effortlessly skimming the black and white marble floor in killer kittens.
  Rachel sounds breathless. 'I recognise her from the biog snaps. Listen, let me handle negotiations, while you schmooze her.'
  It's too late to respond because Rachel has leapt to her feet with hand thrust forward. I rise to face the phenomenon for myself. Oozing Coco Chanel and draped from head to foot in mink, the goddess of design extends a perfectly manicured, bony hand. On the middle finger sits a colossal diamond and on the wrist a gold charm bracelet of small diamond trinkets which glint under the light of the chandelier. Her face is masked by owl-like Gucci shades which hover above towering cheek bones and glossy lips pumped to perfection. Her hair, a rainbow of gold, cinnamon and amber tones, is coiffed into a lacquered spire vaguely reminiscent of Mr Whippy ice cream. A waiter stands spellbound, unsure whether this fusion of Cruella De Vil and Narnia's Snow Queen is the living thing. She lowers her glasses and beckons to him with a nail as sharp as a razor shell. 'Can we order? My time is limited.'
  Tremulously, he hands her the menu.
  'May I take your coat?' his voice is faint.
  She strokes the silky brown fur of the lapel. 'I don't think so, do you?'
  Rachel avoids my eyes and enthusiastically grips Daniella's hand.
  'It's wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Popescu-Miller.'
  She removes her glasses altogether, revealing a pair of hypnotic jade irises. 'Oh please, darling, call me Dannie.'
  After enthusiastic introductions we take our seats. Dannie casts her mink onto an abandoned chair where it flops, defeated, in a heap. She gives a cursory glance at the menu handed to her by our waiter.
  'Just some granola, summer fruits and an Evian for me,' she drawls.
  Rachel and I order brioche and toast. She winces. 'Watch the wheat, girls. So destructive to the digestive system.'
  An ungainly woman in a pale-blue trouser suit is waving from the entrance. Who's this? Dannie gives a terse nod.
  'Here's my assistant, Mary Anne. Her surname's Bright, which is kind of ironic.'
  We titter politely.
  'Sorry I'm late,' puffs the unfortunate Mary Anne. 'Have you ordered me something?'
  'Well, let me see,' says Dannie, theatrically studying the menu again. 'There don't appear to be any troughs of mayonnaise on here.'
  'Oh, she's always such a meanie,' screeches her assistant in paroxysms of hollow laughter, whipping the menu from Dannie's bejewelled hands. 'I'm a bit of a food addict, you see.'
  The waiter approaches her.
  'Ah, now these Cumberland sausage sandwiches, are they good?'
  'They're very tasty, madam â made in Cumberland in England.'
  'How nice. Well, I'll have a small one of those and a latte. Oh, and maybe a chocolate brioche. Thank you so much.' She hands him the menu.
  Dannie flashes her a menacing smile. 'Nothing else, dear heart?'
  Rachel comes to the rescue. 'Given that you're short on time, Dannie, is there anything specific in our proposal you'd like clarified?'
  She smiles seductively. 'It's perfect, girls. Mary Anne and I feel you have just the expertise we're after and my old friend Bryan Patterson says he loves working with you guys. That's all I needed to know.'
  Although Bryan still uses our services to promote his fragrance emporium in the UK, his star is waning with the press since he switched his business to pyramid-selling.
  'We have another client in New York now,' I hear myself saying. 'His name's George Myers. Do you know of him?'
  She bites her lip for a second and then her eyes brighten. 'The English leather man who's just opened on Fifth?'
  'The same.'
  'My God, why didn't you say? I met him at the Forbes party only last week. He's a scream.'
  I force a smile. 'He certainly is. I've
  Rachel sounds breathless. 'I recognise her from the biog snaps. Listen, let me handle negotiations, while you schmooze her.'
  It's too late to respond because Rachel has leapt to her feet with hand thrust forward. I rise to face the phenomenon for myself. Oozing Coco Chanel and draped from head to foot in mink, the goddess of design extends a perfectly manicured, bony hand. On the middle finger sits a colossal diamond and on the wrist a gold charm bracelet of small diamond trinkets which glint under the light of the chandelier. Her face is masked by owl-like Gucci shades which hover above towering cheek bones and glossy lips pumped to perfection. Her hair, a rainbow of gold, cinnamon and amber tones, is coiffed into a lacquered spire vaguely reminiscent of Mr Whippy ice cream. A waiter stands spellbound, unsure whether this fusion of Cruella De Vil and Narnia's Snow Queen is the living thing. She lowers her glasses and beckons to him with a nail as sharp as a razor shell. 'Can we order? My time is limited.'
  Tremulously, he hands her the menu.
  'May I take your coat?' his voice is faint.
  She strokes the silky brown fur of the lapel. 'I don't think so, do you?'
  Rachel avoids my eyes and enthusiastically grips Daniella's hand.
  'It's wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Popescu-Miller.'
  She removes her glasses altogether, revealing a pair of hypnotic jade irises. 'Oh please, darling, call me Dannie.'
  After enthusiastic introductions we take our seats. Dannie casts her mink onto an abandoned chair where it flops, defeated, in a heap. She gives a cursory glance at the menu handed to her by our waiter.
  'Just some granola, summer fruits and an Evian for me,' she drawls.
  Rachel and I order brioche and toast. She winces. 'Watch the wheat, girls. So destructive to the digestive system.'
  An ungainly woman in a pale-blue trouser suit is waving from the entrance. Who's this? Dannie gives a terse nod.
  'Here's my assistant, Mary Anne. Her surname's Bright, which is kind of ironic.'
  We titter politely.
  'Sorry I'm late,' puffs the unfortunate Mary Anne. 'Have you ordered me something?'
  'Well, let me see,' says Dannie, theatrically studying the menu again. 'There don't appear to be any troughs of mayonnaise on here.'
  'Oh, she's always such a meanie,' screeches her assistant in paroxysms of hollow laughter, whipping the menu from Dannie's bejewelled hands. 'I'm a bit of a food addict, you see.'
  The waiter approaches her.
  'Ah, now these Cumberland sausage sandwiches, are they good?'
  'They're very tasty, madam â made in Cumberland in England.'
  'How nice. Well, I'll have a small one of those and a latte. Oh, and maybe a chocolate brioche. Thank you so much.' She hands him the menu.
  Dannie flashes her a menacing smile. 'Nothing else, dear heart?'
  Rachel comes to the rescue. 'Given that you're short on time, Dannie, is there anything specific in our proposal you'd like clarified?'
  She smiles seductively. 'It's perfect, girls. Mary Anne and I feel you have just the expertise we're after and my old friend Bryan Patterson says he loves working with you guys. That's all I needed to know.'
  Although Bryan still uses our services to promote his fragrance emporium in the UK, his star is waning with the press since he switched his business to pyramid-selling.
  'We have another client in New York now,' I hear myself saying. 'His name's George Myers. Do you know of him?'
  She bites her lip for a second and then her eyes brighten. 'The English leather man who's just opened on Fifth?'
  'The same.'
  'My God, why didn't you say? I met him at the Forbes party only last week. He's a scream.'
  I force a smile. 'He certainly is. I've
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