After disembarking the jet, we're met on the tarmac by a smartly-dressed chauffeur, who takes our luggage and ushers us into the waiting black limo.
"Take us to the Angel," Nessy says to the driver, and he nods.
Angel?! She can't possibly mean Alastaire, right? It's got to be something else. Maybe it's a British thing... unfamiliar slang... like calling french fries chips or saying that something is a load of codswallop.
I want to ask her, but I don't want to look ignorant, so I keep quiet instead.
Nessy's unusually quiet during the drive, only speaking when she asks the driver to slow down so I can get a better look at the glittering Thames River. Over the past few hours I've gotten used to the constant murmur of her chattering on about everything and anything, always talking very quickly, a sparkling stream of one-sided conversation, strangely comforting - maybe because it allows a quiet introvert like myself to just sit back, listen and go with the flow.
So her relative silence now unnerves me, and I try to distract myself by studying the scenery.
The quick glimpses of London I catch from inside the limo are utterly spectacular - a bewildering clash of ultra-modern minimalist buildings and grand old stone monuments, a perfect marriage of past and future. The cloudy sky overhead has turned slate grey, and I'm grateful my mom insisted I take a small fold-up umbrella in my luggage.
"Look over there," Nessy finally says, pointing out the window. "That's the Tower of London on the left."
The driver slows down, allowing me a moment to take in the ornate stone turrets and battlements peeping out from behind soaring castle walls. As we drive by, Nessy points to a magnificent building opposite the tower - all white stone, Corinthian columns at least fifty feet tall and black wrought iron porticos.
"That's Witchwood Manor," she says, then pauses expectantly. She seems to study my face, as if looking for a reaction.
I'm not sure what I'm meant to say, so I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
"Is that the hotel?" I ask.
"The hotel?" she asks, her eyes narrowing with confusion.
"Where I'm staying," I say, noticing how tense she's suddenly become.
Her eyes widen in surprise, and then she laughs.
"Hotel? No, no," she says, visibly relaxing. "No, the hotel you'll be staying in is still a few minutes away. Very elite. Invite only. It's privately owned by the Faull Foundation, reserved for only their most important clients and business acquaintances."
"The Faull Foundation?" I ask. " As in-"
"Jeremy Faull, yes," she says with a little smile. "You could say it's part of the family business. In fact, Jeremy's family modelled it on their ancestral home in France. Unparalleled luxury. You're really getting the royal treatment, Ashling. Usually we just chuck our esteemed guests into The Four Seasons or The Savoy. You're some kind of special, aren't you?"
I don't know how to answer that, so I just ignore the sort-of-question, and ponder what she said about Jeremy Faull having an ancestral home in France.
That's weird. I never thought he was French. He always sounded British in interviews. But I can't ask her about that, I don't want her to think I'm so clueless.
"No, no, the Faull family are as British as fish and chips, trust me," she says, as if in reply to my silent thoughts. "They've been here for ages. The family was driven out - I mean to say, they left France, in the 1790's, during the French Revolution. Not a wonderful time for the aristocracy. They never did get Château d'Argent back, supposedly it's a museum now, but still, they've done pretty well for themselves anyway, wouldn't you say?"
Before I can answer, she speaks again.
"Anyhow, enough gossip about the powers that be," she says. "Keep looking to your right, and you'll see Big Ben in a moment."
The immense clock tower comes into view for mere seconds before the view disappears behind a near-by cathedral, and she continues pointing out landmarks near and far. "And of course, The London Eye is that way, London Bridge, and then there's the Shard and the Globe Theatre on the South Bank... don't worry about not getting a good look now, we'll take you around on a proper sightseeing tour later in the week on one of your days off. Anything and everything you want to see in the Big Smoke."
The traffic is getting heavier and more congested, causing the driver to slow down to a crawl. Not that I mind - I'm loving the chance to gaze out at the unfamiliar scenery.
We turn into a traffic circle with a monument at its centre, a slender column topped with several pale blue sundials.
Nessy says, "look familiar?" and I nod, feeling like this whole thing is suddenly getting too real, too much, too soon.
