by Lulu Taylor
‘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.
‘It’s just like someone’s home,’ exclaimed Allegra, looking about her.
‘Yes,’ David said simply. ‘My home. Come on, I’ll show you the dining room.’ The sitting rooms led into another vaulted chamber but this was opened out into one large room. Along the sides ran sage-green velvet banquettes with stiff square cushions in the same fabric. In front of them stood a row of tightly packed small tables, each covered with a thick cream linen tablecloth and dressed with napkins, wine glasses, silvery cutlery and a small square-based lamp with a square cream shade. The wood-panelled walls were hung with hundreds of cartoons from Hollywood’s golden age.
Several of the tables were occupied and David cast his eagle eye over each of them. Then he went to the maître d’, who stood so quietly and respectfully at the entrance to the room that Allegra hadn’t even noticed him, and whispered quietly in his ear. The maître d’ looked stricken but immediately summoned a waiter and conveyed David’s orders in a low voice.
‘David, hello!’ called someone from the nearest table. A businessman in a dark suit was waving and smiling broadly. ‘How are you?’
‘Hello, my dear,’ David said smoothly. ‘How wonderful that you’re here. How are you? Do you have everything you need?’ He went over and spent a few minutes talking to the businessman and his guest, and then went to all the other tables in turn to ask if they had what they wanted and how things were, before expertly disengaging himself and returning to Allegra’s side. Meanwhile, a waiter had arrived with fresh jug of water for one table while another refilled the wine glasses on a second.
‘I like it done just so,’ David muttered as he put an arm round her waist and guided her down the long room. ‘I can’t bear things not to be right. Now, there’s also a private dining room that seats thirty just over there behind that door. And over here is another small bar and more seating. And that, of course, is the dance floor.’
They were now standing at the far end of the club. It seems to go on for a long way, but really it’s a very small space, thought Allegra, glancing back towards the main part of the dining room. She turned to look at the dance floor once more which took up about a quarter of the dining room, with the DJ booth tucked in behind it. It was only about two metres by three and very dark, with a blue underlit floor flickering with hundreds of tiny star lights and more little lights shimmering in the ceiling above. More banquettes, this time in a black-and-white zebra print, were built into the wall so that tired dancers could rest for a moment before returning to the fray. Soft, innocuous melodies floated out of hidden speakers.
‘This will be heaving later,’ David said. ‘But it’s pretty much deserted early on. This discotheque bit was part of what made Colette’s so special when we first opened. All the other clubs had live bands playing the hits of the day, like some sad, countrified wedding reception. But we had two turntables and a DJ playing records seamlessly. That’s what brought the young crowd in. You wouldn’t believe who I’ve seen dancing in here: everyone from royalty to pop stars. I gave a party for the Rolling Stones in the seventies. People are still talking about it.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Or so I like to think. Shall we go and sit down? I don’t know about you but I’m famished.’
They went back into the main part of the dining room and David pulled out a chair at the table nearest to the door so that Allegra could sit down. ‘Hope you don’t mind if I take the banquette. It helps if I can see what’s going on. Lots of owners take the best table in the house, but I prefer to take the least best. There is no bad table, but somehow everyone seems to consider this to be it. So I make everyone’s life easier by taking it myself, and that seems to keep them all happy.’
A white-coated waiter appeared and handed them the menus: stiff cream card printed with dark green flowing script.
‘Now, let’s see. What do I feel like tonight?’ David said critically. ‘The wood pigeon is very good … but perhaps I’ll have the grouse. No, I shall ask Adrian to make up my favourite, a steak tartare. It’s not on the menu today but he keeps some beautiful fillet just for me.’
Allegra cast her eyes over it: it was a very English and very traditional menu, featuring potted shrimps and roast game and rich nursery puddings. ‘I’ll have the chicken,’ she said, noting that there were no prices on her menu.
‘Oh, Allegra, if we were anywhere else I’d be very cross. Chicken is always for the faint of heart. But, luckily, you are in Colette’s, where the chicken is spectacular. Adrian is under orders to make it so. Now, champagne, I think, if you’re finished with that ghastly spritzer thing.’
The service was so discreet that Allegra hardly noticed her food and drink arriving, but suddenly there it was in front of her and it was delicious: everything tasted wonderfully of itself, without too much tinkering and fancification. Meanwhile David talked on, about the club and how he had come to create it.
‘Just friends at first, and friends of friends. I had to raise rather a lot of money and naturally none of it was forthcoming from Papa. I’d burnt my boats there – so I got most of it from my rich pals, promising them founder membership of the place. I knew I had to make it three things: very expensive, very exclusive and very, very sexy. And it was – right from the start. It helped that the opening night was attended by Terence Stamp and Jean Shrimpton, two dukes and at least one royal princess, a
long with hundreds of others, and that the party went on until dawn.
‘The nights we had! The jeunesse dorée all came: beautiful young debs in mini-skirts, louche young aristocrats just down from university and looking for fun, models, actors, artists … I devoted myself to making sure that they would all have the best time possible – the best food and wine, surrounded by luxury. I planned endless parties: carnivals, festivals, themed weeks. All I insisted on was perfection – and that’s not so very much to ask, is it?
‘Colette’s quickly became my life and has stayed so ever since. I’m here every night, making sure that everything is as it should be. I also have my staff, who are all immensely loyal. I don’t much care for change. I like things to stay exactly the same, and so do the members. That’s why they keep coming back.’ David relaxed in his seat and smiled. ‘You know, the funny thing is – I only did it for the laughs. I never expected it to last. Even when we were the rage, the toast of the town, turning them away from the door, I always thought it would all blow over soon enough, and quieten down. But it never has.’
‘How many members are there now?’ asked Allegra, eating a wafer-thin slice of Scottish smoked salmon which had arrived with golden triangles of toast.
‘About five thousand.’ David smiled at her. ‘Such a relief they don’t all want to come at once!’
Allegra looked about her. The dining room was filling up a little more with dark-suited men and women in smart evening dresses. She hadn’t seen anyone of her own age yet. ‘It’s very formal, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is, darling!’ Her uncle looked scandalised at the idea it could be anything else. ‘The rules are: jacket and tie for men, and absolutely no jeans or trainers. Anyone who’s inappropriately dressed is turned away, I don’t care who they are. No exceptions. Cocktail dresses for women – and if they arrive wearing furs, so much the better.’
Allegra laughed. Her empty plate disappeared, and a moment later her chicken arrived as her champagne was topped up. ‘It’s not much like the kind of club Miranda goes to,’ she said confidingly.