‘Not entirely surprising given your most recent Spotify Wrapped list,’ Sarah replied, tossing the jumper onto the settee and insulting my musical taste in one fell swoop. ‘The Crystal Ball is the most exclusive, most opulent event of the social calendar. There are only 1,000 tickets issued each year, and attendees are hand-picked and screened by the Crystal Committee before they are invited to buy a ticket.’

I screwed up my face in confusion. ‘You have to wait to get invited and you still have to pay for the ticket?’

Sarah nodded. ‘$50,000 a piece.’

‘Bloody hell, I hope the goodie bag is decent,’ I whistled. ‘Are there really 1,000 people prepared to pay that much to attend a party?’

‘Last year, more than 65,000 people applied for tickets.’

‘That’s too many people with too much money,’ I replied as Sarah smiled. ‘Who are they?’

‘Celebrities, politicians, businessmen, and other obscenely rich or powerful people. The Crystal Ball isn’t just a party, it’s The Party. To be invited is to be anointed.’ She met my eyes with a warning look. ‘Everything from this moment on should be considered confidential. You cannot tell anyone who you’re working for, where you’re going, or what you’re doing. Not friends, not family, not anyone. Got it?’

‘It is got,’ I replied, smothering my increasing giddiness for the sake of professionalism. Celebrities! Balls! Secret missions! It sounded just close enough to being a spy to still be glamorous and mysterious but without the trickier gambling and murder parts! ‘Have you been before or is this your first time? And will I be expected to dress up because I thought I’d packed pretty well, but I’m not sure I have anything ball-worthy in my case.’

‘Firstly, I won’t be going to the ball, I’m tied up with another issue right now,’ Sarah answered. A shadow of something passed over her face, but my super assistant Spidey-senses tingled and I knew not to ask for more details unless she offered more details. ‘And secondly, neither will you. You’ll be backstage with Juliette, who is performing then leaving. This is a job, not a jolly, please don’t forget that.’

‘Oh, of course, absolutely, one hundred percent. I’m not really a ball person anyway, not that keen on crowds or big parties. Not that I’ve ever been to a ball, of course …’

‘What size jeans do you wear?’ she said loudly.

‘A twelve-ish,’ I replied, hoping it was still true. It had been a long time since I’d shopped for jeans and that was very much a conscious choice.

She opened a built-in cupboard and pulled out a stack of jet-black designer jeans, all with the price tags still attached, and peeled three pairs from the bottom of the pile. ‘Take these,’ she said, stashing the others back where she’d found them. ‘They’re stretchy, they should fit.’