This is Seven Dials. Where the boys held their secret concert less than a week ago. Right here in this very spot. It's really happening. I'm actually doing this. I'M. IN. LONDON. FOR. REAL. OMG. Am I making a huge mistake coming here?
I'm tempted to pinch myself, but a group of girls around my own age catches my attention. They're giggling loudly, posing for a group selfie on the stone steps. One of them has a white backpack with a pair of silver angel wings printed onto it, and one of her friends is wearing a shirt with an anime version of the band, so it's pretty obvious what they're doing there. Around them, people from all walks of life are milling around, a steady stream of pedestrians making their way through the winding cobblestone streets that radiate out from the circle. Bundled up in warm overcoats and clutching coffee cups in the crisp morning air, the lifeblood of the city flows around its stone heart and along the arterial paths to the rhythmic beat of money, money, money.
The limo exits the circle, turning onto one of the side streets. We pass a huge building that must be a theatre - I can see posters for Hamilton, Les Miserables and Phantom of the Opera, and a cute bakery which I make a mental note to check out later. In keeping with London's Game-of-Thrones-meets-Black-Mirror aesthetic, the street is a riotous celebration of old and new. An antiquated wooden storefront painted sage green with the words 'Apothecary' in gold lettering sits next to an Apple store; a group of mums sit at an ornate table outside 'Ye Olde Chocolate Shoppe' wearing ultra modern neon athleisure wear while their kids crowd around an iPad.
We drive past a florist's shop-front decked out with a bright display of autumnal colours - fiery orange roses rimmed with streaks of blood red, yellow chrysanthemums, marigolds, poppies and gladiolus.
Woven in amongst the flowers, fat black spiders cling to fake cobwebs, and on the doorstep there's a pumpkin with a grinning face carved into it. A chalkboard sign in the window says "Six days to All Hallows' Eve."
I didn't think that Halloween was really a thing here, but the jack-o'-lanterns and the sign suggest otherwise.
Six days to Halloween... so today's the 25th of October. That date seems important. There's something I'm forgetting...
"Finally," Nessy says, and the limo pulls up in front of a grandiose Gothic-style building. "Welcome to your new abode for the indefinite future - La Maison des Anges. Or in good old English, The House of Angels."
The chauffeur opens my door, and I step onto the sidewalk. From the outside, it looks more like a church than a hotel. Several stories tall, I guess there must be at least ten floors. I take in the stained glass windows, ornate doric columns and a huge set of dark wooden doors with an alcove directly above it. An angel wrought in white marble stands guard in the shadowy alcove, at least seven feet tall. Its intricately-carved wings are folded behind its back, and its stone eyes are full of cold fire, cast heavenwards. In its left hand, it holds something golden, indiscernible against its chest - maybe a musical instrument or a reed - and in its right hand, it holds a gilded sword, pointed straight down at the doorway below it.
Although the statue is incredibly beautiful, there's something disturbing about it too. Maybe it's the angel's expression of wide-eyed, almost fanatical fervour, or maybe it's how real and sharp the golden sword looks - as if the angel could leap down onto the sidewalk at any moment and start chopping off heads.
"Take her bags up to the Pearl Suite," Nessy tells the porter, a scrawny elderly gentleman in an elegant silver-trimmed suit. Despite his feeble appearance, he lifts my luggage with ease and carries it into the hotel as if it weighs nothing at all.
"Ready?" she asks me.
As ready as I'll ever be.
I follow her up the steps and into the lobby, feeling a momentary chill run down my spine as I pass beneath the golden sword hanging above the doorway.
The lobby is huge, so much bigger than I expected. The building's interior looks more like a museum than a hotel - a vast cavernous space several stories high, with a magnificent painted ceiling depicting a silver crescent moon and soft white clouds against a gilded sky. It looks a bit like the Sistine Chapel ceiling which I studied in art history class last year, only without any people.
The black-and-white chequerboard floor is partially covered with a velvety wine-red carpet, which winds up a long staircase and through an arched entrance-way at the other end of the lobby.
There are golden flourishes and nods to the 18th century French rococo style everywhere, and numerous paintings of pastoral landscapes and stuffy-looking old people.
It's impressive, but it's a lot. Maybe even too much, and bordering on gaudy.
