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.’
‘I have got black trousers with me, I think they’ll be OK,’ I said, running a hand over my hips, concerned that ‘should’ wasn’t enough of a reassurance. There was nothing worse than jeans that didn’t fit, for your comfort levels or self-esteem.
‘I’m sure they are but Juliette likes things done a certain way.’ Sarah held the jeans just out of reach and pursed her lips. ‘How do I put this? If you aren’t comfortable realizing someone else’s vision as to how things should be done, you might not be the right person for this job and it’s better we find that out now.’
‘Lots of jobs expect you to wear a uniform,’ I replied, accepting the jeans with a gracious smile. ‘I understand completely.’
‘Good.’ She turned her appraising eye on my appearance, working her way up from the tips of my black leather heels to the top of my braided blonde head. ‘Your hair is fine, she prefers it pulled back rather than loose, and it’s no perfume and no jewellery, so you’ll have to take off your rings.’
I rubbed my thumb against the back of my engagement ring with reticence. Taking it off felt strange at the best of times; taking it off when we were in the middle of an argument felt dangerously like a dare.
‘While we’re being honest about things,’ I said, sliding both rings off my fingers and feeling so strangely naked as I slipped them into my pocket. ‘I should probably mention I haven’t assisted a celebrity before. My previous experience was more corporate.’
‘I know.’
Of course she did. She probably knew my favourite Disney film, when I lost my virginity, and how many times a day I checked Britney Spears’s Instagram. Not that I was obsessed or anything, I just liked to make sure she was OK.
‘I suppose I’m wondering if there are any specific or particular duties to this role that weren’t on the job description?’ I said. ‘Anything off the record that I really ought to know about.’
‘Francesca.’
‘Call me Fran,’ I offered with a friendly smile.
‘Francesca,’ she repeated without a smile of any kind. ‘I chose you for this job because I believe you’re capable of it and the only specific or particular duty you need worry about, is doing as you’re asked. The bulk of your duties will be incredibly boring. Getting coffee, checking emails, making sure she gets to the places she needs to be on time. Juliette is going through something of a difficult time and she needs a reliable, responsible adult in the room.’
‘I’m a reliable, responsible adult,’ I replied, half-statement, half-question.
‘I need you to keep a close eye on her, keep her company, make sure she doesn’t do anything self-destructive. That sort of behaviour happens when people get bored. The boat is clean and I need someone on board to make sure it stays that way.’
‘You want me to clean the boat?’ I asked, confused. ‘That wasn’t in the job description at all and, truth be told, I’m not sure that’s really in my skill-set. I mean, I can run a hoover around, but anything more than that and …’
Sarah inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, waiting for me to catch up.
‘Oh,’ I said.
Sarah exhaled slowly through her nose.
‘You don’t mean that kind of clean?’ I said.
Sarah shook her head.
‘You mean the other kind of clean.’ I tapped my nose and sniffed theatrically.
‘She really is going to love you,’ Sarah sighed as she scanned the pile of clothing on the settee. ‘I think we have everything you’ll need. Put these in your suitcase and meet me downstairs. Your car is waiting.’
‘My car?’ I asked. I shoved all the beautiful clothes into my already crammed case, only managing to zip it through sheer force of will. ‘Where are we going?’
‘I’m staying here,’ she replied as I followed her back to the spiral staircase, humping my even heavier case all the way back down. ‘You’re going to the airport.’
‘I am?’
She nodded. ‘You’re booked on a flight to Naples that leaves in forty-five minutes.’
‘Naples, Italy?’
‘Certainly not Naples, Florida,’ she replied with an absolutely filthy look.
‘No, of course not,’ I scoffed, making a mental note of the fact that there was a Naples in Florida and wondering what it might have done to deserve such scorn.
Outside the office, a gleaming black Bentley filled the narrow street, waiting for us with a rumbling engine.
‘The flight should land by four and a driver will be waiting for you. Call me as soon as you arrive at the docks, that’s where you’ll rendezvous with Juliette,’ Sarah instructed. ‘From there, you’ll sail to Panarea, arriving in time for the ball on Saturday.’