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have to remove our shoes and line them up neatly in the hallway, and every week I curse myself for not putting on old no-name trainers, and I hide my DKNY trainers under the wooden bench because something tells me designer labels would not go down too well here), he breathes a sigh of relief.

“I don't think I can do it.” He shakes his head as we stroll up Mansfield Road on our way home. “I think you may have to do the rest of the course without me.”

“Absolutely not.” I link my arm through his. “You're going to keep coming whether you like it or not. Baby told me she wants you there.”

He looks at me affectionately. “Baby couldn't possibly have told you she wants you there because first, Baby doesn't yet speak, and second, Baby is a boy.”

“You wish,” I snort, because although Mark has said he doesn't care, as long as the baby is healthy, I know that he would secretly love a boy. Just as I say that I really don't mind, and I would secretly love a little girl. Not that I'd love a little boy any less, but a little girl would be something special.

“I don't care,” he says, smiling, as we turn into our street and Mark reaches for his key.

205 Estelle Road.

I love this house. I love everything about this house. I sit at work counting the minutes until I can leave and race back home, because yes, this is home. Now.

Mark said it would be temporary, and I moved in making a mental note to call the rental agents the following Monday. But somehow I never got around to it.

I love the smell of this house, even though I have no clue what it is. It's not beeswax, or lavender, or anything as romantic as lilies. It's not even something as prosaic as Shake 'n' Vac. Just the house's own smell. The smell of home.

I love puttering in the kitchen with Mark's cookbooks, licking my fingers sensuously as I scrape flour, butter, and sugar into the blender and pretend to be the quintessential Domestic Goddess.

Is this what they call nesting?

I love stopping off at the flower shop on the way back from work and coming home with armfuls of stargazers and creamy white roses, and arranging them as best I can in vases that I dot all over the house.

This must be what they call nesting.

I love sinking into the sofa with my legs up on the coffee table, tapping my Garfield-encased feet to Coldplay in an effort to give baby a headstart in the musical stakes. Mark keeps saying that the experts mean playing Mozart and Beethoven to your fetus, not Coldplay and Travis, but the last thing I'd want is a nerd, and the baby seems to like it just fine.

I love my bedroom, which is almost as big as Mark's and, thankfully, has a small ensuite bathroom, but most of all I love the room that's going to be the nursery.

We're about to start decorating, now that I'm over seven months. Mark tried to insist we wait until eight, but quite frankly even if the baby decided to come now, we'd have a damn good chance, and I can't wait anymore.

I love the pale pistachio paint we've chosen, and the lemon borders. I love the green gingham curtains we're going to order, and the huge teddy bear rug we saw in the West End last weekend and couldn't resist.

I love this house so much I don't think I ever want to leave. I have thought about it, naturally, but for now this is working. Mark seems to be as comfortable as I am. He loves that I'm so happy here. He loves that I do, on occasion, cook him supper, and it's out of the goodness of my heart. He loves that there are flowers in the house, and feminine smells. I think he even loves being pissed off at me for filling the washing machine with lacy knickers when he was just about to stick his T-shirts in.

“You know what it is?” he said one Friday night, when I'd made an effort and we'd just finished a home-cooked dinner of roast chicken and apricot crumble. “I don't think I ever realized before you moved in how lonely I've been. For years. And I'm not lonely anymore.”

I snorted. “How could you have been lonely for years? You lived with Julia for years.”

“That's the point. I never thought you