‘What do we do?’ Gemma looks at me in a panic. ‘Mum. Everyone’s ready to start. What do we do?’
I move swiftly, Sophie still in my arms, to the side of the church, closer to the door that leads to the corridor. Gemma follows.
‘It doesn’t matter, honey. I’ll ask the vicar for ten minutes. Here. You go and change her. No one will mind. There’s a proper station in the ladies. I saw it earlier.’
‘But the dress. I can’t manage Sophie’s dress in there.’
‘Let’s just whip it off here for a minute.’
‘We can’t do that.’
‘Course we can. No one will see.’ I lift Sophie under her bare arms and hold her out – legs dangling – to her mother, smiling at how surreal that word, that new label feels. Mother. My little girl . . . a mother. ‘Take her through in her vest and I’ll bring the dress in a few minutes.’ I unzip the beautiful silk and between us, we slip it off, leaving Sophie in her pink, sleeveless vest and nappy – legs kicking. ‘Do you want me to come with you? Help?’
‘No. I’m fine. I can do it. You speak to the vicar.’
I put the dress carefully over my arm and watch Gemma head through the double doors towards the ladies in the corridor. I take in the blade – how effortlessly she now walks on her blade – and feel overwhelmed with love for her.
I think of the day she finally woke from the coma and how I so stupidly thought the whole bad dream was over. No brain damage. And then the new nightmare. All the physio. The pain. The tears. My brave, brave girl learning how to adjust her stance and her balance as her shape and her weight changed week on week through the pregnancy. Learning and relearning how to walk.
I think of her now out running while Sophie naps; how much easier she finds that blade.
I’m going to wear my blade today, not the leg. Do you think people will mind?
Of course no one will mind.
I wait for the doors to swing back into place behind her before I turn, spotting the vicar. I hold up my hand and sweep across the front of the church to share news of our little impasse. He laughs. A family man himself.
I stand alone then at the front, needing a moment. We are not especially religious. Haven’t been in any kind of church since . . . Well, you know. But it’s a pretty little church and Gemma so wanted this christening. This blessing. She can make up her own mind about religion later, don’t you think, Mum?
It’s a modern design – pale stone and contemporary stained-glass windows. The sun is out, casting dancing shapes of blue and green and red across the pale oak floor. That other Rachel, that Rachel before, would watch the colours and find it pretty. But this Rachel – no. This Rachel thinks only of those wretched jugs from Alex. Blue and green and red.
I smashed them all after his case – smash, smash. Shocked at my capacity for rage. They gave him community service, would you believe. Community service. The only silver lining – he’s not Sophie’s father. Gemma decided on a test. So we have a restraining order in place. He must never come near any of us again.
I brush the skirt of my dress and think of my counsellor. She’s a great one for breathing. In through the nose and out through the mouth. And count, Rachel. I had expected to be past it all by now but she says I must be patient. And so I do the breathing. Four cycles and I feel a little calmer. I check my watch, wondering if they’ll come.
I tap my foot and take in the little huddle of people, waiting to take up their seats. Ed chatting to my mother. He seems to feel my stare, turns and smiles. I smile back and lift the dress to signal the pause. He laughs. We’re doing so much better – me and Ed. No more secrets.
He winks then swings his body back to my mother and I turn my gaze too. Near the font, a few of Gemma’s university friends are gathered in an animated group, looking so young and fresh-skinned with their long hair and their high heels. Their high hopes.
I wonder if any of them were there. That awful day. The cathedral. No, don’t, Rachel. And breathe . . .
I check my watch again. Were we even right to send the invitation? Probably not de rigueur at all. I mean – it’s a job, isn’t it? Not really personal. They didn’t reply but nor did lots of others and sometimes people just forget, don’t they?
Gemma so wants them here.
A couple of minutes pass and I’m just about to leave to help her out when there’s the squeak of the main door. And at last there he is. Impossibly tall with his curly hair and alongside him a beautiful, slim woman and the prettiest little girl with golden curls to match her father.