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The appearance of a novel by Ian McEwan on the shortlist for the Man Booker Prize has become a regular event. Atonement, arguably his best novel, was accorded the distinction in 2001, but failed to win; Amsterdam, which won three years previously, was a slighter work - as is this, which has the length and scope of a novella.

Set in 1962 - surely a deliberate invocation of Philip Larkin's assertion that sex “began” in 1963 - it concerns a young couple, Edward and Florence, both aged 22, who are spending their wedding night in a hotel overlooking Chesil Beach in Dorset. Both, we are told in the opening sentence, are virgins. Edward is looking forward to losing his virginity; Florence is not. That, in essence, is the whole story - but, as one might expect from such an accomplished miniaturist, there is a lot more to it. From the scrupulous account of the ghastly meal eaten by the newly-weds, with its “long-ago roasted beef”, and its potatoes of a “blueish hue” to the miserable denouement some time later in the bedroom, no detail is spared in conveying the painful awkwardness of the occasion. This, McEwan suggests, is the way things used to be - bad food and worse sex; how fortunate we are to live in the post-1960s world, evoked in the closing passages. Or perhaps not...

Beautifully observed and charged with regret, On Chesil Beach is a tour de force, whose claustrophobic intensity is sustained from start to finish.

On Chesil Beach by Ian McEwan
Vintage, £6.99

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