Truth about being the third wife: You don’t just marry your husband, you take on his exes, kids and decades of memories. And then there’s always a nagging worry…

The location for my Anglo-French wedding was picture-postcard perfect. A quaint mairie (town hall) sat snugly in the centre of a traditional village, all pastel wooden shutters and honey-coloured stone buildings festooned with climbing roses and geraniums spilling out of window boxes.

It was the kind of scene I’d dreamed of as a little girl, the very essence of a fairy-tale romance.

Yet there was one aspect of my wedding that I had not fantasised about when I played dress-up with my dolls. The man who was pledging to devote his life to me, and to whom I was pledging mine in return, had already done it twice before.

Much has been made of the Second Wives’ Club. The Third Wives’ Club, which I joined that spring day in 2008, is even more exclusive. Its members include Carrie Johnson and Melania Trump, and now Christina Sas, who married Abba’s Bjorn Ulvaeus in Copenhagen at the weekend.

Glancing at pictures of Christina and Bjorn’s nuptials – officiated by comedian Sandi Toksvig, a friend of Bjorn’s – I immediately recognised the expression on Christina’s face: one of dreamy, hopeful optimism. Was she suppressing the thought most in the congregation were no doubt having? Or do I detect just a hint of it in that slightly forced smile? Just how long would this particular trot down the aisle last for Bjorn?

Mean, I know. But I’ve been there. As someone wiser than me once noted, as a first wife you think it will be happily ever after. As a second wife you tell yourself he got it wrong the first time round but you’re the real deal. But as a third wife there’s always a nagging worry that, given his track record, he’s merely biding his time until he’s ready for number four.

The truth is, my husband Pascal and I got married rather more quickly than he would have liked – and, no, I wasn’t pregnant. We met the year before, while I was on holiday in Lot, south-west France. That autumn, full of lust and love, I moved in with him.

My former self was a misty-eyed, naive blonde. I was nothing if not optimistic. I was 36, had divorced three years earlier and had just left a 15-year career in TV to fulfil a dream of forging a new life in rural France.

Pascal was 46, and a carpenter at the time. Older and physically in his prime, he was different to any kind of man I’d ever known. Little wonder I was smitten.

When I first moved into his chocolate-box French cottage, with deer skipping through the forest at the end of the garden, it did indeed feel like heaven on earth.

What I hadn’t taken into consideration was the decades of history Pascal already had in this village, and the fact that this very same chocolate-box cottage had been the marital home with wife number two for a decade.

I was told their relationship was amicable and, as is French custom, their son Antonio, then ten, moved between his parents’ homes each week.

But it became clear that this ex did not like me – or the thought of me, at least. I soon learnt the definition of the French insult poufiasse (floozy!). I was chirpily informed by Antonio that this is what his mum had charmingly christened me.

The first ex was less vocal, and Pascal’s children by her – a boy in his late teens, and a girl in her early 20s – were lovely, even though they kept photographing me the first time we met. Later, I learned it was so that their mother could examine the images.

The Third Wives’ Club has gained a new member, after Christina Sas, 51, married Abba’s Bjorn Ulvaeus, 79, in Copenhagen at the weekend, with Sandi Toksvig officiating

I wasn’t a total Pollyanna. Pascal and I did have ‘the talk’, which went something like: ‘If you ever cheat on me, Monsieur, then I’m off like greased lightning.’

That’s not to say I doubted Pascal’s fidelity. But from what I had heard, it’s fair to say he’d earned his reputation as a player.

He admitted to being unfaithful to both of the women who came before me.

By far the biggest problem I faced was the other villagers, who rubbed my nose in that reputation every day. One woman told me not to bother selling my English car because I would need it when I inevitably decided to leave.

Pascal’s social circle dismissed me as just another bit on the side. I lost count of the number of times I heard ‘It’ll never last’.

One Friday evening, Pascal asked if his friend’s wife would sit with me while he did the hour-long round trip to collect Antonio for his weekly stay with us, and she said ‘Non’. I was the girlfriend, the blow-in, the fly-by-night. Pretty much inconsequential. Little wonder that by Christmas that year my patience was wearing thin.

So, in January 2008, I pushed forward our wedding plans. He’d already asked me to marry him in a haze of romance and lust, and I’d said yes. Why were we waiting? Several family members in the UK were teachers, therefore the Whitsun May bank holiday would be perfect.

There were awkward moments in the run-up to the wedding as I, the third wife-to-be, made all the arrangements. The jeweller in a neighbouring village, who knew Pascal’s second ex, looked at me with amusement as we browsed rings. If I’d had the courage (and enough French) to sweetly tell him ‘Up yours’, I would have done.

That’s why I wanted to legitimise our relationship, and that’s why we got married so quickly, almost a year to the day after we met.

