Since Annabel’s made its splash and then withered, small, exclusive private clubs have permeated the aristocratic, moneyed set in London and introduced an entirely new vista to the chic elite. Housed in meticulously restored townhouses and mansions on quieter streets in fine neighborhoods, the discreet, elegantly groomed bastions of privilege offer a luxurious, intimate home away from home—British style.My most recent business trip to London found me two fortunate invitations, one to the Arts Club and one to 5 Hertford Street. Upon entering the Arts Club’s lacquered blue door, I was greeted by a beautifully well-polished, Belgian black and white Carrara marble floor, topped by architecturally rich paneled walls, finished in a gleaming navy blue. A deeply coffered white plaster ceiling soared high above, pierced by tiny spotlights that mysteriously focused on the strikingly svelte beauty who politely requested my name. Behind her, quietly shadowed, loomed aggressively fit gentlemen in handsomely fitted tuxedos whose demeanor meant “all business.” Another beautiful attendant then appeared and ushered me through a stately hall where trim-suited businessmen and gorgeous women languorously walked up a plushy carpeted mahogany staircase.
Stepping past exquisitely furnished parlors and small, intimate dining rooms, I was guided past a trellised inner courtyard lush with ferns that were subtly lit. The sound of a trickling fountain mingled with the soft murmur of civilized conversation hanging amidst a hint of Cuban cigar. From these dramatically darkened corridors, I was swept into a lively dining room upholstered in gray cream, with pearlescent Deco glass and fabulously attired men and women. I can only describe it as 21st-century Noel Coward—chicly urban, unapologetically elegant and ultra sophisticated.
My second invitation was to the recently opened 5 Hertford Street, a private club so discreet and so reserved that I traveled up and down block-long Hertford Street for 20 minutes looking longingly into a charming, warmly lit Georgian townhouse with sang de boeuf French doors that were lacquered shut. How did I know that I was required to circle around the back and tread under a thickly overgrown arbor down a cobbled path where a gentleman in full livery and white gloves under a tasseled striped awning would swiftly pull open a highly polished knob?
Inside, it was nothing less than a full-blown English country house—a warmly inviting foyer where a blazing fire (well, a blazing gas fire—London no longer allows wood- or coal-burning fires) immediately shed the damp winter cold. The requisite beautiful English hostess sat fetchingly behind a magnificent mahogany bureau plat laden with very British-looking desk accessories and a large leather-bound guest book. I signed it. She perused my “John Hancock,” nodding knowingly to the requisite dashing lads behind her in snug-fitting morning coats and waistcoats. One of them escorted me through an entry hall strewn with Bessarabian rugs. Fine oil portraits, charcoal drawings and 19th-century prints, amber lit by burnished brass picture lights, lined walls upholstered with a deep green wool damask.
Following the morning coat, I trailed past intimate dining rooms stuffed with 19th-century mahogany antiques, thick crewel curtains draped over toile upholstered walls—exuding that oh-so-casual English country layered look. We passed by cozy sitting rooms where deep upholstered sofas swayed under woolen-clad down cushions undeniably 14 inches thick with bellies so plump and corpulent. Always clustered around a roaring marble manteled fireplace, these furniture groupings beckoned for sensual assignations. Porcelain lamps were covered with pleated patterned shades and everywhere the walls were packed with a mixture of fine oils, subtly modern art, sketches and really good prints. Once led into my host’s dining room, where she was comfortably perched on a zebra-upholstered banquette, I was seated in a mahogany carved Edwardian club chair, seriously tufted in an apricot linen velvet. Surrounding us were handsome groups of the stylishly attired young crowd, pulled up to skirted and fringed tables, conversing gaily beneath sparkling mirrors and sculptural sconces. Formally dressed waiters efficiently catered to every need, delivering excellent contemporary fare with French finesse on knowingly good English bone china. Thin crystal stemware, chased and monogrammed sterling flatware and starched linens set the repast.
Sounds stuffy? Maybe formal? Or quite fussy? But it wasn’t. As my British host, an accomplished decorator in her own right, remarked, “Observe here the well-heeled, fashion-forward crowd escaping from their chilly, modernist flats and office towers. Here they experience a civilized coziness and rich layered traditionalism, the calm conviviality and ease of ‘home’ in a club they are unused to.”
I countered that I thought this felt intensely British and must be commonplace.
She wryly retorted, “The English thirty and forty-somethings have been enamored of the restrained contemporary world for so long that this unabashed, cluttered, accumulative sensuality strikes them as chic, novel and luxuriously intimate.”
I found us lingering for hours enveloped in the amber light, the warm textures and patterns, the attractive furniture and the civilized manners, all the while the winter chill outside seemed a continent away.
My hostess recounted how she had brought a group of friends here before the holidays for a noontime luncheon, and though young mothers with children and husbands at home, none left 5 Hertford Street before 10 o’clock that evening, so enchanting was this environment—eliciting an extended conviviality.
Though certainly not a location I may choose to be on the eve of the Revolution, as a onetime guest I was impressed by the thorough execution of this genre and its charismatic effect on a younger fashion crowd. The electricity in the air was palpable—of a casual nature and supported superbly by the elegant surroundings. Sensuality was pervasive—encouraged by this home/club environment. A mecca for romance, 5 Hertford Street is a gold mine for the gossip columnist. As our assignation was strictly a social lunch for old friends to catch up, we simply savored the moment, enmeshing ourselves in the plump chairs by the warm fire, and talked for hours.
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