She makes a little gap sign between index finger and thumb so I slink into a chair and survey her shelves, the tombstone display of deals that she has worked on and above them the framed photo gallery CV: Zanna marlin fishing in khaki shorts and a green visor cap with Daddy and the toothy CFO of AIG, Zanna in a white visor teeing-off at Gleneagles with the Finance Director of News Corp looking on admiringly, Zanna in last year’s favourite Chanel sunglasses, hugging her IVF nieces in twin sailor suits on a yacht off Cape Cod Bay. She sits down at her desk and runs a hand over the glass peak of a fist-sized sun-trapping iceberg that her mother commissioned from a reclusive Swedish designer who turns down 99 per cent of the offers he gets. She replaces the receiver and makes a note in an open file, holding up a silencing palm. ‘Come out for a coffee,’ I say. ‘Hello?’ She points to the clock. ‘I can’t believe you’re not snowed under down there.
