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Chapter Three: Olivia

My brother's passed out on the sofa, there's vomit in the waste paper basket and Chicken the dog's eaten through half the throw pillows. Mum is gonna lose her shit. I almost wonder what happened here last night, but I know better than to delve into the mysterious life of Charles Hunt: party boy extraordinaire.

I kick him once or twice but he doesn't move, so I go and find some orange juice instead. I down a glass and try not to be surprised when a woman emerges. She's kinda hot, and dressed in, well, not much. Now seems like a better time than any to leave. I'm almost tempted to do Charles a favour and chuck the empty beer bottles in the recycling on the way out, but he totally needs to learn to do stuff for himself - he's too used to people doing everything for him, hence the woman sitting in my kitchen.

The crisp air takes me back to the summer, and waking up to pain au chocolat, French countryside, and most importantly, French boys. Unfortunately, this is London - my walk to school doesn't include sheep filled fields and pastries.

"Miss Hunt. You," I approach the steps leading up to the school, set to face the wrath of Mr Manson, my head of year. "Are late." He stands with his feet slightly apart and his arms crossed, as if guarding the gates to hell.

"It's only..." I pull my phone from my blazer pocket to check the time. "Eight fifty-three, oh crap." In all fairness, it's still before nine. That's pretty early.

"Language, please. Not only are you twenty-three minutes late, but you've missed the careers meeting that we had scheduled this morning. We talked about this last year; you're an excellent student capable of incredible things, but we can't help you achieve those things if you aren't committed to..."

Mr Manson has one of those haircuts that's shaved around the sides and slightly longer on top. It usually looks sort of boyish, but combined with his square jaw line and slight stubble he looks nothing short of manly - even though he can't be much older than twenty-five. His arms are still crossed over his broad chest, making his pale blue shirt strain. He's barely taller than me but he has a sort of authoritative presence that makes him seem bigger and more intimidating.

I'd zoned out of the conversation soon after it started, but I find myself following him to his office to have a talk about my future. His office is very casually decorated; the walls are paper white and most of the space is filled with two dark grey sofas, scattered with throw pillows, and a glass desk occupying the other end of the room. It only has a pot of pencils and a laptop on it. Other than that, there was a leather spinning chair behind the desk, a coffee table between the sofas and a cabinet in one corner. Oh, and that dreadlocks boy.

He looks just as good as yesterday with his hair half up in a bun and half trailing way down his back. His face is really smooth, like his skin just looks so soft and beautiful and his cheekbones are really high and prominent. His eyes are narrow but also, like, really dark, almost black. His lips are the perfect shape, even on the top and bottom and the perfect size for his face. The edges are dark and fade into a pinky colour on the plumper bit. I want to kiss them.

"Ah James, you're here." Has he made me skip class to talk to two of the hottest men in the school? Because if he has, he's definitely my new favourite teacher.

We all take a seat, me and James on one sofa and Mr Manson on the other. One leg is crossed over the other, making his trouser leg ride up a little to reveal his expensive shoes. Like, really expensive. How much are my teachers getting paid?

"James has just started in year 12," he addressed me. "He's taking maths, which I know from my little conversation with your mother back in August is not your strong suit." I got a C - good it was not, but abysmal? Hardly. "On top of your A levels, we'd like you to retake your maths GCSE, and hopefully this time you will apply yourself."

"Bu-"

"Now I know you don't want this, but I need someone who knows the school well to show James around. I was hoping we could come to some sort of arrangement?"

"I doubt he needs a babysitter." I don't want him to think of me as some annoying kid that's too stupid to do basic maths.

"The school building is very big, you never know. You have a maths lesson on Fridays at the same time that James has a free period, so during that hour I'd like you to meet in the library and study together. Can you do that?"

I grimace and pull a sulky face. He nods, unenthused.