE! HOW’S THAT FOR ‘LOOKING OUT FOR YOU’?

  ‘Who else am I going to look out for?’ I go.

  ‘No, I mean it, Maggie. You’ve been brilliant since this …’ She twirls her finger around the kitchen. The universal sign of unemployment fallout. ‘I’m proud of you. I want you to know that.’

  ‘Just doing the daughter thing, Mum.’

  ‘I know you’ve had your own stuff to deal with too.’

  ‘It’s no problem, honestly, it’s not,’ I lie. It’s hard to get the words out past the ginormous lump that’s living in my throat.

  ‘Still, I’m proud of you.’

  ‘Same goes for me.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything to be proud of,’ she goes.

  ‘Just … I don’t know … Getting up every day … Being on the dole … It’s brave. So, I am proud too. Deal with it.’

  Mum looks serious. Deadly serious. She cups both my hands.

  ‘This isn’t bravery, Maggie. This is all about trying to stay strong. To not allow myself to sink each day. Bravery doesn’t come into it. With everything you’ve been through, you need a mother who’s tough and together. I’m just sorry I haven’t been that for you lately.’

  ‘You have been,’ I go.

  Her look softens.

  ‘I’m glad you’re holding everything together. It’s comforting,’ she goes.

  I try not to turn my eyes into a guilt-fest; Mum’ll clock it right away. One glimpse of my scalp or the state of my legs and she’ll know what ‘holding it together’ really means in our house.

  ‘Come on, eat,’ I go. ‘I could eat a scabby tramp.’

  She raises the glass of tap water.

  ‘Here’s to art school, a career as a famous fashion designer and your band.’

  ‘Cheers to that.’

  We clink.

  ‘I remember when I applied to study fashion,’ she goes, off the cuff.

  I almost spit my water all over her foundation.

  ‘You?’ I go, as though all mums had no lives before kids arrived to dim the lights on their pasts. ‘When?’

  ‘About your age.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I got accepted too.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes, me.’

  ‘And why didn’t you go?’

  ‘I’m looking at it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, not you as such. I got pregnant.’

  ‘That meant you couldn’t go?’

  ‘Things were different then, Maggie.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go after I was born?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I was afraid to leave you with anyone.’

 

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