Her Perfect Family(2)

But now I am frowning. Reconsidering. I have been going on and on about the ceremony at book club, worrying about the seating, so maybe Helen did put in a word. It’s the sort of thing she’d do. I glance at my bag, thinking of my phone. I should message Helen later. Yes. If her sister wangled these seats on the quiet, we should at least thank her . . .

And now the chancellor is telling us that our sons and daughters, lined up in these anterooms off the rear corridors, are presently graduands – the technical term until they miraculously transform into bona-fide graduates once their certificates are in their happy hands.

I turn to Ed, who sits alongside me, his shoulders still tight – no longer quite the ball of fury he was when we first took our seats, but he’s still cross with me. I touch his arm and whisper again that I’m sorry about the bad atmosphere in the car.

He finds a small smile but as payback will not look at me. But I can tell, even from his profile, he’s softening; that I am almost forgiven. Good.

It wasn’t my fault – the row. Well, not row; we don’t really have rows. I’m lucky that way. It was just that I wanted to leave the hotel nice and early as we were supposed to meet Gemma at the ‘dressing tents’ to see her in her gown and do some photographs ahead of the cathedral. But Ed, who’s a great deal more relaxed than me about timings, wanted a full English. Stop catastrophising Rachel.

And then a lorry with gas canisters decided to burst a tyre – and my bubble – right in front of us on a major roundabout on the way into the city centre. Of course, I blamed Ed. I didn’t say anything out loud – I just let out this huff. Looked away. But the problem with Ed is sometimes he just won’t leave things . . .

Spit it out, Rachel. You really saying this is my fault? This lorry?

I’m fine.

You’re not fine. You can’t even look at me.

Leave it, Ed.

I didn’t rise to it. The thing is I absolutely can’t stand arguments and there’s no way we need all that. Not today. I just messaged Gemma – devastated to miss the dressing tent. She said no worries, then texted something rather odd: Don’t be upset when you see me, Mum. Promise?

And now she’s had to turn off her phone and I’m in limbo. Puzzled. How could I be upset with her – today of all days?

Suddenly there’s applause and I’m pulled back into the moment to see that the chancellor is at last wrapping up. I clap. Ed claps. Someone else, an alumni, steps forward to take up their position to our far left to hand over the certificates. Someone off the telly but not A-list famous. I will have to look them up in the programme. Gemma did tell me.

And now – hurrah – the first glimpse of the graduands – appearing in a line through a stone arch off to the right, behind the choir stalls. My goodness – what a logistical feat this is. Gemma told me the briefing was a right palaver.

I clap and smile at the first batch as if I know them. There are hoots and whistles from some of the parents and I love that this is more relaxed than I expected. I can feel tears pricking my eyes. It’s all so huge. And then? Name after name after name and my palms are sore already. I realise that I cannot possibly keep up this level of enthusiasm. I simply can’t love all these strangers quite this much. I glance down. Good Lord. We are still on page . . . one.

I reduce the quality of my clapping and distract myself by taking in the very different shoes that all the girls have chosen. Some spectacularly high. Gemma has this phobia about tripping in public and has chosen wedges. I need to have something solid to walk on, Mum. I suggested kitten heels, but she was not having that. Reckoned it would make her legs look stumpy in the photographs.

I think back again to that day we chose her dress. A gorgeous sunny day. Lunch at the café by the river. I feel a sigh leave my body as I picture her in the mirror. That gorgeous shade of pink.

I feel tears coming once again, imagining the moment her name is called. I turn to Ed and he winks. Good. I am properly forgiven. I stretch out my hand and he squeezes it.

It takes fifteen minutes per page and finally we are on to the fourth.

I take in a deep breath, counting the names. One more batch of six. Then her group.

I am this ridiculous ball of emotion. Suddenly there are all these scenes swirling around my brain. The day they put her in my arms. That picture on the fridge of her in a paddling pool with Ed spraying cold water on to her. I think of the day she got the offer to come here. The scream of delight from her room when she logged on to get the ‘yes’ even before we picked up her A-level results.

And now a pause. Her batch next. I find that I am holding my breath. I trace the names with my finger. Walk, applause. Walk, applause. And then at last.

Gemma Hartley . . .

I see her appear at the back of the choir stall in her gown and her mortar board with her long dark hair loose over her shoulders. I take in the neutral shoes and the slightly tanned legs. And then there is this little punch of shock as she walks forward.

Not the glimpse of gorgeous pink beneath the black of the gown as she moves. I feel myself frowning. I turn to Ed, but he hasn’t noticed.

It’s the wrong dress. I don’t understand. The dress is pale lemon.

Ed is calling out – ‘Hurrah! Well done Gemma’ – and everyone is applauding.

I am clapping too and smiling now, trying to cover up the puzzlement.

Gemma recognises her father’s voice and turns to spot us. She looks down at her dress and then up at me with this sort of worried look on her face.