Midnight Girls (39 page)

‘And that was Colette’s?’

David nodded. ‘Named after my favourite French novelist. It was really because a friend of mine, Eddie Frobisher, decided to open a casino. The gambling laws had just been relaxed and casinos were going to be the next big thing. He bought a house in Mayfair – a total wreck, so it was cheap, cheap, cheap! By Mayfair standards, anyway. And he brought me in to do the interiors.
Comfort
was the watchword. People had to feel utterly relaxed and yet cosseted in great luxury. It should be like a wonderful country house, full of muted grandeur, and yet as warm and comforting as a hug. We understood each other completely. I knew exactly what he wanted.

‘Before long, I was restoring the very gracious Georgian interior with the help of some wonderful craftsmen and plasterers – and that was when I stumbled on the basement. It was dark, dingy and damp – usually the things that turn me off the most – and yet … there was something about the place. It breathed magic over me. It felt like somewhere things could happen: naughty, nefarious, delightful things.
And
that’s when I thought – I know, I can do something with this, if only Eddie will let me. And I remembered my old idea of opening a nightclub and was sure I’d found my ideal spot.’

‘And he didn’t mind?’

‘Oh, no!’ David swallowed the last of his oysters and put the shell back on to the ice, sighing with pleasure. ‘Well, that was delicious.’

Allegra was fascinated. She wanted to hear more. ‘So he said, go ahead?’

‘He said more than that. He said, “What a bloody brilliant idea!” He was aiming his casino at the richest and most influential people in the land. They would gamble big money at his tables and then there would be a special added extra: an exclusive, members only nightclub where they could kick back, relax, enjoy the company of beautiful women – not whores but good pedigree girls who knew how to behave – and take a break from the intensity of the tables.’

‘And was that what you wanted?’

‘I wanted style,’ David said simply. ‘I wanted to create a beautiful, special place that belonged to me, that realised my vision. You see, I believe in the redeeming qualities of beauty, and the utterly worthwhile pursuit not just of luxury but the
discipline
of luxury. I aimed to create a place where everything was always perfect, from the table linen to the cocktails, from the bread rolls and butter curls to the way the towels in the lavatory hung over the rails. Somewhere you would always get the most sublime Martini, the best food, the most dedicated service. It would be a place that would never disappoint you. And where you would always be among friends.’

Allegra’s eyes were wide. ‘And you did it?’

‘Of course.’ David sipped his Sancerre. ‘I can’t pretend it
was
easy. At times I felt hugely frustrated. And the actual construction was a nightmare. In order to get enough space for the club, we had to excavate down and out into the garden – an administrative and architectural ordeal. Sometimes, standing in the dark, dirty shell, surrounded by heaps of mud and the whole thing open to the elements, I thought it would never be finished, would never be worth all the pain and hard work. But, eventually, it was done. And then the fun could really begin.’

‘What happened next?’

He eyed her with his piercing blue gaze. ‘I created Colette’s, of course.’ He gazed at her thoughtfully for a minute. ‘Would you like to go there?’

Allegra gasped. ‘Are you kidding? Of course I would!’

‘I know I’ve been promising you a trip there for years but I’ve never thought that the time was right. But now … now I think you’re ready.’ He leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘I’m going to show you the magic first. Always see the play before you inspect the set and the props. Do you have anything suitable to wear? Imagine a chic cocktail party where you might conceivably bump into a duke.’

‘Not really. All my best dresses are at home.’ Allegra’s face fell. ‘I’ve got some clubbing stuff, but that’s no good for somewhere smart. Oh, dear. I can’t turn up looking like a scruff.’

David looked about for a waiter and motioned for the bill. ‘I seem to recall that Chanel is just over the way. Let’s go and see what we can find.’

They spent a very enjoyable couple of hours in the shop, and when they left Allegra was holding a large black stiff cardboard bag with the word ‘Chanel’ on it in white capital letters. It made her think of shopping with Romily, but she put that out of her mind.

‘Go home and get ready,’ her uncle said. ‘I’ll meet you at the club at nine. That will give us time to look around before it starts to get busy.’

‘What’s the address?’ Allegra asked, enjoying the feeling of anticipation.

David looked surprised. ‘Don’t worry about that, darling! Just get into a cab and say you’re going to Colette’s. They’ll know where to take you.’

