It’s 7pm in 20120 Milan. “Leave me a voicemail, I’m out of the office,” THE ATTICO woman sets up on her devices. And off she goes, marching on stiletto heels, a tailored suit with strong shoulders offering her daytime self – a boldly hued one – to the world.

Wrapped in a trench coat, slinky lingerie caressing her body under those mannish layers, the woman hits the street and walks fast, as the minutes pass and the night kicks in. She is not afraid of a little risk. She likes risqué a lot, in fact, and dresses accordingly, changing plumage with gusto, bravado and no regrets.

She joins her friends and takes a ride in a head to toe accoutred tram. She reaches her destination. It’s a chinese restaurant, apparently. A lavishly decorated one, with charming interiors as seen in ’60s movies. She heads straight to the backdoor, whispers the password to the warden and disappears in the dimly lit, intensely wrought out, extravagant rooms of the secret club.

Yellow, red, green, blue: the ambiances match her many selves.

A fumoir, a hothouse, a lounge. Is she a singer? A dancer? A performer? No need to know or put a label on it: she is THE ATTICO woman and here she is in her nth evolution. Mysterious and in incognito, of course, eyes invariably shielded behind her brand new sunglasses.

Decked as such, THE ATTICO woman is ready to sing, dance, enjoy the night away. She will answer those voicemails tomorrow.