"Before I tell you what we're doing here, take this," Felix says.
He reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, and takes out a small piece of paper folded in two. Alastaire rolls his eyes as Felix passes the note to me over the table, closing my hand over it.
I'm still in such a state of shock at finding them in my house that it takes a second to register that Felix Lockhart's hand just touched my hand.
"Read it after we've left," Felix says. "And don't show your friend. It's for your eyes only. Understand?"
I nod, tucking the paper away into my hoodie pocket.
"Basically, you're going to help us with a... project," Felix says.
He's ordering me. There's no 'please', no 'if you want to.'
"You want me to help you?" I ask, searching his face for some sign he's joking. His expression is as indecipherable and distant as ever.
OMG. He's serious.
He's leaning back in his chair now, staring past me into the dark garden outside the window.
"It's entirely up to you, obviously," Alastair says.
"No it's not," Felix says.
"Actually, I don't think-" I start to protest, but Felix cuts me off.
"I didn't come all this way just to get turned down Ashling," he says. "Besides, you haven't even heard what it is we need you to do."
I just nod, feeling pinned down by his eyes. I'm totally unable to speak back, to argue with him.
"We didn't randomly decide to cancel our plans and come back to Portland," Felix says. "Usually, just after a tour, we take a few months' break before we start recording our next album."
I nod. Everyone who follows Fable on Twitter (or watches TV or reads the tabloids) knows that the boys are meant to be on holiday taking a break from the limelight until October. That usually includes a break from social media - it's not easy finding internet reception when you're on a tiny tropical island or half-way up the Alps. Sometimes they'll go on holiday together, but most of the time they go their separate ways for a month or two.
Which is exactly what they're meant to be doing now.
"When we played the Rose Quarter last week, I got talking to the manager at the hotel we were staying in," Felix says.
I remember hearing somewhere that the boys were staying at the Rose Inn. So that means... "You spoke to Bea?"
"Yes," Felix says.
"More like she spoke to us," Alastaire says. "She wouldn't shut up actually. That woman can really talk. She pretty much gave us a running monologue on every single rock star who ever visited Portland in the sixties and how she got into bed with all of them."
Yes. That definitely sounds like Bea.
Bea was my grandma's best friend. Ex-groupie, artist, hotel manager, and full-time crazy hippie. Some of my earliest childhood memories are of long summer days on the riverbank with Gran and Bea, armed with easels and oil paints and a picnic basket filled with sandwiches.
"Bea had a sort of... proposition for us," Felix continues. "She told us about a place she owns that's totally off the grid... a sort of secret bunker, I guess you might call it, out in the woods. With a recording studio. A relic from her days hanging out with visiting bands. She said it was somewhere the five of us guys can be alone and have time writing songs for the next album without our manager stepping in."
I don't get it.
"Bea owns a secret bunker?" I say. I've always known she was eccentric, but this is next level.
"Yeah, I usually try not to have dealings with lunatics," Felix says. I wince at the casual insult. Bea may be totally weird but she was gran's best friend. "But I don't actually care how crazy she is, as long as she's offering a way for us to get away from our manager for a while."
"But... what's wrong with your manager? She seems nice," I say, thinking about the elegant red-haired woman who occasionally appears in the boys' YouTube videos.
"You'd be surprised," Felix says.
"And it's not just her, Ashling," Alastaire says. "Ever since we released Deja Vu, every single one of our songs... we'll start working on something and immediately they swoop in. Vocal coaches, sound techs, producers... to 'improve it', according to them."
"You mean ruin it," Felix interjects.
"And they keep us busy with parties, signings, events, you name it," Alastaire continues. "We never get time to actually work on our own original stuff anymore. It's like they've taken our music away from us."
"Obviously we're eternally grateful for everything BYG Records has done for us," Felix says halfheartedly, sounding decidedly ungrateful. "But it has to stop. We want to start making our own music again, without interference. So, we're here. We're going to take Bea up on her offer and start working on our new album solo, without the BYG Records circus sticking their nose into it all."
Is there something I'm missing? This still makes no sense.
"I'm sorry," I say, "but I still don't get it. Why Portland? I'm sure you could have found a recording studio anywhere in the world... and why... why did you come to me? Why are you here?"
"Because we're not just going to write the songs," says Felix. "We want to record them too."
"We're going to release the songs online for free, before BYG can stop us," says Alastaire. "A sort of gift to our fans."
I'm getting tired of this. Tired of feeling so far out of my comfort zone. Tired of being toyed with. Why did they come here? "You could have done that in London," I say, starting to feel my face grow hot again.
"Yes, we could have done it in London," says Felix. "But we need someone to play guitar. Acoustic guitar. We decided the new album needs a folksy sound. That's our new direction."
"But.. what about Alastaire?" I ask. He's one of the best guitarists in the word. What on earth are they-
Alastaire laughs. "I'm not exactly an acoustic kind of guy."
I think for a moment, then shake my head. It's true that I've only ever seen Alastaire play the electric guitar, but it's not like acoustic is beneath him or anything. He'd probably be great at it.
My head is spinning.
"But surely... surely you could have bought someone along with you who plays guitar... like, a professional? Or a friend who plays the guitar... or something?"
The guys turn to face each other, and a quick, dark look passes between them. "There aren't many people we can trust anymore," Alastaire says. "We can't risk BYG realising what we're doing."
"But you think you can trust me?" I say.
"I know we can trust you," Felix says, his eyes glinting with something I can't quite place. "I saw that myself, after you kept quite about what happened backstage after the show. And you never spilled the details for the press after half of Portland tried to tear down your house. You're the sort of girl who's good at keeping secrets."
"I'm not sure what you m-" I start to say, before Felix interrupts me.
"Besides, we're Fable," Felix says, completely ignoring me. "Not some small-town garage band. We're not going to work with someone who's just good or ok... we need excellence."
"Which is why we came to you," Alastaire says. "According to Felix, your guitar playing at the coffee shop just before our show was the epitome of excellence. Heavenly. Perfection. And it's not exactly normal for Felix to give out praise. You'd almost think that-"
He flinches and stops talking abruptly as Felix kicks him loudly under the table.
Undeterred, Alastaire leans over the table and locks eyes with mine, cocking his eyebrow ever so slightly. "Anyway. You better be worth the hype, Cupcake. I'm missing two weeks in Aix-en-Provence for this."
"I don't know what to say," I murmur, looking down at my lap.
"You don't need to say anything," Felix says. "Just meet us at noon tomorrow."
"Where?" I ask.
"It's on the paper I gave you," Felix says.
"We'll let you get back to you slumber party now," Alastaire says, smirking as he rises from his chair. "Just sleep on it. Despite what Felix says, it's your decision. I hope you do decide to come though."
I walk the boys to the entrance hall in a daze. Zee jumps up from the sofa as we pass by the living room, but my mom grabs her and shoves her back down before she can leap out at the boys.
The boys walk out the front door towards the black jeep. Before they get in, Felix walks back to where I'm standing by the front door. He leans down, and says quietly, "One more thing." There's a long pause, and he glances behind me into the entrance hall.
"Tell your ADHD friend not to tell a soul we were here. If it gets out and our cover is blown, we'll have to leave."
With that, he turns around, walks to the jeep, and drives away.
Zee comes crashing out of the living room, yelling at my parents for holding her back. As she runs down the road after their car yelping and waving her arms, I slowly fish the folded-up piece of paper out of my jeans pocket.
My fingers are trembling as I open up the note and stare down in disbelief.
No way.