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“Are you sure they’re going to let us in?” Cassie asks for the tenth time, as she and Amelia emerge from Charing Cross station.

Amelia smiles knowingly and drags her up the Strand, toward the Savoy hotel.

“Now, look as if you belong here,” says Amelia, as they walk toward a top-hatted doorman helping a woman out of a white Rolls-Royce.

Cassie pats down her poodle perm and pushes her shoulders back, but every part of her feels like a fan, and every doorman of every hotel in London must be able to spot one. It’s their job, when they have as many high-profile guests as they do. But the girls somehow manage to slip past as the doorman is busy unloading luggage from the trunk, only for Cassie to risk giving herself away when she stops, stock-still, in awe of the opulence inside.

Ornate pillars hold up a double-height ceiling hung with ten-foot-wide chandeliers that send shadows dancing across the polished checkered floor. Sumptuous green velour armchairs sit in front of dark mahogany paneling. Even the guests seem to move around as if they’re in a 1950s movie.

“Close your mouth,” laughs Amelia, as she confidently makes her way toward the lift.

By the time they arrive at the Royal Suite on the fifth floor, the party is in full swing. Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know” is blaring from the boombox, and trendy people dressed in mohair knits and baggy pinstripe suits are making the room look effortlessly cool. Cassie pulls at her shocking-pink shirt self-consciously and wishes she’d worn something edgier.

“Do you want a drink?” asks Amelia, with a nod toward the row of boxed wine taking up the entire length of the oversized dining table.

Cassie nods absently, feeling like she’s outside of herself, looking in. This must be a mistake, a wind-up, because this doesn’t happen to normal people—to people like her.

Her attention is pulled back into sharp focus when she hears the indomitable voice of Michael, Secret Oktober’s drummer, booming from across the room. He’s always the most vocal of the group, the first to answer an interviewer’s question, the one seemingly without a filter.

It had got them into trouble more than once, when he’d questioned the need for a monarchy right before a concert for the Prince’s Trust and commented that the borders between San Francisco and Britain needed to be closed if we wanted to stop the spread of AIDS in our country.

Luke and Ben had jokingly passed it off as a need for attention from a natural extrovert who had inadvertently been forced to hide behind a drum kit, saying that being in the dark, at the back of the stage, didn’t come easily to someone who was clearly born to be a frontman. “Hence he feels the need to be seen and heard when he’s off -stage,” Ben was quoted in The Sun the next day, by way of apology.

“Did we just smash Wembley, or did we just smash Wembley?” yells Michael now, balancing precariously with one foot on the back of the three-piece suite and the other flailing for traction on the bookcase. “Does anyone have Duran Duran’s number so I can tell them how it’s done?”

The room concurs with whoops and cheers, but the flunkies will no doubt be brown-nosing Simon Le Bon this time next week.

Michael grins inanely as he shakes a magnum of champagne. “So, who’s with me? Who wants to get this party started?”

People instinctively back away from him, knowing what’s coming, but with little space to fill, there’s nothing they can do to avoid the foam spray. A girl in a tight flesh-colored vest rushes forward and holds a glass up into the air, as if she’s hoping to catch some of the bubbles. But all it serves to do is soak her top right through, exposing her braless breasts, as she screams in faux surprise.

“Micky Delaney, I’ll get you for that,” she shrieks, looking up at him.

“Not if I get you first,” he says, jumping down and planting a kiss on her champagne-soaked lips.

“Who’s that ?” Cassie asks, somewhat indignantly. Michael may well be her least favorite member of the band, but she still doesn’t want him to have a girlfriend.

“That’s Kimberley Banks,” says Amelia bitterly. “A model, supposedly. She seems to think they’re seeing each other, but he says it’s just a casual hookup whenever they’re in the same room.”

“Oh, I didn’t know,” says Cassie dejectedly, the girl’s ample assets making her feel immediately inferior. “So is Ben with someone too?”

