I feel piqued, pissed off and puzzled, and I'll tell you why.

On December 21 1963, the day after my 20th birthday, I married a fellow actor; he was 23 and his name was Drewe Henley. He was, and I'm sure still is a lovely, lovely man. He was also physically extremely beautiful, tall with the body of a god, laughing blue eyes and a smile that could charm the pants off the girls, as well as the birds out of the trees.

We married at an exquisite Norman church, situated in the small village of Pyrford in Surrey. The pale yellow of a winter sun glistened on branches of trees, cloaked in frost, a light covering of snow lay on the ground and the crimson of holly berries, dusted with powered sugar displayed their beauty with a knowing wantonness.
I walked the path to the door of the church, my hand resting on my father's arm, followed by my two bridesmaids; my best friend Angie, and my step sister, Maxine. They wore dresses of red velvet - it being a Christmas week wedding - and I wore a sort of shepherdess number with a lot of Swiss embroidery anglais and what I understood to be a boat neckline. I carried a posy of Christmas roses, and wore a rather fetching tiara.

Thus assembled and attired, we entered a church decorated with holly, ivy and mistletoe. Candle light whispered in the shadowy interior, our friends and family filled the ancient pews, and magic and mystery melted into the moment, leached from stone walls that contained so many secrets.

Drewe looking seriously handsome in his morning suit turned to watch me proceed up the aisle, and he smiled a smile that was so full of love, my tummy turned somersaults, butterflies flew everywhere and I knew I was marrying my Prince.

Our marriage was stormy, volatile and of course could never have survived. I wasn't marrying a man, I was marrying a fantasy; and Drewe wasn't marrying a woman - albeit a very young one - he was marrying a seriously damaged child, emotionally stuck at around the age of two, with an overwhelming, all consuming need to be love.

Throughout the three and a half years of our marriage, Drewe showed me great support and kindness, but one of the legacies of my childhood, was a terror of my own sexuality. It was frozen in some far off place, buried deep within my wounded psyche, longing to thaw and free itself, but lacking the skill and knowledge to be able to do so.

So I quite understand that Drewe, a young man in his sexual prime should seek solace in the arms of another; well several others actually - but the place he occupied, and still does, was and is a very special one. So I was piqued, pissed off and puzzled when I recently read his website and discovered that although his marriages were listed, ours wasn't among them, only the names of his two later wives, but not my own. Nor was I mentioned in his second wife's autobiography. I also understood his desire to experience The Good Life in the arms of Felicity Kendall, but she failed to mention that he was married to me when first they met. Could they both have forgotten my existence? Was I an aberration to be dismissed from memory with all due haste, a mistake so large that it seemed judicious to delete me, deny my reality, or was I simply too unimportant to mention?

I can't answer those questions, and although I'm not really piqued or pissed off, I remain puzzled and yes, rather saddened to discover that so important a union to someone I loved deeply had been denied a mention in his marital history.

I will always love Drewe, the man who took my virginity; I remember clearly the night it happened, and watching him later, running down the street, swinging from lampposts, his joy evident in every movement of his body. Wherever he is now, whatever he is doing, I hope his life is full of joy, love and laughter; he deserves no less. And I will always cherish his memory.

Love from me, and Snooze and Candy and Lux. x