The bride arrives at the front to find Stephen and his ex-wife standing there, but Stephen, being Stephen, manages to return her to her seat without anything being awkward – a feat that perhaps only Stephen Aston could pull off. With Pamela out of the way, the bride squeezes into the tiny space beside the groom, and the celebrant – a pigeon-shaped woman in a crisp, white pantsuit – invites everyone to be seated. The room is charged with aggressive goodwill – big unnatural smiles, wide eyes, comments about the bride’s dress (which is exquisite). Miriam recently observed that the vast majority of brides resemble the Barbie on a child’s birthday cake in their strapless gowns with skirts large enough to smuggle half-a-dozen leprechauns down the aisle. (Leprechauns, she whispered pointedly at the wedding of her niece last year. At least a dozen.) But not this bride. Heather looks positively elegant in her A-line gown.

As the celebrant starts her spiel, there’s the usual rustling in seats as people shift to get comfortable. A baby cries and is removed by his or her father. A few guests fan themselves with the wedding booklets while simultaneously trying not to touch the person on either side of them (a challenge in the cramped space). Then, just as everyone seems to have settled, Pamela stands again. The energy of the room shifts from aggressive goodwill to scandalised breath-holding as she wanders onto the altar, observing her surroundings casually as if perusing produce at the supermarket. Stephen smiles, dispelling the panic in the room. ‘Carry on,’ he says to the celebrant.

‘I now pronounce you husband and wife,’ she says uncertainly as Pamela charges past them. She appears to be interested in the stained-glass windows. They are quite beautiful. ‘You may kiss the bride.’

The kiss is chaste and imbued with what appears to be genuine affection. When they separate, Stephen, impossibly pleased with himself, gives a little fist pump and the crowd erupts in applause, with a few whistles thrown in for good measure. The noise spooks Pamela, who looks around worriedly. She grabs an ornate brass candlestick, holding it up in front of her like a shield. Stephen beams at the crowd. He’s a newlywed. An ex-wife with Alzheimer’s isn’t going to rain on his parade.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse us for a moment,’ the celebrant says, ‘I’m going to take the bride and groom into the sacristy to sign the register.’

She leads Stephen and his new wife into a room to the side of the altar. The trio is followed by the two little boys, plus Rachel and Tully and Pamela, who is still clutching the candlestick. Will someone take that poor woman home?

With the bridal party out of sight, the guests start chatting among themselves.

‘Wasn’t that lovely?’

‘What a beautiful bride!’

‘Isn’t it wonderful that he found love again?’

‘Couldn’t have happened to a nicer man!’

It seems as good a time as any to take my leave. I gather my handbag and do a quick scan for the nearest exit and I’m about to ask the young man next to me if he can let me by when I hear it. A young woman’s scream and, a fraction of a second later, a dense, meaty thud. I rise at the same time as every other guest. I peer towards the altar, but my view is obscured by large hats and bald heads. I am craning to see through the gaps between the guests when the celebrant reappears. Her face is ashen and her white pantsuit is covered in blood.