The rest of my very awkward conversation with Jeremy consists of him "getting to know the real Ashling Shields... the girl behind the shield," as he puts it. He asks question after question, nodding his head approvingly after every answer and never once looking away, piercing me to the spot with those pale grey eyes, keen as a hawk fixed on its prey.
To my relief he steers clear of asking anything too personal about my past - avoiding questions about my friends and family, or even my involvement with Fable - and instead sticks to asking about my dreams for the future, my likes and dislikes, and my opinions on general topics like music and movies and art.
Once he's satisfied that he's gotten to know "the real me" (whatever that means), he says that my trial period starts on Monday. I'll have the weekend free to go touring the sights of London chaperoned by Nessy, who am I to consider my new manager, guardian, tour guide, confidant and talent handler, all rolled into one. I'm to "loosen up" (his words) and enjoy my two days off, because once the real work starts, it'll be non-stop, and he expects me to hit the ground running.
At three o'clock Nessy arrives to take me around the building to meet the rest of the team, and Jeremy lets me go, but not before bowing and giving me a parting kiss on my hand - a strange, old-fashioned gesture. The cold touch of his lips burns like ice against my knuckles long after, as Nessy introduces me to an endless procession of publicists and marketing people, booking agents, promoters, studio techs, voice coaches, image coaches and stylists.
By four o'clock the hunger gnawing at my stomach is a persistent ache, and my head is spinning from the bombardment of unfamiliar names and faces.
I'm meant to be meeting the boys down at reception now, but somehow I just don't feel ready. They'll want to know why I never called them after they left, why I went so quiet - and I need more time to think about how I'm going to explain that. Plus, I need to think about how I'm going to set some boundaries, so that things don't go right back to the way they were in Portland. I need some time alone with my thoughts before I see them again.
And so when Nessy suggests that we head over to the wardrobe department to get my measurements and preliminary reference photographs for the tailors taken, I acquiesce, asking her to text the guys and tell them that I can't meet up with them in the lobby anymore, and I'll try to see them tomorrow or Sunday.
I'd tell them myself, but I conveniently left my phone charging on the bedside table in the hotel room.
Nessy seems surprised by the request but does as I ask, before taking me into a large, airy light-filled studio on the second floor to meet the "glam squad", as she calls them. The studio is blindingly bright - three walls and the floor are stark, snow white, and one wall is basically a giant window of floor-to-ceiling glass, with a magnificent view out over London. After some introductions, Nessy leaves me to go "put out a fire", frowning down at her phone screen.
I'm taken to a black velvet-curtained dressing room, where a tall and strikingly-beautiful woman dressed in a breezy mauve kaftan introduces herself as Danica, before asking me to strip down to my underwear so she can take my measurements.
Thank god I wore a decent bra and briefs today - white lace panties and a matching bralette.
As I undress she types something into an iPad.
I wonder if she'll remark on the thin raised white crescent moon scarring the skin between my collarbone and my right breast. The scar I got that day - a painful reminder of Mia, and Evan, and everyone else who perished while I walked away, broken but alive.
While she measures me, I take my own measure of her.
If I had to guess, I'd say that Danica (or 'Dani', as she asks me to call her), is in her mid to late thirties. Streaks of barely-there silver thread through her strawberry blonde hair, waves of molten copper tied in a lovely loose plait that reaches down almost to her waist. A riot of freckles is sprinkled across her nose and cheeks like a galaxy of tiny brown stars.
She practically oozes effortless cool - romantic boho chic hippy-luxe style with a dash of wicca.
On her left wrist, a small azure blue Star of David is tattooed over (or maybe, juxtaposed into) an emerald green pentagram, forming an entirely new shape - a ten-pointed star in a blue-ish green circle. And as if to complement the colour of the tattoo and her blue-ish green eyes, around her neck she wears a turquoise pendant on a rose-gold chain, the stone encompassed within the delicate shape of an eye.
