It was surreal writing our names in the reception book: Mr and Mrs Jackson. I felt like a fraud who was going to be found out. The receptionist showed us up to our room, which had an ensuite and a large four-poster bed. She drew the curtains and Roy gave her a tip, which didn’t even surprise her; she must have been used to the Americans by now.

Once we were alone, Roy sat down and put his arms out. ‘My Sarah, let’s not leave this bed until it’s time to go tomorrow.’ ‘Let’s not leave it ever,’ I said, and he undid my jacket, then the buttons of my blouse beneath. It was strange after all the waiting that the time was suddenly here—and I wanted now to stretch it out, to make it last. I stepped out of my skirt and sat down to unroll my stockings, and Roy removed his shoes and socks and pants. I had been given a silk nightie by Mrs Thompson—something she no longer fitted into—and, wearing just my slip, I went into the ensuite with my overnight bag. I brushed my teeth, washed off my make-up and undid my hair from the elaborate rolls Dot had fixed, brushing it so it fell softly to my shoulders. The ivory silk of the nightie felt like air on my skin. I came out and Roy was asleep, fast asleep, his mouth hanging open and a wet spot spreading on the pillow beneath him.

‘Roy,’ I whispered, sitting on the bed, running my hand along his shoulder. He stirred but didn’t wake. It had been such an exhausting week that I couldn’t be angry. I curled up beside him, feeling a queer mix of relief and disappointment. I lay there for hours, wondering at this turn my life had taken, before finally falling asleep.