"This way," Todd says, walking down the corridor at a fast pace.

As I follow the security guard past several sets of frosted glass doors, I remember Beth boasting that her dad got her a suite.

If she was telling the truth, it means she and the other Bs are probably somewhere nearby on the same level of the arena.

I might even run into them.

Oh hell no.

Although even if that were to happen, it’s no big deal. Nothing could ruin my good mood. This is shaping up to be officially the most amazeballs night EVER, and it’s only going to get better. I still can't believe I'm going to meet the rest of the band after the show.

I'm not too nervous about meeting Lyall or Elliot, because everyone knows that Lyall's a total sweetie and Elliot's super nice. Ben has a bit of a "hothead" image going on but he's really fun, and Alastair is... Alastaire.

I have no clue what I'm going to say to them.

Todd finally stops in front of a brightly lit room which has its massive double doors flung open.

There's a girl in her late teens or early twenties standing in the doorway, crossing off something on a clipboard while she sips from a huge Starbucks cup.

Her dark wavy hair is cut into an elegant bob just above her shoulders. She's wearing a chic black playsuit and stilettos, and something about her screams money.

In fact, she looks like she could have walked straight off a Chanel or Dior catwalk.

With Kate Moss cheekbones, pale skin, long dark eyelashes and cherry red lips, she's easily the most beautiful girl I've ever seen in real life.

I can just see into the suite behind her – a wide brightly lit oval with a table in the centre.

"Another offering?" she asks Todd without even looking up from the clipboard.

"Yeah. Take care of this one," Todd says, before turning on his heel and walking away down the corridor.

The girl glances at me and rolls her eyes.

"Wow, another blonde," she says in a smooth, bored British accent, her eyes lingering on my guitar case and school bag. "Congratulations. You're the fourth one Alastaire's pulled out of the crowd tonight."

"You're wrong–" I start speaking but she cuts me off.

"No, I'm not wrong. I'm sorry to have to break it to you sweetheart. You see those girls over there?" She gestures to three blondes sitting in plush seats in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.

"It's the same thing at every single concert. Alastaire likes to make himself a little harem for his... amusement... after the show. That's how he does things. If you're not happy with sharing him, feel free to leave."

"That's not what I meant," I say. "What I'm trying to say is... I'm not here for... for the harem thing. Alastaire didn't send me. It was Felix."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

For just a moment, the girl's eyes widen, and she stares at me intently.

"Really?" She asks, now studying me more closely. "What's your name?"

"Ashling," I answer.

"Ashling what?" she asks.

"Ashling Shields," I reply. Why is she quizzing me like this?

"And you live around here? You're from Portland?" she asks, flicking her eyes around my outfit, like she's looking for a flaw or a clue.

"Um yeah..." I answer. "Why?"

"This is your first Fable concert?" she asks, ignoring my question.

"Yes."

"Let me see your driver's license," she says.

"I don't have one. I just turned sixteen and things have been sort of–," I reply.

"Sure." She cuts me off again, staring straight into my eyes like she's trying to figure out whether or not I'm lying.

Finally she shakes her head and tucks the clipboard under her arm.

"Try to keep up," she says, stilettos clicking as she heads towards the table at the centre of the room.

It's covered in hors d'oeuvres on silver platters. Everything is recognizably food, but I have no clue exactly what kind of food it is.

There's some kind of translucent red pearls (caviar?) sprinkled over mini crepes with a yellowish foam on top.

Rows of rolled-up green and purple stuff with crystallized meat, maybe prosciutto or bacon, wrapped around it.

Little silver forks stuck into slimy orange and white globs, which I suspect are raw scallops, but I'm not sure – I've only ever eaten them cooked.

With two gourmet chefs for parents, I've always thought I knew quite a lot about haute cuisine. More than the average person anyway. But everything on this table is just pretentious beyond words.

Strangest of all, in the centre of the table there's a huge Christmas Pudding, with custard oozing down the sides, topped off with a sprig of holly.

I'm about to ask the girl why there's Christmas food on the table in June, but she's already turned away and is pointing to a corridor on the far side of the room.

"The ladies' room is down that way, and the bar's to your right." She nods her head in the direction of a line of bar stools in front of a chrome counter, with a large sink and a built in mini-fridge. On a rack above the counter, there's a rainbow of bottles – just about every type of spirits imaginable.

"As you can see, there's no barman," she says. "But don't let that stop you. Glasses are in the cupboard on the left."

I wonder whether or not she actually listened when I told her my age. Maybe the rules are different in the UK.

We walk around the perimeter of the room, until we reach a row of plush leather seats facing the window. The three girls she pointed at before are taking up the seats in the middle.

As we pass them, I can see they're all Alastaire's Angels – each wears a small pair of silver angel wings on a chain around their neck.

Fable, like most bands, has its own official fan club, plus hundreds of smaller, less official ones – but Alastaire holds the distinction of being the only member with own his personal group run entirely by fans.

The most elite fans will fork out up to five hundred dollars for the official winged necklace, a sign of their devotion to Alastaire (and their excellent parental-wallet-manipulation skills).

Two of the angels are wearing very revealing little white dresses, and the third is wearing a tiny mini skirt and a gold-sequined top.

She must be wearing an amazing push-up bra, because her cleavage is almost touching her chin.

I can already see why Alastaire spotted them in the crowd – the sheer amount of skin on display makes these girls stand out like porn stars at a church fete.

My guide stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling window.

"You girls are lucky," she says. "You've got the best seats in the house."

She's right – the view of the arena is spectacular.

Far down below, a massive crowd mills around on the dark, shadowy floor.

Seeing that many noisy people crowded together sends a momentary trickle of panic down my spine, before I shake it off.

It's ok. I'm not trapped. I'm far away from the crowd. I can do this.

The longer I stare down into the swarm of bodies, the more beautiful it starts to look.

Everyone's taking photos, phones held up high. The brightly lit screens of a hundred thousand phones flicker in the darkness like a starry sea.

It's sort of peaceful.

"This is where I leave you," the dark haired girl says. "I've got some errands to run."

She turns away and starts walking, then stops and looks over her shoulder at me.

"I'm Kitty, by the way."