While most of the male attendees had opted for traditional black tuxes, and the women by and large played it safe with classic gowns, those who had chosen to be more creative with the dress code had truly gone for it. There were sequins and feathers and bustles and bodices to spare, in fact, I’d never seen such a vast array of bold fashion choices, and I’d been on a Friday night out in Newcastle more than once. I watched as one person strolled across the crystallized floor wearing what looked like a light-up igloo for a skirt with three minions scurrying along behind to make sure no harm came to the wearer or, more likely, the dress.

In the far corner, on an elevated platform that looked to have been carved out of ice, a string quartet played a Britney cover, and right in the centre of the room was a huge circular stage, currently hidden from view and draped with curtains made up of strings and strings of crystal beads. The stage where Juliette was supposed to perform. The air smelled like a mixture of Christmas trees and the nicest candle I had never owned, and I realized as I wandered aimlessly through the growing crowds of guests, I was smiling.

‘Isn’t it marvellous?’

I turned to see a beautiful older woman with jet-black hair fashioned into old Hollywood curls standing beside me. Her deep wine-coloured velvet gown looked so soft, I had to stop myself from reaching out to stroke it.

‘It really is,’ I replied with a polite smile, a flutter of nerves in my stomach.

‘They’ve really outdone themselves this year,’ she nodded towards a twenty-foot bar at the far end of the room, carved out of a solid block of ice. ‘I think this might be David’s best work yet.’

‘Oh, yeah, David’s killing it,’ I agreed with absolutely no idea who David might be. ‘I love your dress, it’s very original.’

Another trick I learned from attending one too many conferences. When in doubt, compliment people.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she gushed as she gathered a handful of the heavy red fabric. It was tightly bound around her chest with strips of black leather before falling, tent-like, all the way to the floor where it gathered in an enormous pool. It looked as though she’d taken my nan’s living room curtains, cut a slit in the top for her head, then fastened it to her top half with electrical tape and hoped for the best with the bottom. ‘Stephen says it’s not really a gown but a deconstructed concept of a gown. Perhaps you saw it at the shows in Paris in the spring? It was originally a pale pink, but I called him and said, Stephen, I must have it for the Crystal Ball but you must change the colour. Can you imagine me? In pink? I don’t know what he was thinking.’

‘Classic Stephen,’ I replied with an eye-roll, and the woman rewarded me with a wink.