By silencing the doubters, I hoped at last to be treated as one of them. Yet it didn’t silence all of them. In the months afterwards, at parties, dinners and gatherings in the local bar, I heard it all – everything from ‘I give it a year!’ to ‘When do you think you’ll get traded in for a younger model?’ Those remarks are never aimed at our husbands – just us third wives.

I have to admit it wasn’t just the French, either. Even some of my (former) friends refused to fly out to rural France for my big day. I discovered that they’d been joking about who I was going to get hitched to next…

Samantha and Pascal Brick sit with their dog in the south of France, where they live together

And yet there was a definite shift in perception, post-nuptials, among the Pernod drinkers and the cafe gossips. We went from being a frivolous couple who were having fun to finally being taken seriously.

Not that my problems ended there. No, my entrance into the Third Wives’ Club brought with it a different kind of obstacle.

I wasn’t just marrying him, you see. I was taking on the exes, the kids and decades of memories already created. They would all form the landscape of my marital life.

For starters, I hated being compared to, and judged against, the women who went before me.

A particular low came when the first ex accompanied us on a family camping weekend. One of my well-meaning sisters-in-law had decided to invite her.

I had no idea who she was until I was introduced to her. For once I was rendered speechless. Did we know she was turning up? No. Did I make it clear that I’d never put myself in that situation again? Yes. There are limits, and I quickly learned to stand my ground.

Make no mistake, it is tough when there are wives and children who have gone before you. They all have an opinion on you and your relationship – and an ongoing role in your other half’s life. I drew a line in the sand on what I would and wouldn’t put up with. I refused to go on ­family holidays or attend events with any of my husband’s exes.

I know my sisters-in-law were friendly with the exes for a while, but I wanted to create memories with them myself and not have to listen to them endlessly pick over the time they’d spent together.

The ex-wives themselves did not always behave graciously towards me, and at first there were lots of tears – all mine. It was my mother who taught me that all I could ever change is how I responded.

So I learned to (mostly) ignore them, and adopted Michelle Obama’s ‘When they go low, we go high’ mantra. I like to think they weren’t horrible to me on purpose.

There is some succour in being the younger of those who came before me. They will probably argue that they got the children, the best of him, and that’s true.

There were times I’d be reminded of my place in the chronological pecking order. One weekend I spring-cleaned the basement and came across photo albums showing a young Pascal with his exes. Rational me could appreciate those memories, but third wife me felt the emotional punch to the gut, too.

In taking on the role of stepmum, I do my very best. I bend over backwards to get on with Pascal’s children because they all rightly have their place in my life.

As princess-like as it sounds, I have always loved making a big deal of my birthday. But now I recognise that it’s not as important as the children’s birthdays – and Christmas is all about them, too. As a third wife you have to be gracious and accepting of these circumstances.

There are other sacrifices, as well. My eldest stepson devastatingly got skin cancer in 2013, and died a year later. The grief such a loss inflicted on Pascal and my two other stepchildren meant I swiftly shelved any plans for us to have a child together. We had been undergoing fertility treatment, but I put their needs before mine and called a halt to it.

Not being a mum has cast a profound shadow over my life, but I eventually recognised that I have two choices. I can either allow those feelings to engulf me, or make the absolute best of what I do have. It’s not always easy, but

I choose the latter option each day. As for Pascal’s mum and dad, well, like most parents, they only want to see their son happy.

Samantha notes that the turning point in her marriage came seven years in, when she and Pascal bought a farmhouse in the Dordogne after she got sick of constantly running up against his old lives

Admittedly, there’s nothing like being called the name of an ex-wife by a forgetful in-law, years after you’ve replaced her, to put you in a bad mood. But they know I’m not a doormat – I’m their son’s wife, but I’m also me – and the apology has always been swift.

The turning point in our marriage came seven years in, when we bought a farmhouse in the Dordogne. I was sick to the back teeth of constantly running up against Pascal’s old lives.

And joy of joys, when we moved in, no one knew his (or my) marital history. There is no judgment, no comparison, no frosty villagers torn by loyalty towards Pascal’s exes. Where we now live, no one cares that I’m the third wife.

We celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary in May (note that Pascal’s first marriage lasted eight years, and his second ten). Nowadays almost half of marriages end in divorce and two out of three blended families don’t make it. Being a third wife is one heck of a tough role, and I congratulate myself for having got this far.

My mum recently stayed with us, and we talked about words to describe one another. ‘Resilient’ is the word she chose for me. People try to write off us third wives as a bit of fluff. My advice is to do so at your peril. We are strong and capable women.

I like to say that I’ve got the role so sussed that the only thing my husband regrets is not having met me sooner. As for all those cruel doubters, well, they did start to pipe down after a decade. Now that it has been 16 years, I very much hope they’ve lost their bets.