I, Spy? (Sophie Green Mysteries, No. 1) (Sophie Green Mystery)

things.
    “This has a long-range radio frequency so we’ll be able to pick up what’s going on from here,” he said. “But you’ll need to hide this away somewhereM” he held up a bulky transmitter, “Mso may I suggest nothing too clingy? This here—” he handed me a tiny grommet, “—goes in your ear so you can hear Luke, and he can hear you. We can also break into the loop from here if we need to talk to you.”
    I gulped and took the device. “Exactly how posh is this thing?”
    “The Buckman Ball? Gets coverage in Tatler . Madonna’s on the guest list.”
    Jesus.
    I drove home with my head whirling. I owned nothing suitable. Nothing at all. For the last charity bash Chalker’s band had played at I’d worn my Monsoon standby, but it was both dated and clingy, not to mention far too obviously inexpensive for such an occasion. I knew my mother would have nothing suitable. Her idea of designer was the Marks and Spencer “Per Una” range.
    Angel, I knew, would have lots of stunning things which she’d lend me in a second, but I’d hardly be able to get my left leg into any of her dresses. It was a shame, because her mother used to have some fabulous stuff, and it would be very cool to turn up in something IC Winter wore thirty years ago. Vintage, yah?
    I got home and stared at my wardrobe in misery. Then I got out my phone and called Angel, just to see if she had put on a few stones in weight and gained several inches in height and felt the need to go on a shopping spree.
    “I need a ballgown by tonight,” I said. “A real, proper Oscar frock, and I have nothing. I don’t suppose you have any cousins my size?”
    “Sorry, honey,” Angel said with real regret, because she totally lived up to her name, “I don’t have any cousins at all. I could give my friend Livvy a ring if you like? She’s quite tall.”
    I’d met Angel’s old boarding school pal Livvy, who’s actually Lady Olivia Something-Toff. She was my height, yes, but she was also a size eight. She had a sort of permanent stretched look to her.
    “No,” I said dejectedly. “It’ll never work.”
    “I could lend you some jewellery, though,” she offered. “So long as you tell me where and why you’re going and who with?”
    I couldn’t lie to Angel. Well, not a lot.
    “I can’t tell you,” I said. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t.”
    “Why? Is he married or something?”
    Bingo.
    “Erm, yes. So you can’t tell anyone, either.”
    “Oh my God, Sophie! You bad girl!” Angel said, but she said it admiringly.
    I think.
    I put down the phone and my Nokia rang. Luke.
    “Did One give you the wire?”
    “Yes, although I don’t know how to work it.”
    “I’ll show you. You want me to come over?”
    “No, I can figure it out. I’m quite capable.”
    There was a little silence, as if both of us were working out what was wrong with that statement.
    “I’ll figure it out,” I repeated. “Look, I have to find a ballgown by tonight—what time does this thing start, by the way? And how do I get there?”
    “I’ll pick you up.”
    “Where is it?”
    “South Kensington. Gray’s Hotel. Just by the tube station—”
    “Great! Then I’ll get the tube.”
    There was another pause. “You’re going to travel on the London Underground in a ballgown?”
    “Sure,” I said defensively, “why not?”
    Luke sighed. Then he laughed. “Okay, fine, I’ll see you there. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”
    “I won’t,” I said, offended, and as I put the phone down wondered why I had turned down his offer of a lift.
    Then I remembered making out with him in the car and thought about how good he’d look in a DJ, and decided I’d made the right choice.
    I spent the rest of the day cleansing and exfoliating, and dying my hair—it wouldn’t do to let Wright recognise me from Rome—and trying to think of what to wear. The only designer piece I had was my Gucci frock, and that was a short, cocktail kind of thing. Not a ballgown by any measure.
    I’d almost given up and was just getting my Monsoon dress out when I got a text from Ella. Wht u doin 2nte?
    Going somewhere I shouldn’t with someone I shouldn’t , I replied miserably (see, I have predictive text). You got a designer ballgown I can borrow?
    She rang me immediately.
    “Designer ballgown, someone you shouldn’t be going out with?” she cried as soon as I picked up. “Honey, what are you not telling me?”
    “He’s married,” I said (no point in