Silversong (The Fable Series, Book 3)

Chapter 11

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.