"Quite palatial, isn't it?" Nessy says with a smirk. "Wait here. I'll be back in a jiffy."
She walks past me to the front desk on the far side of the room. The receptionist is a willowy, pretty young woman who looks to be around Nessy's age - mid to late twenties, I'd guess - with light brown hair worn in an elegant french braid. She smiles warmly at Nessy, and gives her a room key. They talk for a few moments, and although I'm too far away to hear their conversation, I notice that Nessy has leaned in very close, and their fingers linger together for just a moment as she takes the key.
There's a definite energy between them, an undeniable undercurrent of electricity. Nessy's cheeks are ever-so-slightly flushed by the time she's walked back across the lobby to me.
"Alright, let's go up to your suite," Nessy says, ushering me towards the staircase. "Faye will give you the grand tour of La Maison des Anges whenever you're ready."
I don't even need to ask who Faye is. The way she says the name with a sort of nervous giggle... it's abundantly clear that Faye is the woman at the front desk.
We walk through the arched doorway at the stop of the stairs, entering into a high-ceilinged corridor. Sunlight streams in through huge windows, glinting off crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
"The library's through there," she says as we pass a set of carved wooden doors. "The conservatory's right next to it. The tea rooms, restaurant and cocktail lounge are back the way we came."
We pass a room with floor-to-ceiling French doors, the glass frosted in a swirling design that almost looks like stylised waves or rippling water, or like a figure-8 on its side, the infinity symbol, overlapping and repeated over-and-over again.
I've seen this somewhere before... I think.
I stop in front of the glass for a moment to study the strangely familiar pattern.
It was in Forest Park, the night we saw that... that thing... in the trees. That impossible floating singing silver serpentine creature. Which I now know must have been a prank or a hologram or even just my hallucination, because things like that don't exist in the real world, and I'm done believing in fairytales.
"La piscine de la sirène," Nessy suddenly says right behind me, almost causing me to let out a little shriek of surprise. "The hotel spa. As Jeremy's personal guest, you're welcome to indulge in as many treatments as you'd like during your stay here... on the house, of course. Take it from me, the Egyptian milk and honey bath ritual is the bee's knees. Not to be missed. Now come along."
As we walk further down the corridor I notice a subtle change in the temperature. Even though the sun is shining in, I feel a sudden chill which lasts a few moments and then just as quickly disappears. As if we just walked through something and then out the other side. And there's a strange smell that lingers for just a second. Sort of salty, like the long-forgotten memory of sea mist clinging to the carpets, the walls, the windows.
Nessy doesn't seem to notice, and I know I'm letting my imagination get the better of me, like usual.
Old buildings like this often have weird smells and cold spots. It's called damp.
I really need to get a grip. Anyway, I'm probably just tired from the flight. I'll feel better after a shower and a change of clothes. And another cup of coffee.
How far away is my room anyway? It feels like we've been walking forever.
"Almost there," Nessy says. We turn a corner at the end of the corridor, and are standing in front of a white paneled door with a motif of scallop shells and rosebuds carved into it. Above the doorway, a bronze plaque reads "LA SUITE DE PERLES" in big block letters.
Nessy unlocks the door and swings it open.
The moment I step inside, I can see why it's called the Pearl Suite. It's what I imagine the inside of a giant oyster shell would look like - all shades of pearlescent cream and crisp white, with touches of wispy pale grey throughout. A sort of living room space with a flat screen TV, plush grey velvet sofas and a fireplace flows into a spacious bedroom, at least four times the size of my room at home. The four-poster Queen bed against the far wall is draped with a delicate white lace canopy. It faces onto a private patio, accessed via a set of French doors draped with lush silk curtains on either side, so shiny and sinuous that they look almost as if they're made from molten silver.
I take a peek inside the ensuite bathroom and immediately wish my mom was here to see this. The porcelain clawfoot bathtub, fluffy white towels and shelf full of various bath salts, soaks and other potions in big glass jars are like something straight off of her "dream home" Pinterest board.
The whole thing is like a dream. A dream come true. It's unbelievable. Is all this all really just for me?
