I adore Belgravia’s white buildings, the pillars that hold up porches like the tiers of a wedding cake. I love the sense of safety, wealth and security. It’s represents to me an idealised version of everything I never had. I found my way to Eaton Place easily I had been there once before when a concierge agency I was working for had sent me to pack up Mikes study. At that time Mike was newly married to a fashion designer and they were renovating the property in readiness for the arrival of their first child. I created a written inventory of everything I found in the room (except for 3 packs of Xanax which went straight in my bag) and packed it into crates with the contents sheet neatly taped to the side ready for the storage service to collect.
Jacqueline, Mikes Brazilian housekeeper pulled open the heavy external door. I walked across the marble foyer and into the large ground floor reception room. She told me to sit down on a sofa at the end of the room and offered to bring me some coffee. The reception room (1000 sq feet, south facing, perfect for entertaining) had been transformed by a team of Polish builders from a heap of rubble into a soulless beige mausoleum. The only non neutral colour came from the blood smeared across the two enormous Peter Beard photographs that hung on the wall.
