Peter Davison

I was 42 when I moved into 58 Howitt Road. It was the first time I’d ever lived on my own. My marriage [to the actress Sandra Dickinson] had broken up. An actor friend had a friend who was in make-up. She’d gone over to America to work, and had this flat in Belsize Park she was renting out. I knew her a bit from years before. She said: “You can take it on if you want.” This was around August 1993.

I’d been looking to live out of town, but I’d just got a job in the West End, so I went to see the flat and it was fantastic — though it clearly wasn’t a guy’s flat. It was full of drapey white curtains, rugs and nice carpets. It had a slightly faded glory and lots of candles and a beautiful bookcase. Everything looked as if it could have been part of a set from a bygone age. In fact, there were two pillars in the corner of the living room she’d got from a James Bond film she’d worked on. There were net curtains draped around the pillars, and a sofa you could just sink into.

The house was divided into three flats. I was on the ground floor, in a big one-bedroom flat. In the bedroom was this ornate hand-carved, French-style double bed. There was also an antique dentist’s chair, which looked like some sort of bizarre sexual contraption, but once you’d got over that, it was actually very comfortable to sit in. Then there was a dressing table, which, obviously, wasn’t my style. But it fitted in, so I never really touched it.

There was a lovely wooden purpose-built kitchen with terracotta floor tiles — it was the sort of kitchen that impresses people when they come into it. However, I only used a very small amount of it. I really don’t cook unless I’m trying to impress someone — I’d either dine out or order in. The fridge was full of ready meals and treaty things from Marks & Spencer.

The bathroom was in the cellar. I think she’d had it excavated at enormous cost and built this rather spectacular bathroom with black floors. The washing machine was in there, too — the bathroom was very long, the length of the flat.

I remember lying on the bed when I first moved in, and thinking: “What the heck has happened to my life?” I think I’d convinced myself that I couldn’t survive on my own. I was grateful to find that I actually could. I started to go out. I remember vividly getting to this point where I was out, and it got to about 11.30 and I thought: “Oh God, I’d better phone to tell her I’m going to be a bit late.” And then I realised, I don’t have to do that; I don’t have to phone anybody to tell them I’ll be late. I can go home when I want. You might have thought I was hankering for that, but I hadn’t even considered it. Suddenly, I had nobody to report to.

I wasn’t doing brilliantly financially at the time. Most of my money went on the rent! Though I did buy a computer, my first, and set it up with my keyboards in the small dining area on the way to the kitchen. When I wasn’t working I’d either lie on the sofa and read or watch telly, or sit in the dining area and compose songs. I’m quite interested in old-style songwriters like Cole Porter. That’s who I aspire to. I’m nowhere near as good, I might add.

I got new friends. I would entertain — I’d have quite a lot of impromptu parties. People wouldn’t leave until about 4am. After a pantomime one year I recklessly invited everyone back to my flat, and people were singing songs from musicals at 7am. The lady upstairs was very nice; she was very tolerant of loud music.

The people on the top floor were in advertising. It was thanks to them that I once did a Pedigree Chum commercial, the connection with animals being All Creatures Great and Small.

I bought the flat in 1996, but the furniture didn’t change an awful lot. The bed went because the owner wanted to keep it. I kept the pillars, the sofa and the bookcase. What changed, mostly, was that after a couple of years I met Elizabeth [Morton, an actress turned writer] to whom I’m now married, and she moved in with me.

She nearly burnt it down. She lit one of the candles [in the living room] and stuck it under a wooden shelf — we’d been out in the kitchen — and I walked in and the whole fireplace was on fire. I put it out. It was fine. I left the big hole it burnt in the shelf as a reminder, though.

Had the flat been quite boysy, Elizabeth might well have feminised it. But actually it was quite feminine, so the first thing we did wasn’t until Louis was born in 1999: we rejigged it, and the kitchen was turned into a second bedroom; the dining room area became the kitchen.

We moved out two years later, in 2001. It was sad. To buy a house there is an absurd amount of money. It’s a lovely area — there are restaurants and a cinema at the top of the road. I still feel a pang when I go back there every so often, just driving through.

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