The staff at reception are wrapped in meticulously ironed yukata and look like they know how to handle riff raff like us. A stern-looking guy is already heading our way as we canter in smelling of wine and gasoline. He’s got the cheekbones of a model and the cold stare of a disapproving mother-in-law. Before he can sling us out, Purple pulls a wad of notes from her pocket and slams it on the reception desk. They stare at the money like it’s a judge’s gavel.
‘Very well,’ one of the women says in a sickly sweet Tokyo accent. She flashes a smile but the crooked curl of her upper lip can’t disguise her disdain.
We’re escorted to the elevators by a young woman in white robes. I’m surprised by how calm and collected Purple appears as she assesses our surroundings; I love having a sidekick who
