We Are All Made of Stars by Rowan Coleman Page B

on my opening night, when I came back to shore, in that smoky godawful dive. You’d even brought your pals.
    Knowing you were there made me feel like a million dollars. I wore my sequins and false lashes with pride. It was the first step on a long journey, and you helped me take it – your love for me never wavered.
    You never shied away from telling your friends that you had two mothers now, that one of them used to be your dad. You lifted your chin up high and held my hand, and helped me through. I am so lucky, so, so lucky, that I had you in my life. I don’t think I would have lived this long if you hadn’t shown me that it was OK to be me.
    Prostate cancer – well, it’s a laugh, isn’t it? The woman with the finest manicure in town is getting taken down by the biology that she never wanted. Bury me in a silver coffin, darling, cover me in glitter from head to foot, play Dean Martin and dance. Make sure you and my grandchildren dance for all you are worth.
    And, as for me, don’t you feel sad. There cannot be a happier person than me, knowing, as I do, that the same biology that’s finished me off is what gave me the chance to create you – the most wonderful woman I know, apart from your darling mother.
    Dance, just dance every day. Dance on my grave – I shan’t mind a bit.
    With love,
    Mum

CHAPTER NINE
HOPE
    I’m not entirely sure what I’ve agreed to, but somehow it’s happened, and all in that one hour in the pub. Ben left me at my room door last night, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking ever since. Not just normal ‘Oh God, I feel like hell, and I wonder what they are giving us for dinner’ thinking, but stupid, crazy, fast-thoughts-type thinking, where you keep on wondering: did that really happen? And, if it did, what was it exactly that drove me to the point of temporary insanity?
    â€˜What about Glastonbury? We should do that. I’ll get tickets now – something for you look forward to, when you get out of here,’ Ben had said about halfway through our pint – or should I say his pint and my J2O. Beside his drink there was also a vodka chaser. (I don’t know why for just a quick drink he felt like he needed an extra shot of spirits. I think it’s almost like a badge of honour with him – look at me, with my chaser; I’ll be playing the O2 next year, wait and see – me with my edgy lifestyle and my vodka shot.)
    â€˜All the tickets will be sold now,’ I’d told him. ‘They’ll have been sold out months ago. Besides, I’m not exactly keen on the whole toilet situation, or the mud, or the rain, or the camping.’
    â€˜Don’t be stupid, that’s what festivals are all about. OK, so if this year is too late, what about next year, then?’ he’d said, and I’d looked sceptical. ‘Also, you know, with you on board we might get disabled access.’
    I’d given my best withering stare, and he’d shrugged.
    â€˜Seems a bit optimistic to plan that far ahead,’ I’d said. ‘Be a shame to spend all the money on something and then I die before I get to go. And I really do hate the rain and the toilets and the camping. We could watch it on telly again.’
    â€˜You’re too young to always be the voice of doom, you know,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve become an expert on CF, and when you are well and it’s under control, you can do anything, including rock festivals. And it’s not a death sentence any more. When you were born, everyone said you’d be lucky to make it to your thirties, and now it’s likely you can make it to forty, and who knows what advances next year or the year after will bring?’
    â€˜How do you know all this stuff?’ I’d said.
    â€˜I keep up to date with things,’ he said. ‘I keep informed. If only you were a bit younger and a bit more terminal,’ he’d