It was a cold, cold day. I’d spent most of it in bed, wrapped in my duvet like a sausage roll. Just before the sun set at about half past 4, a friend I hadn’t heard from for a while rang. She had some cousins visiting so wanted to go out. Knowing that I was stuck in London over Christmas with everyone away, she asked me if I’d go along. I agreed, knowing that it wouldn’t be a regular night out. I was quite bored, anyway. There’s only so much you can watch on iPlayer and 4oD.
Naturally, I lazed around until she rang at about 7 pm and very kindly told me I couldn’t wear my usual uniform of a black t-shirt and jeans, but I had to ‘dress up’. In her world, that’s quite normal for dinner. In my world, it means at least two hours of primping. I jumped out of bed. I hated being late.
I was late. I missed dinner, but she didn’t seem too fussed about it. They were dining at Novikov, so I was secretly glad I had missed it given that it would’ve left a gaping hole in my bank account. I scuttled down Berkeley Street as quickly as my high-heels would let me. I had noticed about four missed calls from her when I stuffed my hands and phone into my coat pocket as I exited Green Park Station.
Her cousins were lovely and welcoming. They were all impeccably dressed, make-up and hair done so nicely that they looked airbrushed, like they had just stepped out of a magazine. I’m sure my friend’s handbag cost more than my entire wardrobe. I felt rather shabby in my nicest Zara clothes. Obviously, none of them paid any attention but asked me polite questions about how my life was going.
I still had no idea where we were off to. I turned to my friend and asked her, and she replied saying, “Oh, I thought I told you! We’re going to Annabel’s!"
To most people, that may seem like a person’s house. For someone who has lived in London for over a year it is something entirely different. Annabel’s is one of those places we read about in the tabloids and several magazines. It’s where the crème de la crème of British high society like to hobnob. The scandalous club has hosted Frank Sinatra, Jack Black, Mick Jagger, the Queen and probably any other celebrity you can think of. Ridley Scott has made a movie about it.
We all piled into taxis and headed towards Berkeley Square. It’s walkable, and on a normal day, I would’ve laughed at anyone who wanted to take their cars there. But, no, not to Annabel’s.
Obviously, I was aware of the hype surrounding the place. But nothing had prepared me for what was inside. It is, by far, the most beautiful club I have been to in this lifetime. No, nothing would knock it off the #1 spot. I was quite used to the other clubs in Mayfair, which had a strict door policy. They took a lot of pride in making people wait outside. There wasn’t a queue outside Annabel’s. There were no people standing around, waiting to get in. The doorman welcomed us with a cheery smile, and we went downstairs.
I watched the crowd carefully for the first few minutes I was there. I’m fairly certain I came across as a rather strange person, just staring everyone down, but I was fascinated by the different people in the room. A couple of bankers, which is not unusual. Aged gentlemen with women who looked young enough to be their granddaughters draped on their arms. A bunch of young girls who looked like porcelain dolls giving each other icy glares. Another bunch who had spent too much time in those fake tan machines – they looked like a bunch of carrots. Two football players. Three A-list Hollywood celebrities. A group of young men, looking for their next conquest, no doubt. Some of the Made in Chelsea cast. Most of them dancing, letting their hair down, without a care in the world. It was simply fascinating and different, compared to the other pretentious places in the surrounding areas.
By the time we left Annabel’s in the wee hours of the morning, there were people milling about, probably trying to get in. We got a few jealous looks from some women standing outside, who were presumably not let in. They’re quite strict about their door policy, as far as I can tell. I’ll admit, I did feel rather small at the beginning of the night, and a bit taken aback by the different people in there. But for those few hours, we were all the same. Nobody was starstruck. Nobody was pointing and whispering. Nobody was a celebrity. We were people who loved being at Annabel’s, just having fun, without thinking about what awaits us outside those doors. For those few hours, we were all the same.
Note: At the time of writing this, I had only been here once. I have been here several times since and have always felt the same way. This will always be one of my favourite places in London. I do hope they do just as well once they relocate!
