THE key to the executive washroom remains one of the most desirable

power symbols in American society. Although it officially offends

corporate etiquette to talk shop within such sanctums, everyone knows

that it is inside these retreats that the true deals are struck, that

mighty secrets are exchanged against symphonic melodies, and that

loyalty is pledged with a few Masonic tugs of the towel dispenser.

All this covert ritual came to mind, the other week, with the sight of

Oliver North touting his memoirs. When the Irangate outrage was at its

height, the story which most intrigued the Washington cocktail set

concerned the notion that North and Admiral John Poindexter plotted

their shifty operations not on some long-range golf course, or even in

the back of the darkened limo, but in one of the top-brass lavatories on

Capitol Hill.

The theory was never confirmed, but on reflection it is not as

fanciful as it sounds. As a demonstration of leadership, Poindexter and

North will have each possessed a personalised washroom equipped not only

with the usual conveniences but, very probably, with confidential

telephones and fax machines and -- who knows? -- a shredder. Given an

effective lock on the door, this kind of bathroom becomes the integral

filing cabinet, a central focus of power in any organisation, and

obviously well worth possessing within the perimeter of your office, no

matter how much space it demands.

''As a rule the occupants of such facilities work from 8am to 8pm and

they may go straight from their desks to a black-tie dinner or a

television interview'', says Barbara Schwartz, a Manhattan decor

designer. ''So at the very least they require a shower and heated towel

rail.'' But once you are into the business of personalised water closets

there follows an entire industry in their executive upkeep. I once

encountered an office where the MD had no sooner acquired his

gold-plated taps than the building's head cleaner decided to describe

himself as Interiors Supervisor. Effectively he was elevating his own

position to something resembling the omnipotent role of Master of the

Bedchamber.

In his watchful way this man knew every move the chief executive made;

knew, too, the calibre and clout of every guest received into the

management suite. Should they be given the bathroom key, they were worth

cultivating with a new bar of Czech and Speake soap. Should the VIPs be

female then a bottle of Penhaligon's rose water would be produced.

With such snobby fussiness disguising his treadmill attention, the

supervisor was ideally placed to act as spy. If somehow an underling

managed to invade this sacred territory, the man with one hand on the

Brasso -- the other on a replenishing roll of Andrex -- would report

back to the boss, and indeed the news of such an impudent intrusion

appeared to cause more apoplexy at the top than any threat to company

profits.

But for women, the executive loo scarcely exists, since few managers

ever stop to consider that women might one day join their ranks. Except

in the bowels of pedigree hotels, the door marked Ladies opens on to

egalitarian country where women swop confidences with the same mirthful

enthusiasm as they swop information on keep-fit classes or timeshare

apartments on the Algarve.

However, amid the rococo splendour of the powder room at the Ritz

things are different. There, the attendant presides like the guardian of

a hierarchical coven. With her regulars she exchanges intimate gossip:

''The last I heard he'd sent her a bouquet of camelias, always a sign of

desperation . . .'' She smiles effortlessly on the arrivistes in their

new-money Fendi furs, a faint curl of disdain on her old vermilion

mouth. But her real scorn is reserved for the passing pedestrians who,

beneath her intimidating eye, are shamed into exposing the full squalor

of their make-up bags as they

try to apply magic with a broken lipstick.

Back in the office Ladies a sense of liberated abandon governs the

atmosphere every Friday from 4.45pm. The place is scattered with

hairdryers, costume jewellery and patterned stockings, perfume aerosols

and shop-rail coathangers as new outfits are tried on and critically

assessed for the impact they will make later that night

in the wine bars of reckless assignations.

Up and down the land this is where the secret life of female workers

is charted and plotted, where clandestine Bette Midlers fall out of the

vanity cabinet to entertain the girls, and where married women

synchronise those alibis they hope will hide a little heartlessness and

tingly cheating. Outside in the open-plan, the men still at their desks

may never suspect how adept women have become at playing the office

wolves at their own game. By whatever name, though, the universal

lavatory cleaner knows better.