The next day I decided to learn French properly. I had taken a course during training in the states, but Izzy had always succeeded far and beyond my language studies. She also told me my accent always got in the way.

I had cracked my French books open across the sofa. The windows were open and the curtains danced in the breeze, and I couldn’t help but feel distracted. I had barely made it across the introductions chapter before I needed some music.

Before I knew it, I was prancing around the flat in a matching red camisole and panty set with an apron tied around my waist, a French conversation book in one hand dancing to Duran Duran’s Electric Barbarella on full blast.

“I plug you in, dim the lights, Electric Barbarella!” I sang loudly, bobbing up and down, having no comprehension of what I read. I could hear a shout from outside, it sounded French. And it sounded angry.

I peeped out. It wasn’t Pierre at the window, but someone else, someone I had never seen before, and he didn’t look happy.