It was the first time Merrin had walked up an aisle since her wedding rehearsal. Her limbs felt leaden and her seat so very far away. There were the usual smiles and winks of appreciation for the stunning bride, and nods of congratulation for her dad, but it was obvious by the hushed whispers behind cupped palms and the surreptitious glances and narrow-eyed expressions of pity cast in her direction that the assembled, silently or otherwise, compared the moment to the last time a Kellow girl had donned a wedding dress and trundled up the hill to St Michael’s. Even Reverend Pimm held her with a lingering stare that sent a spread of crimson embarrassment over her neck.

Squeezing into the pew next to Miguel, she arranged her skirt over her knees. The hurt was tangible, as was the sad and humiliating hum that rang in her ears, but there was something else: anger. As her limbs shook, she felt angry that she had been led to that point outside the church only to be so humiliated by Digby’s absence. Who did he think he was that made it okay to treat her like that? Who did his mother think she was, able to offer such calm advice? Trust me, Merrin, go home, dear. Go home to your family . . . How dare they!

Merrin closed her eyes and tried to get a grip. Her dad sidled into position next to his wife, who passed him a pressed handkerchief, with which he immediately dabbed his eyes and blew his nose.

The Reverend Pimm did a fine job, setting the right tone for the ceremony that was amusingly anecdotal and not too solemn.

When he asked: ‘If any person present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage you should declare it now . . .’ The congregation concentrated on his words before he comically looked skyward and mouthed his thanks at the lack of response. This drew laughter from everyone except Merrin, her dad, who mumbled a response using words that were usually reserved for outside of church, and Ruby, who looked back over her shoulder and fixed her with a look that bordered on fury.

Merrin’s jaw tensed, as she sensed every pair of eyes behind her homing in on her back. She concentrated on keeping her head held high, realising that no matter how hard she tried to pretend, how much she perfected her sweet laugh of indifference, this was how it would always be: she was the jilted girl of Port Charles, and no matter what her future held, she doubted she would ever be able to leave it behind her. In this church and this village, it seemed others were loath to forget or let her move forward. It was a bitter blow. She looked at the dark-tiled floor and wished she could drop right through it.