Then he would turn up at dawn under my window, proclaiming his love. But our apparent similarities masked a totally different attitude to the most integral part of marriage: sex.
The wedding was unsettling enough with the eyes of all those other women boring into my back at the altar.
Omitting them from the guest list would have been unthinkable.
After all, most of them had been friends of my husband's since his school days and, until I came on the scene, some had been drifting in and out of his bed for years.
But seeing this congregation of his former lovers hammered home the gulf between our two cultures.
I didn't know it at the time, but I was stepping into a world where educated middle-class - and married - people hopped into bed with one another free of guilt and free of consequences.
And once it's no longer fun, you move on and there are no hard feelings. I had a place to study English at Magdalen College, Oxford.A handful of men and women were arranged on a bed, some naked, some clothed.One of the women, locked in an embrace with a male architect and a female psychiatric nurse, looked up at me and inquired warmly if I would like to join them.If I didn't kiss a boy, I felt nothing would happen.It was as though they were terrified of putting a foot wrong and being too macho. He took me to Positano in Italy and proposed over a plate of spaghetti vongole.