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Chapter Two: Isabella

His bony jaw and high cheekbones jut out against his soft beige skin. His nose is somewhat kinked, as if it had been broken in the distant past, probably by someone who had found out their girlfriend cheated with him. His hair is entirely shaved off but I remember it as being dirty blonde and chaotic. I peek out of the corner of my eyes as his friend cracks a joke and he permits an amused smirk to curve across his thick rosy lips. They were perhaps a little too big for his face, but they certainly caught the eye. I wish it was acceptable for me to know who he is. Whoever said being on top was fun was clearly working class.

English may not be my first language, but it is my first lesson. My teacher, Mr Hart gives the room a glowing smile and runs his hand through his curly hair. He's the sort of guy that Liv would fall in love with, making me glad she's in a different class. She may see words as merely a way to communicate her latest fixation, but for me they're a lot more than that. They're the paint that makes a work of art come to life.

The five lessons following English fly by extraordinarily quickly, and the taxi home seems unusually short. The house I pull up in front still doesn't seem like my own; a black metal gate swings from the low white wall and pot plants perfectly pruned into neat spheres line the path leading to the entrance. The house is tall and white, with two pillars either side of the great black door that gives a certain element of grandeur. Above the door was a half circle of glass, adorned with a gold, swirly border and a '16' written in the centre. There are five windows visible from the front entrance of the house, two directly above the door and three to the left, one on each floor. Each slides upwards to open, and has a rounded top. They're perfect to gaze from, and even better to climb out of. It's a shame the view is nothing special and I really have nowhere else to go.

Having a chauffeur open and close the car door for me, a butler to open the front door and take my coat as I enter... it still seems surreal, and not at all like the first fourteen years of my life. For a start, London is a far cry from the scorching heat of my beautiful hometown, Gela, where I lived with my mamma and pappi, and my four brothers. Both summers and winters were spent on the picturesque beach, just around the corner from our pokey home. Evenings spent gazing at the rusty orange sun set over the smooth water until the crepuscular light creeps up on you. Italy is beautiful by default.

The inside of the house is just as impressive as the outside. Earthy reds and neutral browns, dark oak furnishings, the most detailed (and probably most expensive) tapestries lining the floors. If I had chosen the décor for the building, I wouldn't have chosen this. But still, it's nice. And so, so expensive.

Alik is reclining in the black leather armchair in front of the window, one chino clad leg crossed over the other, a newspaper blocking me from seeing is face. Sometimes I wonder why he always dresses so smartly - even now he's wearing shoes that must equate to the price of a term at my school.

"Ciao," I still feel uncomfortable here, like when you first enter a stranger's house, so I linger in the doorway while waiting for his reply.

"Come stai?" his response did not include eye contact, but I had to be thankful for his effort to speak in my mother tongue.

"Bene, grazie. E tu?" The small talk continues for five minutes or so, before he tells me to get ready as we will be attending a business dinner tonight. He has had an appropriate dress picked out already, which was very thoughtful. The prospect of being his date didn't overcome me with joy, like it perhaps should. He fits the pretty Middle Eastern man stereotype, with an angular face coated in a light layer of stubble and bushy black brows that match his immaculate black hair. His body was toned and his skin like warm milky coffee.

The dress is spread neatly across the fluffy throw at the foot of my bed. It just about brushes my knees, and is fitted to the shape of my body, but it doesn't cling uncomfortably; three quarter length sleeves; a cowl back falling low on the curve of my spine. The ivory material is thick and luxurious - the epitome of sophistication. Alik, or at the very least Alik's personal shopper, has superb taste. But what did I expect, really. On my dressing table is a pair of silver chandelier earrings, my ring and a small patent silver clutch. After reapplying my make up, I slip into black heels and make my way downstairs to find him.

My phone buzzes just as we're about to leave. There's a dozen missed calls from Dante and Mamma. Alik sees over my shoulder and give me a disapproving look. Screw him.

How could I be expected to forgive them so soon - seventeen is far too young for anyone to marry.