LOUISE: I grew up in Leeds, in a three-bed council house my parents and I shared with my grandparents, my uncle and aunt, another uncle and a cousin. Leeds was a really happening place in the 1960s. I had fantastic mates and a lot of freedom. Then, when I was 15, my parents emigrated to New Zealand. When we got to Wellington, I refused to get off the boat. It was desolate, with this awful geothermal stuff going on. The ground was going up and down — it was an absolute bloody nightmare. It was Hades. I was such a horrible, stroppy teenager — I never gave a thought for anyone else. I lay in the garden and said to my parents: "You've ruined my life."

Teenage girls have such an intense love affair with their mates. I got 10 letters a day from my friends in England. Finally my parents gave in and sent me home to live with my grandparents. When I came back to New Zealand again, aged 17, the first thing I did was to get pregnant. It's useless lecturing teenagers on this kind of thing. They don't make the connection between sexuality and consequence. I must have conceived instantaneously, literally the first time.

I was in complete denial. Then I felt this deep, unreasonable anger against my body, against the world. My parents were horrified. My father thought I should marry the father. My mother offered to raise the child. But she'd just got her life back and she was going to university. I didn't know the baby but I did know my mother, and I couldn't do that to her.

There was no chance of getting an abortion — you couldn't even get the pill in Wellington. And so, late one October night, I had Kim — or rather Tiffany, as I wanted to call her, after a cat who lived in our street. She was immediately taken away from me.

Right up to the birth, I'd refused to acknowledge what was happening. It was an extraordinarily lonely time. The nice lady from the adoption agency asked: "What kind of parents would you like for her?" And, typical surly teenager that I was, I spat: "I'd like the father to own a ranch and the mother to be a ballerina." The most stupid things I could think of. I think part of me knew I'd be a useless mother, and that helped me to come to terms with what I'd done. I never stopped thinking about her. I'd send letters every time I changed addresses, telling her about my life, but the agency weren't allowed to give me any news. The last thing I heard was: "She's a very good baby and she's beginning to speak."

It was my mum who met Kim first. She contacted the adoption agency and they phoned Kim, who was by then 21. When she and I met, at Heathrow, we were very enamoured of each other.

We looked alike and had the same mannerisms and laugh. But culturally she's a New Zealander, which was my idea of hell. They like the beach and barbies, and they talk about travelling.

I had the strangest sensation of knowing her and yet not knowing her. But knowing her as I do now, I think she needed the structure she was given by her adoptive parents. Life with me would have been a nightmare for her. If I'd kept her, I'm not sure I'd have the relationship that I have with her now.

But I got her as a socking huge 24-year-old, with beliefs and attitudes that weren't mine, and that wasn't easy. At first we got drunk a lot and behaved almost like girlfriends. But I notice that she's much more respectful now and very affectionate. She depends on me more since her adoptive mum died. She says I'm her touchstone. We talk every day and we miss each other if we don't speak. We've accepted the differences and we now love each other, which is a word I think you grow into.

We've argued quite a lot — about material things particularly, because I'm a bit of a hippie. We've argued about money, about expectations. And I mean massive rows. But what I love is that one of us will always come back and say: "I was wrong about that. I'm sorry."

We both know it could have gone very wrong. She's had a mother, so I can't be her mother. And she doesn't need me for either money or emotional support. There's no obligation, and that means our relationship is very honest. The only reason for us to stay together is because we're lovable to each other.

KIM: Lou has never been anyone's wife or mother, so emotionally she seems to have stayed in the same place. I call her my little sister, because she doesn't really know how to do motherly, and when she tries it's hilarious. She's rubbish at nurturing. Absolutely rubbish. But that's okay, because what I need at my age is a really good sounding board. When I want advice from someone who knows me better than I know myself, I phone Lou and, whatever it is, she's usually just been through it.