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Chapter One: Suki

My mum says London is beautiful. She has been away from Tokyo for too long.

Even in the postcards father sends me I can imagine the bustle of the metropolis; it is not quite the same as the grey drizzle of London, where the tube, at best, smells of chips and at worst, vomit; where the primary focus of tourists is a funfair ride made out of scaffolding; where any attempt at colour merely merges into an unfortunate, slushy palette. 

But Tokyo is clean, and punctual, and neatly pieced together with its box buildings; some are stubby and very square, practically a cube, and some are long and rectangular, but all of them fit together immaculately. The metro is calm and happy, a far cry from the misery of the London Underground on a Monday morning, and citizens are peaceful and polite. 

My father is the founder of Yoshida Industries, the company that does the research for major brands. Sometimes it is market research, finding out what the customer wants, and sometimes it is research into how the client's technology can be improved. The company is worth billions of yen, but it does mean my father has to live in Japan most of the year. 

My mother was born in England, and when her mother got ill a few years ago, it was decided that we would move here to look after her. We moved into the presidential suite at The Four Seasons, and stayed there for four months until my mother found an apartment she liked. It was close to Grandma's house and the school I had been enrolled in, so it was deemed perfect. 

For the first month that I lived in this city, I tried to get a taxi to school. For the first month that I lived in this city, I was late for school. I have no qualms with public transport, I just dislike English public transport. So now, at exactly 8:20am, I arrive at school on foot. I meet Isabella on the steps of Queensgate Secondary School, the self proclaimed 'best private education in London'. I do not know about best, but it is certainly the most expensive.

"Good morning," the lean figure in front of me turns around at my greeting, her hair flying in a sleek sheet as she moves, and flashes me a weak smile. How is it that even her most pathetic smile is so charming?

"'Ow was Japan?" She asks in her silky Italian drawl. I tell her it was good and we exchange pleasantries for a few minutes until we decide that there is no point in waiting for Olivia, since she will almost certainly be late.

By now, I am used to the stares of other students. Our social standing is high, to say the least. Although Olivia is the only one of us who could be described as socially promiscuous (as the saying goes “it’s not a party until a Hunt shows up†â€" Liv’s older brother left quite the legacy and she has had no qualms with living up to it), we hold authority over others at this school through a combination of fear, admiration and our family’s money.

As predicted, Olivia walks through the door at 8:46am. Surprisingly only sixteen minutes after our school day officially starts. I guess she'll gradually build up to her usual tactic of showing up at lunch time. 

You would think that she would do something worthwhile during the time she is meant to be at school, like fix the hem on her skirt. There's a thread loose and it is making the hem unfold - not that I would complain about any length added to it. Or perhaps she could have bought a new blouse, she must have had the one she's wearing since at least last year. I don't understand how she gets away with such a revealing uniform.

Although I was skeptical when she excitedly told us last year that she would be spending her summer traveling France and camping on beaches, it seems to have done her good. While I can see far too much of her skin, I cannot deny that it is a healthy golden brown. It almost clashes with her sun-bleached hair and silky pink smile. 

"You guys seen the new boy yet?" I roll my eyes and Isabella shakes her head, unenthused. She perches on the edge of the seat opposite me, crossing one long, bare leg over the other. Not deterred by our lack of interest, Olivia continues. "He's so sexy. He's like way over six foot and has these amazing arms like they were properly muscly not like the guys round here with that shitty skinny muscle and he's black and has these amazing dreadlocks, oh my God, his dreadlocks... They come down to like, here," she indicated her elbow. "But he'd tied them back in a sort of ponytail bun thing but it was so hot. And I smiled at him and made eye contact and everything and he just smiled back! He didn't even say 'hi'!"

"Are you sure 'e was a student? 'E sounds old." Isabella chipped in. I don't know why she thought it would be a good idea to encourage Olivia, she will never stop talking now. 

"Yeah definitely. He was in school uniform, sort of. Like, he was wearing black trousers and a white shirt, and he was wearing black shoes but they were Vans. I'm pretty sure he's in sixth form or something."

"Liv, I don't think you should..." Isabella trailed off at the look she received. 

"Should what? Have fun? You two can be as boring as you like, some of us like to live a little." She glared at first Isabella, then me. I hadn't even said anything. The bell goes, signaling the start of first lesson. 

"Laters ladies," she sung over her shoulder as she swung her handbag up from the table and strutted away.