Adjoining the bedroom is a study, with a rosewood writing desk and gilt armchair in front of a window which looks out onto the courtyard below. A selection of beautiful writing papers, fountain pens and an inkwell are arranged on the desk. Besides my sunshine yellow luggage, brought up to the suite by the porter and now sitting next to the writing desk, the only splash of colour in the room is an enormous vase of blood red roses on a small side table.
They smell just like the roses that clung to the front of Bea's cabin in Forest Park. An intoxicating, heady scent that embraces and ensnares.
They feel completely out of place in this room of neutral whites and cool greys.
Who left these here?
"Those will be from Jeremy," Nessy says, coming up behind me once again and answering my silent question as if I'd spoken it out loud. "He's very excited to meet you. Speaking of which, it's up to you to decide your plan for the rest of the day. If you'd like, we can pop into the BYG offices this afternoon and get you acquainted with the team after you've had a chance to freshen up. Or if you'd prefer to spend the next few hours swanning around enjoying the delights of the hotel spa, I am definitely not going to judge, trust me. We can always get started on your debut on Monday."
My debut. It's the first time she's used that word, and it makes me feel equal parts terrified and exhilarated. I want to start as soon as possible. Right now.
"Can I go meet Jeremy this afternoon?" I say. "I kinda want to get started with the whole... the whole debut thing."
"Of course," Nessy says with a mischievous smile. "I knew you'd say that."
*****
It's already mid-afternoon by the time we get to the BYG Records building. It's literally just a few streets away from the hotel - maybe a five to ten minute walk - but Nessy insists on travelling there in the limo.
Not that I'm complaining.
The autumnal chill hanging in the air is cold even by Portland standards, and what I'm wearing doesn't help a whole lot. I didn't pack a big variety of clothing, based on Nessy's advice that most of my wardrobe will be provided by BYG's own styling team, so the only warmish outfit I have is a pair of jeans with black Dr Martens, a merino wool t-shirt and my trusty red hoodie. Although the hoodie looks pretty warm, it's really not, and I wish I'd thought to pack a scarf or a beanie or maybe even some gloves.
I know I look pretty basic, and I wonder if I should be trying harder to make a good first impression. It's hard to switch off the inner critic, the little nagging voice at the back of my mind saying: I am not good enough for this.
Am I meant to be dressing up? Do I look like a slob? I bet a lot of girls given this opportunity would have a whole bunch of stylish options planned out in advance - a chic winter coat with knee high boots or something like that.
No, snap out of it. That's not me, and if BYG Records really want me, they'll need to accept me for who I am. And besides, Nessy didn't seem worried about what I'm wearing, so I'm probably just overthinking things like I always do.
The limo pulls up in front of a large building with an ultra-modern facade - all iridescent mirrored glass panes and shiny metal.
"Usually we'd go around the back, but I wanted you to see this," Nessy says as we step out onto the sidewalk. "Pretty cool, right? The glass is basically like a one way mirror, so people on the street outside can't see in, but when you're inside, you can see out. Really useful for avoiding run-ins with rabid stalkerish fans. Speaking of which..."
She whispers the last part, and subtly gestures towards a cluster of girls sitting on the steps near the entrance.
I recognize them immediately.
The girls taking selfies in front of the Seven Dials monument earlier.
At a glance, I can immediately guess each of the girls' favourite band member, just based on what they're wearing. Each has chosen her own personal idol.
It's something a lot of the younger enfablers do, and it's a sort of unofficial ritual that ensures peace and harmony amongst friend groups. Conveniently, there are five of them - one girl for each one of the guys.
Essentially, each girl in a group of friends will decide which one of the guys is "hers". It's a group decision though, and some bargaining may be required - especially if more than one girl likes the same guy, which typically leads to bitter feuding followed by a compromise of sorts - but the idea is that every girl gets to lay her claim on one member of the band, and make him her 'imaginary boyfriend.' Forever after, she's the one who likes X, and her friend is the one who likes Y, and if her friend decides to start crushing on X, you better believe there will be serious words had.
