“The occasion is that you’re finally coming out with us, Kitten,” he says.
They all laugh, the same gritty octaves, and I do my best to disguise my sneer and smile along.Just play the game,I remind myself.
Even though I’ve made up my mind that I will only tolerate the evening—notenjoy it—I’ve got to admit that there’s a certain novelty to sipping a three-hundred-pound bottle of champagne in the back of a London cab. Especially en route to the city’s most glamorous hangout … even if I am with Harold and his sidekicks.
By the time the cabby announces we’ve arrived, I’m feeling slightly dizzy from some combination of the bendy streets and two glasses of bubbly.
From the outside, Annabel’s doesn’t look nearly as majestic as I might have thought, given its reputation, though perhaps that’s just because everything in its Mayfair neighborhood drips with money, so it’s hard to stand out. If I didn’t know better, it might just beanother three-level sandstone townhome with a massive, pristinely painted black front door.
A doorman stands outside, dressed in a tuxedo and a top hat. “Mr. Turpi,” he says, tipping his hat. “Lovely to see you, as always.” He opens the huge door for us, and I step inside.
Immediately, I feel like I’ve been catapulted into a different realm—a spell-cast version of London plucked straight from a magazine or a high-budget Netflix series.
Opulent chandeliers dangle from the coffered ceiling, their ornamental crystals winking with a wicked sort of merriment. Velvet maroon wallpaper rims the foyer, and a golden-tasseled spiral staircase twists up and out of sight. Tropical ferns and dyed pink ostrich feathers poke out of giant porcelain vases.
The competing styles of riches are pushed together so confidently that the place seems entirely unconcerned with anyone’s conclusion that it might all might be a bit outlandish, a bittoo much.
Annabel’s interior has all the drama that the outside does not. And for better or for worse, it feels more impressive, more special this way. Reserving the fancy trappings for only those charmed individuals who are on the list, rather than making them freely available to be glimpsed by squibs on the street.
I want to despise the club for its flashiness, its elitism, but I find myself falling in love with it instead. An unexpected liberation fills me as I spin my neck around every which way, trying to sponge it all up. I get the feeling that I can be anyone here. That this is some kind of delightful suspension from reality. Almost like a less trashy slice of Las Vegas.
What happens at Annabel’s …The phrase pops into my head like a promise.
Someone offers to take our coats, and I feel Harold’s eyes on me as I shed my trench and reveal the black sheath dress underneath, sans the blazer I was wearing at the office. There’s nothing scandalous about the dress, but it’s not exactly my most conservative option either, hugging my curves more than my typical work outfits, cutting slightly lower at the front.
One hand resting on the small of my back, Harold escorts me into the next room—a restaurant with swooping green drapes, a gargoyle-guarded fireplace, and elephant landscapes painted onto the yellow walls. Impeccably dressed diners pick at aubergine and oysters while carrying on hushed conversations, perhaps because they don’t want to be overheard, or are just scared that showing any emotion will undo the Botox.
We keep going, back into another room with darker lighting, no windows, and a salacious sort of energy wiggling its way along the electro-jazz currents of the music. A long marble bar stretches the length of the room, and the only lights come from the wild walls, which are piped with glowing jungle patterns. The ceiling, lined with reflective metal strips, looks like it’s out of a sci-fi movie.
A waiter appears (everyone and everything seems to justappearhere) and leads us to a corner booth. Cheetah-print plush seating wraps around a rectangular glass table with multiple crystal ash trays.
“Your usual spot, Mr. Turpi,” he says fawningly. “A round of old-fashioneds to start?”
“And let’s add in a Manhattan, shall we?” he says. “For our American guest of honor.” He pats my shoulder as we sit down, like I’m something to show off.
I don’t flick his hand away or tell him that I don’t like Manhattans. I just thank him and scooch over to make room for the others from our group who are piling in too.
The first round arrives quickly, followed by tequila shots with pineapple juice—called Craig Davids, as I know from Jules. I try one of everything, just for something different. And it’s easier to sit back and sip than actively contribute to the conversation with Harold.
The people-watching scene is incredible. I don’t recognize anyone, but I get the feeling Ishouldrecognize some of them from the way they’re carrying themselves, like they’re used to posing for the cameras or running from them, depending on their mood.
The juniors are whispering excitedly, pointing to the next table over. The group of mannequin-shaped women are alarmingly gorgeous with mile-long limbs and stone-cut faces.
“That’s Emory!” one of the juniors tells me when I ask what’s going on. At my blank expression, she adds, “Only Britain’s top model!” She whips out her phone camera.
“No photos allowed in here, I’m afraid,” Harold says, craning his way into the conversation. “Annabel’s is our one reprieve from the paparazzi.” He says this with the air of someone who is compelled to frequently evade the press with tiresome disguises. “But I reckon I could get you a cheeky picture with Emory. We’re quite close, we are.”
I figure he’s just talking a big game, but he stands up and swaggers over to Emory’s table, resting a hand on her bare shoulder. I wait for her to shoo him away, but she flashes him a warm smile, rising to embrace him. She towers over him, all legs and bones, and next thing, she’s coming over to our table and taking duck-facedselfies with the starstruck juniors. On her way back to her group, she kisses Harold’s cheek, making his whole chest puff out, as if the mark of her red lipstick is the highest status symbol a mortal man might hope for. “What’d I tell you?” he says once she’s left, as the juniors coo with awe.
After another cocktail—some peach-colored slushie with cotton candy on the rim—the room starts to sway in an artistic sort of way. The tropical walls slope up to the sci-fi ceiling, and I picture myself joining a colony of aliens in the rainforest, swinging freely from the treetops.
Oliver heads out, says it’s his anniversary so he’s got to get home to take his wife out to dinner. He announces this like it’s a chore, like he’d much rather stay here and get pissed all night. As he leaves, he nods to me as if to say that he’s glad that I’m taking his feedback to heart.
The music has slid into 2000s pop. “Oldies are my favorite!” the juniors exclaim, making me feel ancient. Bouncing up on the couch, they dance and holler to Mr. Brightside. I reach out a hand to help them down so they won’t hurt themselves or cause a scene, but Harold warns me off. “Let them at it,” he says. “They’re just having a good time—can’t fault them for that.” He looks very pleased to be associated with the young, lively table.
Something takes hold of me, or lets go of me. I should be able to break out of my corporate image a bit and have some fun. Everyone else does it, and people like them better for it.
To symbolize my newfound spirit, I take the clip out of my bun and let my hair fall to my shoulders. I get up and join the juniors on the couch, working to stay upright as my heels wobble on the cushion as we dance.
