I knew I needed to speak to my brother. Mum had wasted no time telling me my refusal to pick up his calls was ‘deeply hurtful’. I’d asked her to tell him that I needed time to get my head together, but if I ignored him all the way up to the christening – even thinking the word christening made my stomach lurch – it would become an international incident. I reluctantly pressed my thumb down on the angry, flashing surface of my phone’s screen.

‘Josh, I’m sorry. I was going to call you tonight—’

My brother cut across me like I was a hapless witness in his courtroom. He was a human rights barrister, used to defending the downtrodden with ferocious, articulate indignation. It had provided him with an excellent skill set for this particular phone call. He was mid rant within seconds.

‘It’s bad enough that you put Mum and Dad through this – this shit – without ignoring me and Chloe too. Do you not want to be in this family, Rachel? Is that it?’

When he was behaving like some Victorian patriarch, it was hard to believe he was only two years older than me.

‘Jesus, Josh, I was in hospital! It’s fair enough if I needed some space.’

A couple of heads twitched in the old leather armchairs around the periphery of the tuck shop. I abandoned my tea, the bag drowning itself in the darkening water, and headed for the semi privacy of the corridor.

‘We needed to talk to you.’ I hated the way he always styled himself as a ‘we’, gave himself strength in numbers. My sister-in-law was aggressively, blandly pleasant, but always made it crystal clear where her loyalties lay. ‘We asked you to be Nancy’s godmother. You can’t just ignore us.’

‘That’s why!’ I said, my voice rising, my vulnerability catching me unawares. ‘I felt shit enough, without you having to tell me I’m not good enough to be responsible for a baby’s moral welfare.’

Air audibly swept up Josh’s nostrils, the pause stretching out meaningfully. It had the desired effect: anxiety prickled my flesh as I waited for his next insight.

‘Oh, Rachel, what are we going to do with you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, my voice as high and reedy as a child. I dug my bitten nails into the soft flesh of my palm. He continued, conversational now.