I know it sounds silly, but it's really just part of the fun. Even with my friends back in Portland, there was a sort of unspoken agreement that Zee was the one who liked Ben; super-serious Grace was drawn to Elliot, and Jamie was a Felix girl through-and-through, although she'd started off liking Alastaire originally. It would have been weird if all of a sudden Jamie had invaded Grace's turf and had the hots for Elliot, or if Zee suddenly had to share Ben with Grace - even if it was all in their heads. As for me, it was always just about the music, and I'd never decided on a favourite, although Jamie always said she saw Lyall as my type.
In this particular group of friends assembled on the BYG Records steps, it's obvious that the thin-faced blonde girl with the Angel Wings backpack is an Alastaire's Angel; the girl with short purple-streaked hair has a skull and bones bandana wrapped around her wrist, marking her as a Ben fan; and the girl with long black hair tied up in a messy bun is wearing a shirt with a photo print of Felix's face on it - clearly bootleg, because Fee doesn't let his face get used on any merch. The last two girls are more difficult to pin down, but if I had to guess, I'd pick the tall, preppy tomboy-looking girl as an Elliot fan, and the cute redhead in an anime tee showing the band as anime characters as having a crush on Lyall.
As we walk up the steps towards the entrance, Nessy fumbles around in her handbag looking for her swipe tag. I overhear the blonde girl saying that they're wasting their time, to which her friend (probably the girl with the Felix t-shirt) responds with a whine, and says "Nooooo. This birthday card took me ages to make. Just give me ten more minutes, ok? I have to give it to him. Pleeeeaaaaasssse Kiki."
Birthday card. A birthday card for one of the Fable boys.
A little stab of guilt hits me as I realise the date. Today is the 25th of October - Felix's birthday.
I knew I was forgetting something today.
Not that it's any of my business though. I promised myself I wouldn't get entangled with the band again. I'm here for me. Not him.
Nessy finally finds the tag and swipes us in. We step into a vast light-filled lobby, buzzing with activity. A guy carrying heavy lighting equipment almost walks straight into us and narrowly misses whacking me in the head with a light stand, while a woman chases after him with a clipboard; a gawky looking guy (probably an intern) is chasing after her with two cups of takeaway coffee, and someone's unsupervised chihuahua is doing literal zoomies from one end of the lobby to the other, nipping playfully at the ankles of any passersby.
"Organised chaos, as usual," Nessy says. "Come along."
She gives a friendly wave to the young man behind reception as we pass by, and we catch an elevator up to the third floor.
We walk down a corridor until we reach a sort of waiting room area with a few high-backed armchairs upholstered in deep midnight blue velvet, in front of a glass coffee table covered in the most recent editions of Rolling Stone magazine.
A bored-looking woman sits behind a reception desk typing something on a laptop, looking up to give me a quick glance before going back to her task.
"Make yourself comfortable," Nessy says. "Jeremy should be here shortly, but it could take a while, he's just finishing up a viewing with Zara. That girl is work."
I don't know what a viewing is, but I understand the only part of the sentence that really matters - Zara Quinn is in the building. She's the reigning Queen Bee of pop, winner of four grammy awards, and rumoured girlfriend of none other than Felix Lockhart. According to the media, at least.
Zee's a major Zara fan and she'd probably freak out if she knew I was in the same building at the same time as her fave female idol and didn't get a selfie with her, but that's not part of my plan.
Avoid the other artists at all costs. I have to focus on the opportunity that's been given to me, and not let some crazy paparazzi celeb drama derail it or take away my focus.
"I've got a three o'clock with wardrobe downstairs," Nessy tells me. "But I'll be back in thirty to take you around to meet your team. See you then."
She gives me a quick wave as she walks away, leaving me standing in the waiting room. I instinctively reach into my hoodie pocket for my phone - the best way to kill some time - and realise that I don't have it.
Damn. That's right, I left it charging on the bedside table at the hotel.
I'm way too nervous to sit down, so instead I study a large painting hanging on the wall in a sumptuous antique gold frame.
