(FORTUNE Magazine) – A hotel porter was in my suite and on his back, wriggling. I suggested he'd be more comfortable if he removed his tunic. "Oh no, madam," he replied. "I couldn't possibly."

It's not what you think: He had just brought me some samba CDs, couldn't get the player to work, and was reaching under the armoire to check the plug. Though we were chaperoned by two waiters arranging hors d'oeuvres, he looked so startled that I'll always wonder what was under that uniform: a pink brassiere?

My husband, Jeff, had just phoned, indefinitely delayed for dinner with friends--who were arriving any minute. Jeff often visits the London office of his investment bank, and I travel with him, usually on writing assignments. We pick hotels that can handle both work and play. In this case, we were at the Athenaeum; luckily, the staff thinks nothing of being asked to plan an instant party.

That same staff makes the Athenaeum one of our favorite hotels, and not just because concierge Donald Birrane calls me "beautiful lady." He also conjures up prime seats for Wimbledon and West End plays. Likewise, Jim, the doorman, always greets us by name--even when we're not staying there. Rooms in the main tower can be small, but the "apartments," in brick townhouses on a quiet side street, come with living rooms and kitchens, a blessing in a town where room-service tea and toast can run $20.

Renovation fever has run through most of the top hotels of London. It has worked wonders at Claridge's, from the showplace deco bathrooms to the new bar, where all of London now laps up martinis. The hotel has always been fashionable--much of Europe's royalty waited out World War II here--but along with new fabric comes a welcome unthawing: Jacket and tie are no longer required at breakfast, and one staff member was actually seen smiling. It's the same story in the hallowed halls of the Connaught, through which we once tiptoed, unwilling to disturb the hush. Its renovation took place over protestations from the faithful; goodness knows what they'll say when a fitness room is installed this fall.

The most remarkable renaissance is the Ritz, fueled partly by worldwide publicity. Charles held his first photo op here with Camilla last year, and the front desk played a starring role in Notting Hill. The restaurant, now among the best in town, feels like a movie set too; it is awash in plutocrats. I just wish there weren't quite so many of them puffing cigars in the lobby bar. A separate, Claridge's-type space, coming soon, should help clear the air.

We don't always stay in the grande dames; sometimes we opt for one of the sleek new boutique hotels cropping up around SoHo and Covent Garden. Two more debut next month, a stone's throw from each other and the Tottenham Court Road: Sanderson, with a "holistic spa," is Ian Schrager's second stab at London hospitality, after St. Martins Lane; Charlotte Street is the new sister of the Covent Garden Hotel, whose quirky country-house style is big with creatives. We get a kick out of riding tiny chrome elevators with fashion editors and film crews, but we've learned to choose carefully, having endured unmarked entrances, stacked boxes instead of drawers, and staff chosen for looks, not experience.

The one boutique I recommend wholeheartedly is One Aldwych, on the Strand. Very much of the moment, it has the requisite screening room, bar scene, and even a pool with underwater Mozart, yet it functions as smoothly as the classics. When we fell in love with the square barware on our first visit, the concierge packed up two dozen tumblers for us to take home.

For our next trip, there are several new options, including the sleek Four Seasons Canary Wharf. Jeff's office is at the Wharf, and I could see him hunkering down for a work blitz. But we wouldn't stay there together: It's a full half-hour by tube to Hatchards bookshop on Piccadilly, the epicenter of my London.

The Great Eastern--the only hotel in the City, the financial district--has just reopened, now owned jointly by Wyndham and Conran. The grand Victorian was built in the glory days of the railroads, when trains arrived with wealthy travelers and the seawater for their bathtubs. Those passengers wouldn't recognize the place: The ornate plasterwork and soaring ceilings now set off Eames chairs, steel cabinets, and ISDN lines; a traditional pub sits next to a sushi bar. A huge skylit "beach deck" invites lounging with a laptop, but I plan to take advantage of proximity to St. Paul's, where a footbridge--the first new bridge to span the Thames in 100 years--will lead to the new Tate Modern museum.

Finally, May marks the reopening of an old favorite (the Hyde Park Hotel) with new owners (Mandarin Oriental). Every inch of what's being called the Mandarin Hyde Park is being updated, with double the staff and, come summer, a large spa. We love the location, with one side facing Harvey Nichols, fashion headquarters for the Cool Britannia crowd, and the other overlooking Hyde Park, where the Household Cavalry passes by each morning on its way to Buckingham Palace. Both spectacles are sure to remind us why we're in town in the first place.

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