I said there were five others staying here with me, but so far I’ve only met three…

Charlotte, who hails from West Berlin and is sharp and bright and smokes like a veritable chimney. She’s also at least a head taller than I am and has legs that go on forever, so part of me hates her already. But only because of how fabulous she looks in her teeny-tiny skirts.

Next comes Gigi. French, gorgeous, and I am completely obsessed with her. I get the feeling she’s filthy rich and running away from her heritage, or an arranged marriage, or something in between. But she has the dirtiest laugh and looks at me in a way that makes me know we will be friends forever.

She flirts with everyone, and I mean everyone, which means nobody is capable of leaving the shop without buying at least three items, so she’s definitely the favorite employee.

Is it the eyes, or the hair, or simply the way she makes you feel as if there’s nobody else in the room whenever she says your name? Bright red lips that catch on the end of a cigarette, long, slender fingers that always seems to be touching you, ever so lightly, somewhere on your body, pulling you into her space, her world. And curves that cling to her pantaloons, her blouse unbuttoned just the right amount.

I wish I had that self-assuredness of who I am. I hope she can teach me what it is that makes French women just so, so sexy. I want to be sexy. I want someone to think I am sexy. Not just a wife-in-waiting, a dutiful woman who will do as she’s told. I want to meet someone who will push me to the very limits of my persona. Who will challenge me as much as they adore me, and make me rock with frustration and desire.

Then there’s Noah. Oh my. From California no less. With a voice that melts inside your soul and a smile that melts everything else. He’s quiet. He’s broody. He’s probably going to destroy me, but I do not care. With stubble that I want to run my fingers, my lips over, skin the color of milky coffee and jeans worn low. The way he says my name, as if it’s the beginning of a song, makes me fizz. I feel like a silly girl stood next to him, all flustered thoughts that do not know how to behave.

Last night we all sat around the piano, most of us drinking French (of course) red wine, and some of us smoking deliciously fragrant cigarettes that make the whole world spin. Talking about literature and art, music and love. So much to learn from these strangers, brought together under one dilapidated roof. Purely by chance, or, peut-être, fate had a hand in it as well? Either way, I don’t care, because I feel more alive, more accepted, here than I ever did at home. Nobody to tell me what to wear, to eat, to think! Here I can be whoever I want to be. No restraints, no past, and the future is entirely down to my choosing.