MISS L. CERAND...

You see, this is the kind of thing that happens when Miss L. Cerand is in town. Jewels laid out on a chair, climbing out of the window to drink champagne, a room liberally scattered with big vases of hyacinths and a copy of Vile Bodies on the bedside table, a Ladurée Saint Honoré Rose-Framboise split in half with a hairpin. Not pictured: a bar in Claridges I never knew existed despite