‘Hattie just rang it in, darlin’. Ling Ling went straight from the Embassy to dinner. We don’t know where she’s eating but we do know she has tickets to a fashion show. The recordings from the Embassy will still be on her, all stored on the Dictaphone. Jake, Hattie and Robin are all on Peng. She’s gone to a casino, which is going to be a security nightmare.’

I listened to what she was saying. ‘So that means . . .’

‘You have Cameron. She’s meeting you there. The show starts in an hour and straight after that is the after-party.’

I checked my watch. ‘The show starts at nine p.m.? Why so late?’

‘Nine p.m. is late?’

‘I . . . OK. Well, not that late.’ I needed to remember I was a cool secret agent. Not a knackered mother whose plan to be in bed by 10 p.m. was flying out the window along with my street cred. ‘Where is it?’

‘East London.’

‘Great.’

I would be lucky to be in bed by the early hours.

I had forgotten the other world out there. The one where people started partying late and came home as daylight was creeping in. I had been a part of that world once. And now I needed to make a cameo role in it again.

‘You need to leave in ten minutes. But we need to do something about your outfit.’

I looked down at what I was wearing. A long-sleeved black top and grey jeans.

‘What’s wrong with this?’ As I motioned downwards I noticed the top had orange dust from Gigi’s Organix carrot sticks stained down the front and that the ends of my right sleeve were a little covered in dried snot. For some reason Gigi’s streaming nose only ever seemed to happen whenever there was no tissue in the immediate vicinity.

Pixie wrinkled her nostrils. ‘You’re going to a top designer’s latest fashion show. You need to look like you belong there.’

The shops would now be closed and I couldn’t waste time going back home. I thought for a minute.

‘I’ve got a red lipstick in the bathroom. Gym kit in the locker room. I could go for a kind of Brit Pop 90s trendy look?’

Pixie shook her head. ‘I’ve got a much better idea.’

Half an hour later I was staring at my reflection.

I was wearing a Platform-issue black catsuit. It was designed to ensure no trace of our DNA could be left behind on break-in jobs. It was not designed to be accessorised with red lipstick, backbrushed hair, my Adidas trainers and Pixie’s large mirrored sunglasses. Yet here I was. Pixie came up to me holding a stone-washed denim bumbag. I recognised it as belonging to Norm. A Rat in his fifties who, with his anorak and plastic glasses, was not known for his on-trend fashion sense.