Allegra savoured every moment of getting ready, from the washing and careful drying of her long blonde hair to the unwrapping of her gorgeous new dress from its protective tissue. It was black, of course. ‘One of your most important colours,’ David had told her solemnly. ‘While you have that golden hair and pale skin, you’ll always look striking in black.’

She slipped it on and looked at her reflection in the mirror bolted to the back of the door. Her box room was so small there was barely space to turn around in front of it, but even by the light of the 40-watt bulb and its dingy shade, she could tell she looked good. The dress was knee-length. It had a silky undershell and over that a black shift heavily embroidered with tiny, bright ebony beads, with a high but very wide neckline so that her shoulders emerged, creamy and eye-catching, from the sparkling dark material. She wound her long hair up into a high bun and tied a black velvet ribbon around it. She’d gone for a sixties look in her make-up: smoky dark eyes with swoops of black liner, and pastel-pink glossed lips. The effect was definitely soignée, a blonde Audrey Hepburn off to a nightclub. She put her feet into kitten heeled, pointy-toed satin slippers. That was it. She was ready to go.

Susie was in the kitchen making herself some supper when Allegra passed by. She looked up in surprise. ‘Wow!
You
look amazing. Off somewhere nice?’

‘To Colette’s,’ Allegra said, and enjoyed seeing the impressed expression on Susie’s face. ‘Don’t wait up.’

The taxi took her through London’s most exclusive districts: purring up the King’s Road, circling Sloane Square and then up past the embassies and great private houses of Belgravia. Along the roadside, the most expensive cars were parked, some with chauffeurs inside, idling away the time until their employer returned from the theatre, restaurant or dinner party.

London’s so beautiful
, she thought. It was all navy blue sky, orange street lamps and the white stone of monuments, hotels and houses as they passed Apsley House and sped up Park Lane, past the twinkling lights of the Dorchester. On the other side, Hyde Park stretched away. Xander had told her that the park was bigger than Monaco, which was probably more a comment on Monaco’s smallness than Hyde Park’s vastness, but still … how many other cities had a park bigger than an entire country?
I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Between here and Foughton, there’s nowhere else on earth I’d rather be
.

The taxi glided into Mayfair, passing red-brick houses with wrought-iron railings and vast chandeliers glimmering inside. They came to a large square, edged with office buildings, shops and private banks, all occupying what were once grand houses – but few people lived here now. In the middle of the square was a garden with benches and a statue in the centre.

‘Here we are!’ called the cabbie. He pulled to a stop in front of a grand, red-brick house with two sets of long sash windows to each side of its wide polished front door. An ornate iron arch spanned the steps leading to the front entrance, a large lantern hanging from its apex.

As the cab stopped, just to the left of the arch, a doorman uniformed in a dark blue jacket and trousers and matching cap, came forward to open its door. Allegra passed the cabbie a tenner and climbed out as elegantly as she could.

‘Is this Colette’s?’ she asked the doorman, looking up at the grand house.

The doorman remained blank-faced. ‘No, miss,’ he said politely. ‘That is Frobisher’s. This is Colette’s.’ He gestured behind him and she saw that to the left of the front door of the main building was a gate in the railings that allowed access to the basement. The staircase down was roofed in grey lead, lined inside with striped fabric. It looked like the entrance to a smart marquee.

‘Are you a member, miss?’ enquired the doorman.

‘No. But my uncle is David McCorquodale. I’m Allegra. He’s expecting me.’

The doorman was clearly accustomed to keeping his expression neutral no matter how many society beauties, film stars or famous faces passed by, but even so Allegra detected a subtle change in it: an added sense of respect and deference. He stepped back and gestured down the stairs.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and began to walk carefully down them, not wanting to trip in her high heels.

The stairs descended to a level where there was a sharp left turn into the basement of the house above. Light came flooding out, as though beckoning her in, and Allegra walked straight into a long, narrow hallway through a pair of open saloon-style doors painted the same dull cream as the walls. A man in a smart suit stood by a reception-style window and nodded his head politely as she approached.

‘Good evening, miss. Are you with a member?’

‘No, no,’ she said, looking around for David. ‘I mean, yes. I’m Allegra McCorquodale. I’m meeting my uncle, David McCorquodale.’