It takes me a moment to recognize the motif.
The evil eye. She's wearing an ancient symbol of protection.
Grace's mom once had a total meltdown outside the school gates when she saw Zee wearing a bracelet made up of a string of dark blue evil eye glass beads. She threatened to march Zee up to the principal's office unless she took it off, despite Zee's protestations that it was a gift from her beloved grandmother, her yia-yia, who had bought it for her during her most recent pilgrimage to their ancestral home in Athens. Mrs. Beaumont looked like she'd seen the devil, her face pale and pinched and her thin mouth set into a disapproving scowl even after the bracelet was stowed safely away out of sight in Zee's backpack.
The way she reacted, you'd think Zee was going into school wearing a suicide vest, rather than an innocent piece of jewellery.
Grace's mom really is something else. She takes the whole bigoted evangelical bible-basher stereotype to the next level. I wonder what she'd make of this tattooed, evil-eye-talisman-wearing Wiccan Jew if they were to meet. Not that it'll ever happen though.
Portland already feels like it's a million miles away, a whole other world, and in a way, it really is.
"Almost finished," Dani says, breaking me out of my thoughts.
As she wraps the measuring tape around my bust, just inches away from the scar, her eyes flicker over to the marred skin for just a moment, before she looks away and enters something into her iPad.
"All done," she says cheerfully. "You get your clothes back on and meet me outside for your security clearance photos."
She parts thick black velvet curtains and disappears outside, while I get dressed back into my jeans, Dr Martens, t-shirt and oversized red hoodie.
Back in the studio, Dani ushers me towards the corner of the room, where three large studio lights are arranged around a single grey chair in front of a white backdrop, bathing the space in soft, diffused light. I sit in the chair and turn my face this way and that while she snaps away, explaining these images will help her to put together a wardrobe color palette for me, and they'll also be sent along to the hair and makeup teams prior to my meeting them.
By the time we're finished, it's starting to get dark outside. The sun streaming in through the big floor to ceiling windows changes from sunset coral to gold before slipping away, and I can see the first faint glimmers of stars in the sky, shining above the black silhouette of London's skyline.
Out of habit, I reach into my hoodie pocket to check the time in one my phone.
It's in the hotel room. Damn.
Right on cue, Nessy arrives and announces that it's past six pm, and she's come to walk me back to the hotel. She tells me all about the "fire" she had to put out while I was meeting with Dani - something about a "spoiled brat" starlet, whose name she can't say, having an epic freakout because one of her new backup dancers is too pretty - but I'm only half-listening. The gnawing hunger and hours of talking, meeting people, having to fight my natural shyness through sheer willpower alone... it's all built up into a nasty headache. All I can focus on is thoughts of getting something amazingly delicious off the room service menu and slipping into a hot bubble bath, and maybe even a visit to the hotel spa.
I have the whole evening at the hotel all to myself. Bliss.
We step into the lobby, and my dreams of a quiet night alone in the hotel room are shattered in an instant.
"Finally!" Ben says, jumping up out of his chair.
Next to him, Lyall stretches and yawns, and Alastaire looks up from his phone screen, muttering something that sounds like "about time." Felix is leaning against the reception desk, a quick, almost imperceptible look of concern playing across his handsome face as he spots me.
While we're still out of earshot, I whisper to Nessy. "I thought you told them to leave," I say.
"I did," she says. "A whole two hours ago, no less. But you should know by now, there's no telling this lot what to do."
"Ready, Ash?" Felix asks. "There's a lot we need to talk about."
I know I should just refuse to hang with them tonight. I should tell them they shouldn't have bothered waiting around. I should set some boundaries right now, stand my ground, give myself more time to think about how I'm going to handle things. But the worried expression Felix is trying so hard to hide, and Lyall's sweet smile and puppy dog eyes...
"It's ok Nessy," I sigh, before addressing the boys. "Let's do this."
So much for a peaceful night in.
Dammit.