first meeting of the day.
  'Coo-eee!!'
  I open the door.
  Bernadette is gawping at me from the other side. 'What kept you?' she asks with her Irish lilt.
  'Ah, Bernadette! I'm in a bit of a hurry. Is everything OK?'
  This bustling, singing, duster-wielding ball of Irish fun, who relishes tuna sandwiches before the sun is up and whose auburn hair is always immaculately set come rain or shine, is the club's esteemed housekeeper. She is cherished by the members and feared by those who attempt clandestine midnight feasts. She can sniff a chocolate wrapper ten feet away and her ability to detect biscuit crumbs in the bed is uncanny. It doesn't matter whether you're a baroness, an honourable, a lady, an MP or a commoner: as far as Bernadette is concerned everyone's guilty until proven innocent. We are all at her mercy and the promise of some much coveted shortcake biscuits left on the tea tray in our rooms is enough to have us playing to her tune.
  'Always in a rush you are,' she scoffs. 'God, look at you. Like a whippet, poor creature, no flesh on you. Nice to see you back. Did you notice the shortcake I put on your tray last night?'
  'You're an angel.'
  'Go on, get dressed, before you upset the other old ladies.'
  I stand by the door, wet hair clinging to my face as Bernadette bustles down the corridor rowdily singing an Irish ballad as she goes.
8 a.m., Piccadilly
Standing on Piccadilly, I survey the vast grey frontage of The Wolseley on the opposite side of the street. Drizzling rain blurs this snapshot of Venetian styled elegance, as I peep out from the rim of my dripping umbrella. Strictly speaking, I can't claim ownership, given that it's on loan from my club. In front of me, long, metallic tentacles of traffic extend slowly east and west, their progress impeded by the rain and sluggish traffic lights. I weave between cars and hop onto the pavement, entering the chic, grand cafe through one of the arched portals. It's eight in the morning and already a dull hubbub of noise rises like smoke to the very top of the domed ceiling. At the front desk a woman whips the wet umbrella from my hand and leads me into the main restaurant and through the maze of occupied tables. At a discreet corner table, tucked away beneath one of the marble pillars, sits Rachel. She's already scribbling furiously in a voluminous notepad, her honey brown hair scooped up into an efficient French pleat. She gives me a winning smile.
  'Excellent. You're early.' She leans forward and pecks me on the cheek then orders herself another cappuccino and a Darjeeling tea for me.
  'I like the suit.'
  She brushes the fine wool sleeve of her jacket. 'You know my penchant for red. It gives me confidence.'
  'You don't need it. Tall people never do.'
  'I'm not so sure.' She slams her notebook shut and leans towards me confidentially. 'Now, did you have a chance to read up on Daniella?'
  'Yep, I googled her. She's definitely one for the nutter file.'
  Her clear blue eyes lock onto me. 'I don't care if she's a psychopath as long as we win the account. She's got a $100 million dollar turnover and is the toast of New York.'
  'Did she tell you that?'
  'No,' she says impatiently. 'I've only spoken with her personal assistant, Mary Anne Bright. She says Daniella is a phenomenon.'
  'That's what's worrying me. She'll have an ego to match.'
  'Here, look at her catalogue. It just arrived yesterday. The products are amazing. She's got two stores in Manhattan selling her accessories and the interior design business is run from Trump Tower.'
  I flick through the thick, glossy pages of alabaster candelabras, scented candles and silver and porcelain ornaments. In fairness, it's quite tasteful, if a little predictable. Rachel gives a hiss.
  'Damn. She's already here.'
  Our breakfast appointment is
  'Coo-eee!!'
  I open the door.
  Bernadette is gawping at me from the other side. 'What kept you?' she asks with her Irish lilt.
  'Ah, Bernadette! I'm in a bit of a hurry. Is everything OK?'
  This bustling, singing, duster-wielding ball of Irish fun, who relishes tuna sandwiches before the sun is up and whose auburn hair is always immaculately set come rain or shine, is the club's esteemed housekeeper. She is cherished by the members and feared by those who attempt clandestine midnight feasts. She can sniff a chocolate wrapper ten feet away and her ability to detect biscuit crumbs in the bed is uncanny. It doesn't matter whether you're a baroness, an honourable, a lady, an MP or a commoner: as far as Bernadette is concerned everyone's guilty until proven innocent. We are all at her mercy and the promise of some much coveted shortcake biscuits left on the tea tray in our rooms is enough to have us playing to her tune.
  'Always in a rush you are,' she scoffs. 'God, look at you. Like a whippet, poor creature, no flesh on you. Nice to see you back. Did you notice the shortcake I put on your tray last night?'
  'You're an angel.'
  'Go on, get dressed, before you upset the other old ladies.'
  I stand by the door, wet hair clinging to my face as Bernadette bustles down the corridor rowdily singing an Irish ballad as she goes.
8 a.m., Piccadilly
Standing on Piccadilly, I survey the vast grey frontage of The Wolseley on the opposite side of the street. Drizzling rain blurs this snapshot of Venetian styled elegance, as I peep out from the rim of my dripping umbrella. Strictly speaking, I can't claim ownership, given that it's on loan from my club. In front of me, long, metallic tentacles of traffic extend slowly east and west, their progress impeded by the rain and sluggish traffic lights. I weave between cars and hop onto the pavement, entering the chic, grand cafe through one of the arched portals. It's eight in the morning and already a dull hubbub of noise rises like smoke to the very top of the domed ceiling. At the front desk a woman whips the wet umbrella from my hand and leads me into the main restaurant and through the maze of occupied tables. At a discreet corner table, tucked away beneath one of the marble pillars, sits Rachel. She's already scribbling furiously in a voluminous notepad, her honey brown hair scooped up into an efficient French pleat. She gives me a winning smile.
  'Excellent. You're early.' She leans forward and pecks me on the cheek then orders herself another cappuccino and a Darjeeling tea for me.
  'I like the suit.'
  She brushes the fine wool sleeve of her jacket. 'You know my penchant for red. It gives me confidence.'
  'You don't need it. Tall people never do.'
  'I'm not so sure.' She slams her notebook shut and leans towards me confidentially. 'Now, did you have a chance to read up on Daniella?'
  'Yep, I googled her. She's definitely one for the nutter file.'
  Her clear blue eyes lock onto me. 'I don't care if she's a psychopath as long as we win the account. She's got a $100 million dollar turnover and is the toast of New York.'
  'Did she tell you that?'
  'No,' she says impatiently. 'I've only spoken with her personal assistant, Mary Anne Bright. She says Daniella is a phenomenon.'
  'That's what's worrying me. She'll have an ego to match.'
  'Here, look at her catalogue. It just arrived yesterday. The products are amazing. She's got two stores in Manhattan selling her accessories and the interior design business is run from Trump Tower.'
  I flick through the thick, glossy pages of alabaster candelabras, scented candles and silver and porcelain ornaments. In fairness, it's quite tasteful, if a little predictable. Rachel gives a hiss.
  'Damn. She's already here.'
  Our breakfast appointment is
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