‘Of course.’ The man smiled and gestured to a doorway behind her. ‘Would you like to leave anything in the cloakroom?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Then please follow me to the bar and I will find Mr Mac for you.’ He turned and walked ahead of her down the corridor. They passed a sitting room off to the left, and then, just ahead, the corridor opened up. On one side was a bar area with tall stools around the polished wooden counter, and on the other was another large sitting-room area. The immediate impression was of somewhere that was cosy and welcoming.

‘Where would you like to wait, miss?’ asked the man.

‘At the bar, please.’

He led her over and pulled out a stool for her. As she sat down, he said, ‘What would you like to drink, miss?’

‘May I have a white wine spritzer, please?’ That sounded suitably grown up and sophisticated, she thought. It was the kind of drink Miranda had when she was lunching at Daphne’s with her friends.

‘Of course.’ He nodded to the man behind the bar, who was wearing a pale grey jacket over a white shirt and black tie, and he immediately started preparing her drink. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll fetch Mr Mac for you.’

She glanced around at the bar. She noticed now that its ceiling was vaulted and there were pillars running the length of the corridor, no doubt supporting the house above. Between the bar and the corridor, and the corridor and the sitting area, the pillars had been semi-filled with a low wall that created both a visual barrier and a handy place for people to sit when there were no chairs available. It was quiet at the moment: at the other end of the bar, a businessman was sitting alone with the
Evening Standard
and a glass of something strong on the rocks. In the sitting-room
area
, a middle-aged couple were turned to each other on the red-velvet banquette, talking and laughing. The things she noticed most were the pictures: the walls were covered in them. Above the bar hung racing oils and prints; on the walls around it there were Bateman cartoons and
Vanity Fair
caricatures.

The barman placed her drink in front of her. She thanked him. It looked very inviting, packed with ice cubes. She took a sip that bubbled lightly over her tongue.

A moment later, David was standing beside her. ‘Hello, my darling. I was just in the office. What are you drinking? White wine spritzer? Oh, how vile. How is it?’ He examined everything critically as he spoke while the barman looked on anxiously, obviously hoping that nothing would be found wanting.

‘It’s fine. Very good.’ Allegra smiled at him. Her uncle looked very smart and Savile Row tonight, wearing a beautifully cut dark suit, a blue-and-silver striped silk tie and black Lobb shoes, his thick silver hair brushed back with a touch of the bouffant.

‘You look utterly gorgeous. Stand up.’ She did so and he looked her up and down with an expert eye. ‘You really are a ravishing creature, Allegra. You were quite ordinary as a child, I thought, but look at you now! I’m so jealous, you must have a perfect queue of gorgeous men.’

Allegra smiled. It was certainly pleasing to be complimented by Uncle David, and as she knew he had wonderful taste, she was particularly happy. ‘Thank you.’

‘Bring your drink and I’ll show you around. It’s very quiet at the moment. We only open at eight o’clock and generally it’s just a few members in the bar then, savouring the quiet before going home. Some people are in for an early dinner – there’s usually an eight o’clock table or two – but things don’t really start moving until ten, then take off at midnight.
We
close at three. I’ve been a night owl for longer than you can believe – lucky that I don’t need much sleep.’ He led the way out of the bar. ‘We’ll have a spot of dinner ourselves once I’ve shown you around.’

Beyond the bar was a long vaulted room carpeted in rich, dark rugs and with columns running the length of both sides, no doubt structural, and a series of bays between these. Each bay was designed like a tiny private sitting room: a cosy sofa was piled with cushions, and to each side stood comfortable armchairs with smaller antique chairs and stools set in front of a low table. Every inch of space was occupied by something: on the walls hung gilt-framed paintings of all styles and periods – oils, watercolours, sketches and oriental silk prints all packed together; every surface held another gorgeous lamp with a classic pleated silk shade in dark red or old ivory, or a plant emerging from a Sèvres cache-pot, or a vase of creamy flowers, or a sweet statue of an eighteenth-century lady or bronze figure of a dog, or a row of gilded, leather-bound books propped up by bronze bookends. The fabrics used were all luxurious and the colours were rich: dark reds, forest greens, golds and purples. The lighting was kept discreet, with only the soft glow of lamps and tiny spotlights illuminating the pictures. The effect was warm and welcoming with so many tasteful little details that it seemed entirely idiosyncratic, not at all like the bland, corporate vision of modern restaurants and hotel chains.