Was Frank right when he snarled at Claire in the last episode, "Without me, you are nothing"? Of course not. It seems clear now that, in this election year, Claire will run for office herself. She has great approval ratings, knows how the place runs – having served as Ambassador to the UN and as First Lady – knows which haircut wins the most votes and has ambition that vaults far above smiling, shaking hands and Easter Egg rolling. Indeed, when Michael Dobbs, creator of the original House of Cards, was asked who Claire Underwood most resembled in real life, he answered: Hillary Clinton.With or without a Presidential bid, House of Cards has always been all about Claire. She is the cold, dark, exquisitely tailored heart of the show and the best female character currently on television. When they first started filming, David Fincher – who executive produces the show and directed the pilot – told Robin Wright to act “like a marble bust” as Claire, according to an interview in Vanity Fair. “Your job is to remain immoveable,” he said. “And it’s everyone else’s job to orbit you.”And so they have. Marble is particularly apt for Wright, an ice-blonde Amazon of an actress, with a jawline designed to be carved into Mount Rushmore. Rebecca Miller – who directed her in 2009’s The Private Lives of Pippa Lee – called her “a great actress trapped inside the body of a Norse goddess.”Kevin Spacey’s Frank has his traits – his to-camera asides, his signet ring rap on the table, his love of ribs, his pigeon-toed lollop. But where the President is all surface – winking as he sticks the knife in, rolling his eyes as soon as an adversary turns his back, pissing on his father’s grave – Claire is a fascinating iceberg, a chilly, poised beauty whose shifts and depths are all but imperceptible to mortals.Other characters are defined by the quirks given to them in the writers’ room – a limp, an addiction, a soft heart, a guinea pig – all characterisations, but Claire's quirks are seamless. Everything, from the way she calls Frank “Francis” or holds a cigarette, to her all-in-black midnight runs and the way she fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist, is precise. She doesn’t say much, but when she speaks – smoothly, softly, baring pearly teeth – people listen. Her hair is so impeccable it could win the Iowa Caucus just by turning up. And her clothes are fabulous – weaponised silk and stilettos so high they could kill a man at ten paces.