Helena Cross runs her informal Saturday coffee like a general runs a briefing.
The Harlow Creative London office is on the fifth floor of a building in Clerkenwell that looks like a warehouse from the outside and like the inside of someone's extremely expensive imagination from the inside. Exposed brick but intentional. Lighting that does things. A boardroom table that seats twenty and is currently holding eight people and enough coffee and pastries to suggest Helena believes in feeding people before she asks things of them.
She stands when we walk in.
She is taller than I imagined. Early sixties, silver hair cut short, wearing something simple and expensive with the ease of a woman who decided a long time ago that appearance was an instrument and not an obsession. She has Tasha
