The Royal Albion Hotel was a cream-painted building among other cream-painted buildings on Brighton seafront, not far from the oriental-looking structure known as the Royal Pavilion. It too was cream-coloured. And that March day, a stiff wind moved the clouds around in a cream-coloured sky above a grey sea. There were no leaves on the trees, and the people who passed had their overcoat collars turned up and their hats pulled low.

“It’s not much like Aberystwyth,” I observed as the taxi drew up.

David laughed. “Why on earth should it be?”

Aberystwyth was the only seaside resort I had ever visited. Aberaeron, our nearest town, was by the sea, but it was just for fishing. No one would ever want to stay there for a holiday. “Mm.” I was uncertain. “It looks almost like London, with all these big buildings but with the sea along one side. And it’s all whitey-cream, like … I don’t know, a wedding cake?”

He looked at me quizzically. “You do say the most extraordinary things sometimes, Miss Williams.” He gave some coins to the taxi driver. “Keep the change,” he told him, and the man touched his cap and drove away. “Brighton’s a large town, certainly,” continued David, “and, of course, it has a reputation for certain things.”

“What things?”

The doorman signalled to a porter, who picked up our bags. As we followed him between the columns each side of the hotel entrance, David took my arm. “Racketeering,” he whispered. “It’s known to be full of criminals, so look out for dubious types.”

“Not in a hotel like this, surely?” I asked, dismayed.

“Hah!” His eyes glittered, but he did not seem very amused. “Well, even in a hotel like this, or perhaps especially in a hotel like this, the clerk will know that for every ‘married’ couple that register, another dozen will not be married at all.”

“How shocking!”

“That’s the other thing Brighton’s famous for, you see. You’ll remember to sign your new name, won’t you?”

While David was busy at the reception desk, I looked round the foyer, impressed by its elegant furnishings. Though slightly old-fashioned, even to my uncritical eye, the Edwardian splendour of the hotel’s interior added to my excitement. I felt thrilled at the thought of being in a town well-known for adulterous liaisons between people rich enough to afford the Royal Albion. Mam and Da and Frank and Florence and Mary were at home, celebrating St David’s Day with daffodil buttonholes and bara brith, just like they had done every year for their whole lives. Even if they wondered what I was doing, I was confident they would never guess that I was in an opulent hotel, about to sign my name for discretion’s sake, as Clara Williams!

It struck me that Clara Williams was my newest name out of three. On Monday I would go back to being Clara Hope. Would I ever go back to being Sarah Freebody? I smiled furtively, dipping my chin into my fox fur. Sometime in the future David and I would stand before Reverend Morris in the village church and swear to love and honour one another for ever. And I would have yet another new name.