It was during the summer of 1982 that Fiona and I moved into number 4 Holland Road.

The move felt like the first adult thing I’d done in all of my 29 years and my first step on the property ladder was terrifying. Even as we took the keys from the estate agents, I wondered if we were doing the right thing.

Fiona and I had been together for just 7 months. We’d never been on holiday together; I’d never met her parents (they lived in Scotland and viewed London with the suspicion they’d view an abandoned suitcase in a train station); I still wasn’t entirely sure when her birthday was and we’d never had ‘the talk’.

My stomach lurched as the key turned in the lock. It’s fine, I told myself. If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just sell up and move on. It’s fine. Everything is just fine.

Sweat glistened on our skin as we made trips back and forth from the car with boxes filled with our future together.

‘Oh my God,’ Fiona said when we finally stopped at 9pm that night. ‘Who knew we had so much stuff?’

We sat down on an unpacked box in the middle of the room and I kissed her.

She smelt of perfume and sweat, of summer, and her skin was clammy from the day’s heat.

Her long blonde was tied back in a loose ponytail and she wore a pair of stonewashed black jeans and a plain white t-shirt. The look was simple, natural, but showed off her tanned arms and pierced navel.

We had sex on the floor that night between a box of her art books and a box of my vinyl. It was the sort of quick, no-frills sex that, surprisingly, lost none of its excitement in its routine rhythm.

Afterwards, she lay back and let out a contented sigh.

‘So, here we are at last,’ she said, holding up an imaginary wine glass. ‘To number 4 Holland Road.’

‘To number 4,’ I echoed, a stupid smile slapped on my face.

I took her hand and pulled her close and we fell asleep almost instantaneously.

I woke the next morning with a stiff neck, cramped arm and dead leg from sleeping on the bare floor.
And for the first time in my life, I felt I was home.