Amelia laughs. “There’s no shortage, as you can imagine, but he’s a little more selective than Michael—though that’s not saying much.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” wheezes Cassie when she sees Ben coming out of an adjoining room with his arm around a girl who looks like she’s just stepped out of the pages of Elle magazine. With her glossy brown hair and legs that go up to her armpits, his taste in girls is obvious, and Cassie shrinks into herself as if to disguise the fact that she is the polar opposite.

“Hi, Ben, can I introduce you to my friend Bella?” purrs Kimberley, putting a territorial hand on his chest, much to the chagrin of the girl standing beside him. “She works with me and is a huge fan.”

Bella giggles inanely as Ben takes hold of her hand and brings it slowly to his lips. “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure,” he says, charm dripping off every syllable.

“You were amazing tonight,” she pouts, her eyes drinking in every part of him. “You had the crowd in the palm of your hand. I saw you in Birmingham last year and thought it was the best gig I’d ever seen, but tonight…?” She shakes her head from side to side and blows her cheeks out. “Tonight, you knocked it out the park.”

Cassie is unable to tear herself away from the pantomime playing out in front of her. If nothing else, the sycophantic display of cheap admiration teaches her how not to be, if she were ever to have a proper conversation with him. The fawning and stroking of both his body and his ego is so uncomfortable to watch that she’s embarrassed for him—and even more embarrassed for the girl, who wouldn’t give him the time of day if he were stacking shelves in the local supermarket.

“Well, thanks,” he says.

“My friend’s having a party on the other side of town,” she continues, looking at him hopefully. “If you wanted to skip here?”

Ben considers the proposition and Cassie wills him to say no, though what purpose that will serve she doesn’t know. She’s dreamed of this moment and was convinced that if it were ever to happen, it would be the best night of her life. Except, now that she’s here, it somehow feels like it would be less painful to be at home, in blissful ignorance, than to remain a wallflower who will never be noticed.

“I need another drink,” she says, pressing the tap on the side of the wine box that is thankfully within reach.

“Hey, Curly, you’re looking a lot better than when I last saw you.”

Cassie almost drops her glass when she turns to find Ben standing there, his face as close as can be, breathing in the very same air as her. Her heart races, her body unable to withstand the surreality of what is happening.

Say something , she says to herself, but her throat constricts and her jaw locks.

Staring for far longer than is polite, she ticks off the checklist in her head that proves it’s really him: the smooth skin that colors all too easily, the cheekbones that her mother says could slice ham, the cleft in his chin that his bandmates tease him about because they say it looks like a bum. That unmistakable smile.

Even if she could talk, she doesn’t know what she could possibly say. This is a fantasy she’s daydreamed about for so long. She’d predicted what Ben would say and she’d planned the perfect answer that would make him fall instantly in love with her. Except now, when he’s right here in front of her—the pair of them face to face—her mind is blank of every feasible response.

“It was you I saw backstage on a stretcher, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know if that’s something I should admit to,” she says eventually.

“Well, considering we hadn’t even started our set, you certainly don’t get any points for staying power.”

“If you had any idea what it’s like to have all your internal organs crushed, I’m sure you’d find your way to awarding me at least three.”

His eyes crinkle with amusement. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

It’s an open-ended statement that Cassie doesn’t know what to do with. Should she pretend that a Secret Oktober concert is the last place you’d expect to find her; that she’s only here by default? Or does she divulge her eighteen-month obsession with him that has affected not only her studies, but her relationship with her family, too?

“That’s because this isn’t really my scene,” she says, making the decision fairly quickly.

“Oh…?” he replies, raising his eyebrows. “And what is?”

“I’m more of a Duranie,” she continues, referencing their arch-rivals.

“You’re funny. I like that,” he says, as the edges of his mouth turn up. “I’m Ben, by the way.”

He lingers awkwardly and Cassie has to stop herself from dissolving into a fit of hysteria. She hopes he doesn’t kiss her hand—not only because it’s sweaty, but because the charm offensive is somewhat lost now she’s seen him do it to every other girl in the room.

