The wedding-party houseguest: ‘I don’t understand why they hate me so much’

Martin and Ros are from a small village in Shropshire. They are here for the wedding of Martin’s youngest daughter. They arrive clutching props for his speech (a blow-up alligator and a cuddly koala bear), looking agitated.

While Martin dashes out to buy a tie (he forgot to pack one), Ros confides that she is dreading it. “His oldest daughter got married last month, and I was left out of the family pictures. It was awful, I felt like a spare wheel. No one talked to me, and Martin had to cope with his ex-wife making bitchy comments all day. I just lurked in a corner.”

She shows me her wedding outfit (navy-blue silk) and asks if she can borrow an iron. It’s the rehearsal dinner tonight, and she’s already furtively chewing indigestion tablets.

I suggest a gin and tonic, but she doesn’t really drink. We make tea and I listen sympathetically as she tells me of nightmare family gatherings.

They go out that night with a dejected stoop to their shoulders, Ros squeezing Martin’s arm as he braces himself for the onslaught.

The following morning is a flurry of ironing, nail painting, finding a plaster (Martin has new shoes and a blister) and trying to place the red fascinator on to Ros’s very short hair. Martin leaves early to collect his daughter, and all Ros has to do is walk to the church at the top of the road. She is a bundle of nerves, but determined to support Martin and do him proud.

“They were divorced when I met him, so I just don’t understand why they hate me so much. I think the girls are coming round a bit, but the ex-wife? Never. But I’ll keep trying,” she adds, fiddling with a pashmina that she’s trying to drape over her shoulders.

She looks small and vulnerable, and I offer to walk to the church with her. I ask if she’d like a slug of homemade sloe gin, which she accepts with a giggle: “Oh, go on then, I will!” She knocks it back and we set off for the church with Ros tottering on unaccustomed high heels. I wave her goodbye and wish her luck.

It cheers me immensely that later that day I make a point of passing the church and see Ros standing straight and tall with her arm tucked through Martin’s as the wedding photographer clicks away.

Never underestimate the power of gin.