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Sucking a martini olive Hetty sat at the bar at the Bulgari in an ice blue velvet dress.

A man with green eyes and a distressed denim face was staring at her. It made her think about the Diesel show that was on the next day. The Russian suddenly blocked her view.

"Hehtttee, I must leave."

She looked up and realised some sort of oligarch emergency was at hand and this was her cue. Christmas! London beckoned. She put her pale pink finger tips to her Cartier choker as a gesture of thanks and...well, the relief was pretty total.

Hetty's head was full to the brim with fluff, coloured fur and diamonds. Italy. It's so sensual that Hetty often feels the need to suck on a lemon and have a very cold shower upon returning home. She is a bit of a Puritan at heart. Packing. Bolting. Zooming. Home.

The sorbet pink front door at Primrose Hill never looked better. Mister Chips snarled in greeting on a silk slipper chair and Hetty noticed a foreign piece of battered vintage floral luggage in the polished black and white tiled hall. Suddenly the palest face she had ever seen streaked with runny electric blue mascara was staring at her from under a damp veil of tangled brown hair.

"Loella!...."I mean say what?"

"Hetty I have run away from home"

"Jesus"

"Yes"

"The children?"

"Steiner day camp, Somerset."

"Almost husband?"

"Rogering a redhead as we speak..."

"Shall I open some Krug...?"

"Correct."

FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

Milan was closing in on Hetty. On the way to Bulgari there was a traffic jam because a group of naked conceptual artists were faux copulating outside Rick Owens. Awkward. Especially as the limo had only moved a few metres from the hotel. Calm was found inside Cartier in the form of a collar that looked a great deal like a console from Doctor Who. Oh Hetty, what will Daddy say? The scale is so...indiscreet.

The murmuring staff all seemed to know The Russian, which was both a relief and a source of chagrin. Next stop Bulgari and Hetty just wanted to get it over with. A bit like lining up for boiled lollies after school but much more deluxe. The bracelet felt like just enough. Sort of off the cuff but then, in the car, The Russian slipped another box into Hetty's lap. Super awkward.

As Loella would say "Heavy".

In situations such as these Hetty knows that shrugging, smiling and sort of sneezing in a way that looks like crying works really well. "See you at dinner" she squeaked as she bolted towards Moschino. Was it her imagination or did Hetty make a faint clinking sound as she ran?

TROPPO BULGARI

A man known only as 'The Russian' invited Hetty to Milan to shop the collections.

She was a bit too polite to tell him she has quite a lot of clothing already.

But London was getting a bit intense, so she kissed Mister Chips on his furrowed brow, slammed her sorbet pink front door and boarded a night train to Milan. To fly the flag she slipped on a ‘clever clogs’ Bella Freud jumper, the new beefeater silk shoes by Charlotte Olympia and a double decker red lipstick by Rimmel. The whimsy is critical.

Milan. Oh Jesus Milan. Hetty likes the Bulgari Hotel because it evokes an embassy in a 70s Italian movie. In a cool way. But gosh, don't the bathtubs look like tombs designed by Helmut Newton? And the halls are so dark. Dark except for the illuminated images of precious gems. Such a clever aide de memoir for the Russian. Hetty read Tolstoy once. She developed a frown line trying to pronounce the names. Bloody Tolstoy. If Hetty had to read a 700 page novel to penetrate the culture of every admirer she would have no life AT ALL.

But first things first. Gucci. 

Hetty is fretful about how far to go with the strange opulence that is Alessandro Michele's imagination. I mean mint green tights yes. Yes please. But a matchy match pistachio hat shaped like an Easter egg? One quails. Hetty already looks a tiny bit like a hybrid between a gazelle and a canary. In the yellow Gucci she might look like Big Bird.

Breakfast at the Bulgari was a tiny bit Zoolandesque. In a cool way. Tiny editors ordering big shiny pastries and staring holes in them. Models with wet hair and dry smiles. Everyone in sun glasses at 7am. Sportscars parked at rakish Italian angles on the gravel. And Hetty trying to breathe normally and anticipate Prada at the same time. There was only one thing to calm the nerves. An indecent bauble! Alexei snapped his copy of Le Monde on the table, gulped down a macchiato and whisked Hetty to Bulgari for a private view before the shows. 

When in Rome, I mean Milan.

Oh you know what I mean.

BREAKFAST AT THE BULGARI HOTEL, MILAN