As if able to read her mind, Ben leans in and gives her a kiss on the cheek. “Well, it’s nice to meet you properly,” he says. “When you’re not unconscious.”

A moment later and he’s gone, flashing a smile as he looks back, though Cassie’s unsure if it’s at her or the legions of impossibly good-looking girls she’s surrounded by. She pulls herself up short, hating the ever-present insecurity about how she looks and the belief that she’d never be deserving of his attention.

“You’re as beautiful as the next girl,” her mum would say whenever her self-esteem needed bolstering. “Even more so, because you’re as beautiful on the inside as you are out.”

But no matter how many times Cassie had heard it, she still couldn’t convince herself to believe it, because what biased mother wouldn’t say that to their child?

Amelia gives her a nudge, as if to alert her to how close Ben had been. But Cassie doesn’t need telling; she could feel his arm as it brushed hers, smell the sweat he’d worked up onstage, hear the breath between the words she’s already convinced she imagined.

But that’s not what Amelia’s trying to tell her. “They haven’t come up for air in over five minutes,” she says bitterly, as Michael’s hand disappears up Kimberley’s skirt.

“Babe, I’ve really got to go,” squeaks the scantily dressed model as she makes a half-hearted attempt to get up from the sofa. “I’ve got work super early in the morning.”

“But you can’t,” says Michael, pulling her back to him.

Kimberley giggles and playfully fights him off. “Call me when you get back from Manchester.”

As she walks out, she gives Cassie and Amelia a cursory glance up and down as if assessing the threat level she’s leaving behind.

“Hey,” says Luke, the band’s keyboard player, as he sidles up beside Cassie. “You OK?”

In any other universe, she’d be impossibly excited to have one of her idols single her out for attention, but she’s holding out for Ben. She knows she’s imagining it, but it seems that every time she looks to him, he’s throwing a glance her way, as if checking she’s still there. She wants to put it to the test by moving, to see if his eyes follow her, but she’s scared that the delusional bubble that she’s placed herself in—is happy to stay in for the rest of her life—will be unceremoniously popped by the truth.

“Fancy one of these?” says Luke, holding out a tiny white pill.

Cassie masks her shock. “Erm, actually, I was about to get going…”

“Well, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere soon,” he says, looking to the sofa, where Michael is gyrating against the girl lying underneath him.

“Oh my god,” gasps Cassie, clamping a hand to her mouth, as a familiar flash of peroxide moves in time to Michael’s thrusting hips. “Is that… is that Amelia ?”

Luke looks at Cassie with a confused expression as Michael’s hand disappears into Amelia’s bra, exposing her breast. “Are you shocked by how quickly he moves on, or the fact that it’s your friend underneath him?” he asks.

There’s a part of Cassie that doesn’t want to be associated with Amelia’s sleazy behavior, but she can’t deny that if it were Ben on top of her , she’d no doubt find a way to put her moral high ground aside.

“But he’s got a girlfriend…” says Cassie, as if that were the only reason Amelia shouldn’t be doing it.

Luke laughs. “Welcome to the world of Michael Delaney! This is what he does, but why she thinks so little of herself that she goes running every time he clicks his fingers, I don’t know.”

Cassie swallows the blatant disrespect for her friend, but it leaves a bitter taste and she suddenly feels strangely vulnerable, surrounded by people she’d convinced herself she knew well, yet doesn’t really know at all.

“Relax,” says Luke, as if reading her mind. “It’s all par for the course.”

She looks at him, desperately trying not to read too much into the implication.

“If you have one of these, it’ll take your mind off it,” he urges.

Ben catches her eye from across the room and she’s sure he gives her a nod as he pops a tablet in his mouth.

“You’ll have the best night of your life,” Luke goes on, but she doesn’t need any more encouragement; she wants to be in the same sphere as Ben, to experience the night, whatever it may bring, together.

