Edward thought it was, but, polite to a fault, he would not think of contradicting her on such an evening. The couple had driven away in a small car belonging to Florence's mother and arrived in the early evening at their hotel on the Dorset coast in weather that was not perfect for mid–July or the circumstances, but entirely adequate: it was not raining, but nor was it quite warm enough, according to Florence, to eat outside on the terrace as they had hoped. Her parents had not condescended to his, as they had feared, and his mother had not significantly misbehaved, or completely forgotten the purpose of the occasion. Mary's, Oxford, had gone well the service was decorous, the reception jolly, the send–off from school and college friends raucous and uplifting. Superficially, they were in fine spirits. Edward did not mention that he had never stayed in a hotel before, whereas Florence, after many trips as a child with her father, was an old hand. In the next room, visible through the open door, was a four–poster bed, rather narrow, whose bedcover was pure white and stretched startlingly smooth, as though by no human hand.

They had just sat down to supper in a tiny sitting room on the first floor of a Georgian inn.

They were young, educated, and both virgins on this, their wedding night, and they lived in a time when a conversation about sexual difficulties was plainly impossible. 'Booksellers' Picks for the Beach - or the Backyard'

On chesil beach by ian mcewan