branch is hidden away inside a beautiful Regency townhouse, just off the high street. I’ve always been too scared to go inside, but I’ve given the website a good going-over in preparation for this meeting.
Turns out the rumours that Zoe sells nothing that costs less than £35 are true. Really? For a bottle of bubble bath that small? And do women honestly pay three figures to have their eyebrows tidied? Especially when the first figure’s not even a one! Back in my student days, I spent less than that on a weekend in Berlin, and my eyebrows always look just fine.
I know I ought to be grateful Zoe has prioritised our meeting, but instead I’m faintly resentful I needed to be up at half past five this morning to make sure I had enough time to dither about what to wear. And redo my eyebrows four times.
I arrive at Zoe’s home – a leafy turning on the far side of the park going towards Swiss Cottage – at ten past seven. Which is just as well, because I squander the next three minutes trying to make the intercom system work. In the end, I resort to punching random numbers on the keypad, and this finally does the trick. A disembodied male voice instructs me, ‘Step AWAY from the gates and state your name.’
‘Nina Sherwood,’ I announce, startled.
‘Correct.’
What is this, an intelligence test?
‘When the gates open, please make your way to the main entrance.’ The voice sounds like Carson out of Downton Abbey, scolding one of the servants for being ungrateful.
At first glance, the gates – sandwiched between high brick walls – could be mistaken for a piece of sculpture, all curves and swirls, with a hint of Art Deco. Then they glide soundlessly open, and I get my first glimpse of Zoe’s home.
So this is how the one per cent of the one per cent lives … As I read online last night – doing my Zoe Banks homework before explaining to Chopper that my bed is not his bed – I am now eyeballing a piece of prime central London real estate worth £14 million. Which buys you (I continued my online research via Zoopla, Google Earth and Vogue) seven bedrooms, a private cinema, a wine cave, staff quarters and one of the largest gardens in North London, complete with its own tropical pagoda. All that, plus a ten-metre infinity pool that incorporates both wave machine and rainforest shower.
‘This way please, Ms Sherwood.’ Carson’s disembodied voice again, sounding even less pleased than before. I’m obviously over-gawping, so I jog the final few metres to the front door, crunching a spray of gravel in my wake. The door opens immediately, even before I can work out where the bell might be located.
I’m almost surprised not to be greeted by Carson. Instead, a man about my own age, dressed in a perfect charcoal suit – I’m guessing it costs more than the average funeral – teamed with white shirt, blue silk tie and black-rimmed round glasses is looking me up and down. The expression on his face is exactly as I had anticipated: disdain underpinned by disapproval.
But maybe I’m just flustered, because his voice is considerably more warm when he tells me, ‘This way, please.’ I follow him across a vast expanse of highly polished wooden flooring. ‘Ms Banks is running late this morning,’ he says. Late? At seven fifteen? Is this code for ‘Ms Banks has overslept?’ Apparently not, because the man continues, ‘A meeting with her architect is taking longer than anticipated. If you wait here’ – I am ushered into a space that is bigger than every room of Happy Endings put together – ‘I’ll fetch you a coffee.’
Carson leaves the room before I have a chance to say, ‘White, please, with three sugars,’ and I’m about to make myself at home on a squishy black leather couch when I hear voices coming from the adjoining room. A man and a woman speaking softly yet distinctly. I find myself heading towards a not-quite-closed door and begin earnestly to study a huge canvas on the wall. Blue splodges placed at indeterminate intervals against a backdrop of what looks like green and yellow electricity pylons, encased in an ornate frame that could easily be proper gold, although I’d have to bite it to be sure.
‘So we should hear back from the planning department in the next four to eight weeks.’ The man’s voice.
‘Why does it take them so long?’ The woman – presumably Zoe Banks – is verging on shrill. I can almost hear her stamping her foot. ‘Can’t we fast-track it? Pay them extra? Anyway, it’s going to be a formality, so might as well get cracking straight away. Right?’ Before the man can reply, Zoe continues, ‘You realise I’m still unhappy with the north-east elevation. If we’re building a neo-classical palace we might as well get it right and have the columns properly hand-carved. Agreed?’ A pause. ‘I’m paying two hundred thousand for this, after all. Plus your fees.’
‘Of course. And you’re happy with the design of the frieze?’
‘Let’s have another look at the plans.’ A rustle of papers. ‘Yes, I like that. Lovely idea to call the extension a small temple in the trees. And our garden’s so big, no-one will ever spot it. You know, life’s too short to wait for the bloody planners, so let’s get the builders in next week and pay the fine for going ahead without permission if we get caught.’
Temple in the trees? I’d assumed the people on the other side of the door were discussing plans for a holiday home. Greece, perhaps. Or Croatia. Surely even someone like Zoe Banks wouldn’t spend two hundred grand on a tree house. Especially someone who, according to my research, doesn’t have children. I’m worried Carson’s going to come back and catch me eavesdropping but I’ve never heard a conversation like this before and I can’t tear myself away.
That’s weird. In one breath, the man is saying something about a multi-level dwelling with geometrically perfect proportions. But now he’s describing a wirelessly controlled fox-proof security system. Surely he means foolproof. And what’s this about an automatic sliding roof above the nesting box suite? Is that what rich people call a bedroom?
I’m wondering if I’m going deaf, and if I dare to push the door open just a tiny crack further, when Zoe says, ‘We’ve had our skirmishes with this project, Marcus, but I’ve always known you were the man to create the Taj Mahal of hen houses.’
‘That’s very kind, but by the time we’re done, I hope it will look more like Le Petit Trianon.’
Two smug laughs, followed by packing-up sounds. I retreat to the sofa, bewildered. What is this I’ve stumbled into? It feels like the set of The Good Life mashed with Grand Designs. Don’t get me wrong, I love chickens, especially when roasted to a golden crispness, accompanied by Mum’s silky gravy and fluffy potatoes, and I have no doubt the hens that are destined to roost legally or illegally in Zoe’s extension will truly appreciate the clean lines and the modern aesthetics. Come on, though. Admittedly two hundred thousand won’t buy you a garage in London. But a hen house? A hen house?
When I think how hard my dad worked, and how proud he was to be able to lend me the fifty thousand pounds I needed – more than half his life savings – to open Happy Endings … I wonder what it must be like to be able to buy whatever you want … anything you want … everything you want … without stopping to think how much it costs.
Zoe Banks enters the room with a face that suggests all the cash in the world can’t buy you happiness, and I feel a little bit better about my current credit card balance.
‘Marcus, I’ll expect your confirmation that the builders will be on site by Monday latest,’ she says before disappearing into the hallway. With that, the architect is dismissed. He fails to acknowledge me, and sidesteps