It looks like a nineteenth century Pre-Raphaelite painting - intense jewel greens and warm reds and ultramarine blues that seem to glow from within, luminosity achieved in thin layers of prismatic glaze. The painting depicts a young woman in a frilly white dress standing before a garden wall, her back to the viewer. The wall is covered in climbing red roses, and although the woman's face is turned away, it's clear from her posture that she's leaning in to smell a rose, swooning with sensual delight at the fragrance. Her silvery gold blonde hair is braided up with a string of pearls and tiny opals, holding in place a sort of lacy white veil. The hand holding the rose is deathly pale, and there's a subtle glint of silver on her ring finger, but it's obscured by the rose.
In the background, two distant cypress trees stand guard over a lonely gravestone.
I feel strangely drawn to the painting, as if I've seen it before. Without thinking, I reach forward, feeling the need to touch it, to confirm it's just brushstrokes on canvas and not a window into another world.
"Lovely, isn't she?" A voice right behind me startles me out of my thoughts, and I immediately pull back my hand guiltily. "We call her The Pale Lady."
I'm face to face with none other than Jeremy Faull. If he noticed that I was about to commit the unthinkable transgression of brushing my fingers over this surely priceless painting, he doesn't seem to care. He just smiles and stands next to me, gazing at the image and launching into a lecture on its history.
"The artist is actually a distant ancestor of mine, Dante Everett Faull," he says. "Last painting he ever did, actually, according to the art historians. It's probably more valuable than anything or anyone in this building, and that includes Felix Lockhart, whose vocal chords we've got insured for over fifty million pounds."
"It's beautiful," I say, knowing that I'm stating the obvious but at a loss for words.
"Yes, she certainly is," he says, before taking both my hands in his own and kissing the air above them. "Ashling Imogen Shields, it's an absolute pleasure to meet you."
Although he's probably old enough to be my dad, or even my dad's dad, I can see why people call him 'The Silver Fox'.
With his carefully slicked back grey hair, classically handsome features and a penchant for super expensive designer suits, he's basically the Boomer Prince Charming.
"How did you like my plane?" He asks.
Before I can answer, a commotion breaks out somewhere in the building, probably on a lower floor or maybe even outside. I can hear girls shrieking, and someone shouting, but the voice is muffled.
I resist the sudden icy feeling that envelops me at the sound of distant screams.
Don't. Think. About. The. Bus. The screaming. The screaming and the blood and sinking sinking sinking...
I feel the colour drain from my face, and I begin to shiver, clenching my fists as I fight off the rising panic.
Jeremy notices, and gently steers me past the secretary's desk, towards his office.
"Nothing to worry about," he says, closing the door behind us. "They're probably here for Miss Quinn. She's just leaving the building now and those fans of hers... well, sometimes they're like a pack of wild animals, to be frank. Sit down. Let's get acquainted."
He settles in behind his imposing Executive's desk, gesturing towards a chair opposite. I sit down, feeling immediate relief now that I'm not on my feet.
At least this way if I pass out from the panic attack, I'm already halfway to the floor.
"Should I have Miranda bring you a cup of tea?" He says. "It can be quite restorative."
I'm guessing Miranda is the woman at the reception desk outside. I shake my head, trying to pull myself together.
"No thanks, I'm feeling better now," I say, willing it to be true.
"Very well," Jeremy says. "Firstly, I want you to know that-"
But before he can finish the sentence, there's a loud crash like a door slamming nearby and some shouting, a flurry of noise moving up the corridor towards Jeremy's office.
I freeze in place, clasping the arms of the chair tightly with the approaching ruckus at my back. Jeremy is looking expectantly past me, over my shoulder, in the direction of the uproar.
A woman, probably Miranda, shouts something like "but he's with another artist!", and I hear the door fling open behind me. Miranda speaks in a breathless jumble behind me.
"I'm so sorry Mr. Faull, I couldn't stop them, they just-"
"You booked the Harry Gibbons show," I hear a familiar voice say, just a few feet behind me. "I thought we made it perfectly clear Jeremy, we won't-"
OH. MY. GOD.
NO.
As if in slow motion, ten feet underwater, I force myself to turn around in my chair.
IT'S HIM. OH MY GOD IT'S HIM.
His eyes widen in surprise, and he stands still as a statue, as shocked as I am.
I'm utterly, hopelessly lost for words, so I blurt out the only thing that comes to mind.
"Happy birthday, Felix."