When I arrived, half an hour early, the surrounding streets were already jam-packed with shiny black Range Rovers, Mercedes and Porsches. I suppose Stephen Aston’s wedding was always going to be a fancy affair. It’s a warm day and I’m sandwiched into a pew in the non-denominational chapel, surrounded by bunches of freesias, hyacinth and snapdragons. The venue is entirely too small for the number of guests. The altar barely has space for the groom and celebrant! Lord knows where the bride will stand when she decides to show up.

I am seated towards the back and no one pays me any mind. Why would they? I’m a woman of a certain age; for years I’ve been bland and forgettable. People around me – the young, primarily – are always happy to take centre stage. My friend Miriam often laments how we have disappeared now that we are older. No one sees me anymore, Miriam says. (Hello! she shouts aggressively at the deli server who has chosen to serve the pretty young woman in the yoga pants, even though Miriam has been there longer. I suspect Miriam is not as invisible as she believes.)

Stephen is at the front, and it has to be said that, even now, he takes my breath away. He is flanked by two tiny boys in dinner suits – his grandsons, I expect. It’s ridiculous, of course; the little one isn’t much more than a toddler and the other is five, tops. They should be at home napping or playing in the mud, not standing in a chapel! Still, it doesn’t surprise me that Stephen wants this. And the guests, judging by their cooing, think it’s adorable. Stephen’s adult daughters, Rachel and Tully, are bridesmaids, no doubt at their father’s insistence. Their dresses are navy and flatter them both – no mean feat given Tully is as slim as a whippet while Rachel is what my mother used to describe as porcine. Their smiles are painted on, unconvincing, but then who would be pleased to see their father marry a woman young enough to be their sister? And while their mother looks on to boot.

I was shocked to see Pamela here. Guests had exchanged worried looks as she entered on her daughter’s arm, smiling and waving as if arriving at a red-carpet event. I’d wonder why she was invited, if I didn’t know Stephen. Despite what happened, Pamela is family, and to Stephen, family is everything.

The music changes and everyone turns to face the back of the room. The bride is fresh-faced, fake-tanned and strapped into a dress that likely cost more than the deposit for my first home. She is very attractive – slim and brunette and thirty-something. I sneak a look at Stephen. He looks proud as punch, and why wouldn’t he? Stephen may be a handsome man, but if you’re marrying a woman in her thirties when you’re in your early sixties, it has to be said you’re batting above your average.