Walking down a City street past a woman in a charcoal Joseph trouser suit and Ann Fontaine white shirt, worn with low black heels and a black, briefcase-like Mulberry bag, the casual observer has the impression that working in high finance involves the ruthless repression of femininity.

Unseen by the passer-by and certainly her co-workers, the woman in the grey suit is probably wearing £400 worth of lingerie from Agent Provocateur, Myla, Bodas or Stella McCartney beneath the uniform. We don't know, her boss doesn't know, but she knows, and her boyfriend or husband knows. This private knowledge, the delicious secret, is what empowers and enriches the inner self. Luxury next to the skin. A reminder of intimacy.

Twenty years ago, British women had a handful of underwear choices: most bought M&S cotton briefs in three-packs, enlivened with scratchy nylon lace trim around the waist, or they picked up a pair of cheap and cheerful knickers at Knickerbox.

Those who needed their bosoms hoiked up to rock-hard immobility went to the Queen's brassiere-maker, Rigby & Peller. A few racy types went to Janet Reger in Beauchamp Place, Knightsbridge, for sexy lingerie. And scraping the bottom end of the market was Ann Summers, whose crotchless panties displayed on plastic mannequins seemed designed for suburban wife-swapping parties.