It takes longer than she expected, but once the feeling starts, it wraps itself around her like a quilt. Everything is warm, everything is comfortable; the familiarity of everyone around her belying the fact they’ve only just met.

She wants to talk to them all, tell them her innermost thoughts, as she draws them near, desperate to feel their skin with her fingertips. Someone brushes past her with a silk shirt and she follows them across the room, fawning at the material, marveling at how it feels like liquid gold to the touch.

Twirling around, looking up at the ceiling, she wants this feeling of unadulterated freedom to last forever. With no one to answer to and no rules to abide by, she imagines that this is what it must feel like to be Nicole. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be her big sister right now. Independent, liberated, in charge of her own destiny…

She’s still spinning, with a smile on her face, when a hand clamps down on her wrist. “Whoa, you’re making me dizzy just looking at you,” comes a man’s laughing voice.

She stops, transfixed, thinking to herself how much he looks like Ben Edwards. She goes to tell him that, but the need to hug him is even more consuming. “You feel really good,” she says, as she draws him into her, nuzzling her face into his neck, smelling him. “Dance with me.”

He sways back and forth with her in his arms. “So, are you going to tell me your real name?” he says. “Or am I going to have to call you Curly forever?”

The suggestion that they might know each other for that long sends a frisson of anticipation along Cassie’s heightened nerve endings.

“I think you might just have to call me Curly forever,” she says, giggling, as Ben is pulled away from her by a faceless body.

“God, that’s some good stuff!” says Michael as he goes for a second line of cocaine laid out on the glass tabletop.

Amelia laughs as she adjusts her top and takes the rolled-up twenty-pound note off him when he’s finished. Cassie looks on in awe.

“Well, hey there, Charlene,” says Michael, as if seeing her for the first time. “When did they let you out of Ramsey Street?”

Cassie looks at him perplexed, unable to see any resemblance between her and Kylie Minogue’s character in Neighbors , but once it’s been sitting with her for a few seconds, she puffs her chest out, bolstered by the compliment.

“You gonna join in?” he asks. She hopes he’s referring to the drugs, as even in her utopian state she doesn’t fancy sharing him with Amelia. Though she wouldn’t bet that she couldn’t be persuaded.

Amelia passes the note and Cassie hesitates before shaking her head. She doesn’t want anything that will take away this feeling of utter delirium. There’s no paranoia, no inhibitions, just a sense of wanting to love everyone around her—even Michael. He pats the sofa cushion beside him and Cassie sits down, as Amelia prickles with wary apprehension. Unperturbed, Michael moves closer so that their legs are touching, his breath hot on Cassie’s bare shoulder.

“I’m horny as hell,” he whispers in her ear, before swiping a finger across the glass tabletop, collecting the remnants of white powder that Amelia left behind. He rubs it on his gums and, without warning, grabs the back of Cassie’s head, pulling her to him. His lips are just inches away from hers, his eyes wordlessly inviting her to open her mouth to share what’s in his.

“Hey!” a voice calls out.

The single word is said with such conviction that Michael instantly releases his grip and looks up to see who would have the audacity to interrupt. When he sees Ben standing there, his mouth spreads into a satanic grin.

“Ah, sorry, mate,” he says. “I’ve already called first dibs on her.”

Ben’s jaw twitches, as if he has a thousand words fighting to get out.

“You can have her instead, though,” Michael says unkindly, offering Amelia as if she’s discarded goods.

“Let’s go,” says Ben, authoritatively staking his claim as he takes Cassie by the hand and pulls her up.

“Where to?” she giggles, loving how loved she feels right in this moment.

“Somewhere we can be alone,” he says, half dragging her across the suite and into another room.

With the drugs embedded deep within her nervous system, all the red flags that Cassie would usually rely on to forewarn her are stifled by her inherent need to see the good in everyone.

And as Ben locks the door behind him, she smiles, wondering what could possibly go wrong.