hen Nat and I were seven we realised we would never be princesses.

I had thousands of freckles and ginger hair, and everybody knew that nobody with either of those things ever got rescued from a tower. They got left there for all eternity, and thus ended their royal bloodline.

Nat had unruly black hair, dark skin and the beginnings of what her mother would later describe as a monobrow. It was generally acknowledged that princesses had complexions like fruit and two eyebrows, clearly distinct from each other. So that excluded her as well.

The tall girl standing in front of me now is precisely what we concluded princesses should look like. Huge mesmerising blue eyes, flawless skin, a pouty mouth, pale golden hair in waves down to her waist. An aura of goodness and an ability to engage in conversation with animals. A ray of sunshine, hitting her head like a halo. (I have no idea how she’s found one, it’s almost totally dark outside.)

Any second now, rabbits are going to start leaping around her feet in pairs and a bluebird is going to land on her shoulder.

“Hello,” she says, sounding utterly delighted, and I realise that she’s even more English than I am. “I’m Poppy. You’re so not what I was expecting.”

“H-Harriet Manners,” I stutter, taking her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, umm …” and I finish the sentence by fading into silence and staring rudely over her shoulder. Part of me is still expecting to see seven miniature men wandering around the hallway.

“I’m so happy to finally meet you,” she says, taking my suitcase and wheeling it into the hallway. “My boyfriend’s always so busy. Anyway, it’s just not the same, is it? They just don’t want to talk about girly things.”

Oh, God. I suspect I’m about to prove an enormous disappointment.

“Umm …” I desperately start racking my brain for a subject that will make this girl like me. “Did you know that high heels for women in the West are believed to have originated with Catherine De Medici in the sixteenth century? She was about to marry King Henry of France and wanted him to think she was taller than she actually was.”

Poppy looks at me with wide eyes, and I remember why in fifteen years I have only managed to make one female friend.

“But in the Middle East,” I continue nervously, “heels were used to lift the foot from the burning sand.”

“How adorable!” Poppy giggles. “What else?”

What else?

That’s not an answer I’m usually prepared for. I’ve pretty much run out of shoe-based facts. “Did you know that Neil Armstrong took his boots off and left them on the moon to compensate for the weight of the moon rocks they took?”

“Amazing!” Poppy claps a few times, and then pulls my suitcase across the hallway towards a bright green door.

She beams at me – a genuine, open, beautiful smile. I blink and look down at my battered suitcase, crumpled dinosaur T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms. I’m sticky with sweat from dragging my suitcase about, and even without lifting my arms I can tell that I smell a bit like Hugo when he’s been out in the rain. This must be how Regan and Goneril felt around Cordelia in King Lear.

I think I’m starting to understand why they put her in prison.

“Rin?” Poppy calls, pushing the door open and manoeuvring my suitcase through the doorway with a graceful flick of her wrist. I try to hop over it and smash my ankle against the wheel. “Harriet is here! Come and say hello.”

There’s a clatter, and an incredibly pretty Japanese girl runs out of one of the rooms. Her hair is massive, waist-length and elaborately curled. She’s wearing a pink flowery dress with lace trim and buttons all the way down the front, and white ankle socks with pink ribbons. A large, pink toy duck is attached on a clip to a belt covered in sequins. Her face is perfectly matt with round sparkly cheeks, huge eyelashes and glittery lipstick.

She looks exactly like one of the china dolls Granny Manners used to have on her mantelpiece, except slightly bigger and without a sign in front that says DO NOT TOUCH, HARRIET.

Rin stops in the hallway, breathless. “I go for gift, but I’m not finding it. It has gone walkabouts.” She drops into a low bow. “My name is Rin. I am delight to meet you.”

“Delighted,” Poppy corrects sweetly. “It’s delighted, Rin.”

Rin looks bewildered. “Who is Ted? He’s coming later? I have no present for Ted.”

“It’s … oh, never mind.” Poppy gestures at me to take off my shoes and starts leading me through an incredibly narrow hallway. “We’re both models too. This is a model flat, but you probably know that already.”

I’ve suddenly realised why Poppy looks familiar: she was one of the girls I cut out of Nat’s magazine. I distinctly remember putting her face in the bin.

“Me also,” Rin beams, nodding happily. “Modelling sometime, then and now.” She grabs my hand with her tiny, dainty fingers and starts leading me through the minuscule flat. “This is kitchen,” she says, pointing to a bathroom with the smallest bathtub I have ever seen. “This is garden.” She points to a kitchen. “And this is alive room.” She gestures to a room with a very low table and four round cushions.

“Living room,” Poppy corrects gently.

“I am very apologising,” Rin says, blushing slightly and bowing again. “My English is so bad. I study super hard, but it is not sticky. I – nandakke – slurp.”

“You don’t suck.” Poppy laughs. “Rin’s obsessed with Australia so she’s learning English as quickly as possible so she can move there. My boyfriend says she must have been a koala in a past life.”

“One day,” Rin says in a dreamy voice, “I move to Sydney and get Rip Curls and big BBQ and burn sausages. I shall be a little ropper.”

“Ripper,” Poppy says automatically, leading us into a teeny tiny bedroom.

Unlike the rest of the flat, it’s not Japanese in style at all. There are no sliding doors and soft rush tatami mats: just a solid grey carpet, one set of bunk beds pushed against the corner and an enormous double bed with a mountain of pillows. In the middle of it is a large black cat, wearing a pink flowery dress, little white socks and a pink toy duck, attached to a sequined collar.

“My cat,” Rin says unnecessarily, pointing proudly. “Kylie Minogue.” The cat assesses me haughtily, licks a sock and goes back to sleep.

“She’s on your bed,” Poppy says, trying unsuccessfully to push her off. Kylie clearly doesn’t agree: she opens one eye, glares at Poppy and tries to dig her claws through the socks into the duvet. “The big one’s yours. Rin and I share the bunks.”

That doesn’t seem fair. I’ve only just got here. “I can move,” I say quickly. “Or we can take turns?”

“No, Harry-chan,” Rin says, shaking her head. “You have big VIP job.” She says VIP as it looks: vip. “You stay here. Super cosy.”

Rin picks Kylie up and the cat lets out an enormous disgruntled squark.

“I really don’t care either,” Poppy says, shrugging. Then she catches her reflection in the mirror behind me. “Oh my goodness, my hair. I’m going out with my boyfriend tonight, I should go and start getting ready.”

I stare at one maverick gold strand, misbehaving by less than a centimetre, and then at my own rumpled reflection. There are still remnants of aeroplane gravy on my chin.

Poppy starts heading towards the bathroom, and then abruptly turns just in time to catch me surreptitiously trying to reach a splodge with my tongue stretched out.

She grabs my hand. “Harriet?” she says. “I really want to get to know you better.”

I can feel my eyes open even wider. “Really?”

“Yes. You’re … like a little piece of home.”

“Hai,” Rin agrees. “Home like hamster.”

“Hampshire,” Poppy corrects.

“Where hamsters come from,” Rin says, smiling.

“Umm …” I stammer. “Th-thank you.”

Poppy says, “I can tell already we’re going to be inseparable.”

And with that beatific smile – the kind that makes princes climb towers and fight dragons – Princess Poppy kisses my cheek and glides into the bathroom, locking the door firmly behind her.