Monday morning, 10am. The door swings open and a woman in a white business suit walks in. She carries a small bag and a copy of The Times under her arm. Both the bag and her outfit match her hair, pure white as if she were attending a costume party as a snowdrift, the wireframe glasses the only part not colour matched. In her ear, a Bluetooth headset chatters away to her.

"You know that is unacceptable," she replied to the person on the other end of the line, her clipped received pronunciation accent cutting like ice. "Your services were engaged to provide adequate refreshment to the participants at 9pm sharp. If you are unable to comply I shall find a purveyor of a far better calibre than yourself. Good day."

Ending the call, she took a seat by the coffee bar and ordered a caramel latte before flicking open the newspaper and frowning at the events on the page.