The bank that likes to say no

Coutts' banking floor has an almost cathedral hush. This worried me as, eager to make a splash, I had asked a friend to call me on my mobile phone at three o'clock and engage me in conversation about the latest movements in the FTSE 100. (Luckily she forgot, or I would probably have been thrown out.) The building, which appears to have been modelled on the Palm House at Kew, is a light and spacious atrium filled with tropical greenery. It also has a built-in pond with carp. The room is presided over by a statue of Thomas Coutts, an 18th- century scion of the family that ran the institution until the euphoniously named Sir David Money-Coutts stepped down in 1993. Advisers are cloistered with their pinstripe-suited clients, enjoying an easy intimacy; the cashiers are barely visible; there are copies of the Daily Telegraph on each marble-topped table. I feel oddly at home here, despite the irritating tightness of my trousers.

And here is my manager, Tracey, to welcome me to the bank. She hands me two brochures: "Meeting Your Needs: Better Strategies For Managing Your Wealth" and "Expert Wealth Management For Private Clients: New Perspectives In A Changing World". These are filled with delightful pictures of wrought-iron gates, cabinet-makers and what appears to be a private jet; there are also complicated flow charts that would only make sense to someone with large amounts of cash.

Tracey tells me that the essence of the modern Coutts is "wealth management" rather than old-fashioned banking. We talk about my "risk return profile" and she says she has to take a few details to pass on to a personal banking manager. Her pen - a Coutts pen, she points out - immediately runs out (is this symbolic?) and she has to switch to a rather low-rent Bic.

Name, age, marital status, number of dependants: I fly through these. I describe myself as a writer (true up to a point), claim equity of £300,000 (a slight exaggeration), and quote a salary of £80,000 (a gross exaggeration: what do you think this is, the Daily Mail?). She looks unimpressed. Then the big one: "other assets". How much of my money will the bank have to weave their wealth-creating magic? I don't offer a precise figure (last time I looked, it was minus £350), but I say good times are ahead, mention the size of my conservatory, and emphasise how much I would like to have one of Coutts' fancy chequebooks. "Ah, so you're attracted by the kudos," she says knowingly.

Tracey looks at me with something close to pity (though she may also be doubting my bona fides - or perhaps my sanity - by this point) and tries to explain the situation in simple terms. My "lack of liquid assets" presents a problem "just at the moment"; personal banking is really just an add-on to the wealth creation bit, and with no wealth there can be no creation; Coutts prefers its clients to have at least £500,000 to invest, and to keep a quarterly average of £3,000 in their accounts to avoid charges. Would I perhaps consider Drummonds - another famous old name which, like Coutts, is now owned by the Royal Bank of Scotland - whose offices are just around the corner in Trafalgar Square and who demand a lower income base?

This is more than I can bear. I gather up my brochures and head for the escalator that will take me back into the seamy world beyond the glass facade. "If you inherit a large sum of money or win the lottery, do come back and see us," Tracey calls after me, I assume without irony. I head back to Moss Bros to return the suit, which I have only had for two hours. "I hope it did the trick," says the assistant. I smile weakly and look fondly at the picture of the private jet.