‘I swear it was the one where Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts hung out in Notting Hill,’ Cec said, trying to hold down a burp. Living in London as students regularly allowed for these strange night-time adventures.

‘You can pretend it was, love,’ Bea said, lifting a heavy bag out of the room.

We had sneaked into a park (could have been someone’s private garden, to be honest) and sat on a bench together, underneath some twinkling fairy lights, and reminisced about the last three years living in our special little home. We had played ‘Dancing in the Moonlight’ by Toploader on my iPod and danced with each other. We sang like out-of-tune cats.

‘Guys,’ I gulped, then paused. ‘Can we always, always make time for each other – no matter what happens?’

Cec swung her arms around me. ‘You’re not getting rid of me, mate.’

‘Of course, Ol, you are such a worrier!’ Bea said.

Isla nodded along like a Churchill dog.

As I lay there, hungover in bed, the reality was dawning. We were moving out. Moving on from the disgusting kitchen, the mice, the creaky radiators and the creepy landlord. There was no happier feeling than four of us in the bed. Four young sweaty bodies, entangled, feeling fragile, but excited for the future. They were my home. Home with a capital H.

There was a knock at the door, it was Bea’s boyfriend, Jeremy – we could see it was him through the frosted-glass panelling on the front door. Tall, lanky, ego-free Jeremy. Bea had never let anyone in until now; she’d had her fair share of bad boys who she’d kick to the kerb when it all got a bit too real. Jeremy was arty like Bea, an ambitious film student who had already got an internship lined up at Working Title. They were a sweet couple, but we hardly saw him. Apparently Jeremy never complained if she prioritized us over him and she would only see him and stay at his house on Sunday nights, even though he had a giant TV, way better than ours. He never stayed over here either, so the majority of the time she was still ours. Maybe that was why I liked him. But now, she was leaving, and I knew there would be whispers of them moving in together. And the rest.

‘Hi girls, so great to see you all,’ Jeremy said politely, and swooped down to kiss each of us on the cheek. He then wrapped his long arms around Bea and squeezed her tight, lifting her slightly off the ground. ‘Sad day?’

‘It really is,’ I sighed before Bea could reply, and flinched as he picked up one of Bea’s huge duffel bags with ease, swinging it over his shoulder.

‘Sorry to be a pooper, but we’d better get going, Bea, you know, to beat the traffic,’ he said.

‘Good point,’ Bea said, looking at us, glumly.

The three of us, the remaining ones, did a last lap of the house, saying goodbye to all the rooms. The kitchen, where we’d made countless disgusting drinks; we had followed that hideous trend of putting Skittles in vodka for a time. Then Bea’s downstairs bedroom, with a door leading onto the garden patio (covered in bird poo and old bin-bags ripped apart by foxes), which she’d proudly decorated with one of those giant dreamcatchers hanging above the bed and where we’d often watched back-to-back episodes of Friends. The living room, where once we’d staged a private karaoke party; we’d invited everyone we’d met in the night-club queue that evening and the neighbours had complained and almost called the police. Isla’s bedroom, on the floor of which we’d eaten many a Domino’s pizza, and Cec’s room, where she had once dressed up as a giant banana and, having got wedged in the door for hours, ended up wetting herself.