Off the tube at Sloane Square and I smile as I step into the street. Chelsea in all its monied glory bustles like a Hollywood film set, the stretched cheeks of a society woman grasping for the diamonds on her ears.
A shimmer of gold and I give a smiling compliment, a lady tells me her three piece set is by a Mediterranean sounding designer.
On my Cuban heels go as I clip clip across the fabled pavements of the King’s Road, admiring the shop fronts and the reflection looking back.
And there she is.
A sketch of the supreme priestess of la mode, Coco.
I chat to the lady at the information desk – did you know Cara was here yesterday? And that one from Hannibal! – and she shows me how to work the exhibition app. I remark how high tech Coco must be, thanking her for her help.
I join the queue, smiling at bemused on-looking fashionistas who whiled the hours away so the grande-dame would approve of them in her Rue Cambon atélier in the sky.
A few joyful words are exchanged with the security, their shiny shoes matching their shiny foreheads – no cynicism here, just observation!
Up the stairs we go, single file, single file, and the inner sanctum awaits.