The Copthorne Tam Hotel is a tall, nondescript tower-block that sheds a thick shadow across the back of High Street Kensington station.
The reception area is predictably uninspiring, at once bustling and hushed. Large revolving doors endlessly funnel somnambulant guests in and out.
Suddenly, a rotation ushers someone different into this soulless lobby: a tall, frail elderly woman in a religious habit, leaning on the arm of her companion. Sister Wendy Becket has arrived.
The companion turns out to be a publicist, who quickly vanishes. Sister Wendy heads into a restaurant bar at the back of the hotel. "Now I do like alcohol, but maybe we will have something else," she says, her bold voice easily audible over the Musak that drones out from speakers in the corners of the room. We order coffee.
