Why we all love Claridge's
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Something magical happens when you whirl through the silvery revolving doors at Claridge's. A Cinderella moment, when, just for a short spell, the world becomes more fabulous than it really is: brighter, starrier, softer around the edges, Gershwin's 'Rhapsody in Blue' playing in your head as you sweep across the marble chequerboard of the lobby.
Claridge's is a London legend. It gleams, rather than glitters. It is quietly elegant, eternally classy - though, of course, everyone at Claridge's is much too classy to use the word classy.
This must be how Americans imagine England to be. Crystal chandeliers, panelled walls, flames flickering in the Victorian fireplace. There is gilding and sconcing and curlicued carving. Beneath flower arrangements high as houses, I share a sofa with a famous man in jeans and a cravat who has the laugh of a libertine. Life's most blessed wander back and forth, convivial and graceful in Savile Row tweed, in jewels and curious hats. Piano music and the tinkle of silver spoons on teacups drift through from the Foyer, a mirrored jewel-box where one of the best afternoon teas in London warrants national-treasure status.
Things get more manly in Claridge's Bar and in the superlative restaurant, Davies and Brook by Daniel Humm which is a sibling of New York's critically acclaimed Eleven Madison Park (named The Best Restaurant in the World in 2017).
There is a dark side, too, of course, which can be found through an almost-secret doorway at the foot of the sweeping staircase: The Fumoir, with its leather and aubergine velvet lit dimly through Lalique cut glass, is where bad girls go for cocktails.
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Claridge's has always attracted the world's most fabulous people. When theatre king Richard D'Oyly Carte bought Mr and Mrs Claridge's smart townhouse hotel at the turn of the century and turned it into the grand red-brick property it is today, he and his son Rupert brought with them the life and soul of the West End, a sparkling roll of bon viveurs. Gilbert and Sullivan composed musicals in their suite.
By the 1920s and 1930s, Claridge's had become a Hollywood hangout and the home of the bright young thing - sequin-spangled girls Charlestoning in the ridiculously pretty French Salon (recently refurbished by architect-designer Guy Oliver). Everyone came. Joan Crawford. Cary Grant. Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Aristotle and Jackie Onassis. Spencer Tracy said: 'When I die, I don't want to go to heaven, I want to go to Claridge's.'
Marlene Dietrich checked in for weeks, a succession of lovers slipping up to her room, one of whom was Douglas Fairbanks Jnr. He would leave by the fire exit at sunrise, collars upturned and coat-tails tied to hide his walk of shame, the hotel staff discreet and as tolerant as over-indulgent mothers. Once, the story goes, he ran into the next chap who was on his way up to Dietrich's suite. 'I know where you've been!' said the next suitor. 'Yes,' stage-whispered Fairbanks, a finger to his lips. 'But don't tell Marlene!'
Some holed up here for years. You do get the feeling - as regular Audrey Hepburn said of a certain other affluent institution - that nothing very bad could happen to you at Claridge's; and during World War II you couldn't so much as foxtrot without fear of kicking a Euro peer or Hollywood star. When one caller asked to speak to the king, the telephonist said: 'Certainly sir. Which one?'
Its reputation as a party palace endures. Kate Moss held her 30th here, with the theme 'The Beautiful and The Damned'. Oh, the tales the staff could tell.
Claridge's remains an homage to the Roaring Twenties; yet it has managed to avoid becoming a pastiche, constantly updating the interiors to keep them relevant. Four exuberant suites by Diane Von Furstenberg aside (the Grand Piano Suite is a vision in zebra-print), most of the 197 rooms are clean-lined Art Deco.
Up on the fourth floor the Terrace Suite - thrillingly huge and ours for the weekend - has the feel of a gentleman's apartment: masculine and non-flouncy, with tub chairs in creamy-white leather and David Linley cabinets with the most intricate marquetry and silver detailing, handles engraved with the cursive Claridge's 'C'. The finishes are exquisite, the thoughtful extras a delight: his'n'hers Burberry trenchcoats for London weather; pillows embroidered with our initials. We lie back on them and look out through a wall of French doors across the chim-chim-chiree rooftops of Mayfair. As dusk gathers, one half-expects Dick Van Dyke to come hopping into view with a troupe of smut-cheeked urchins.
My husband mooches around the suite like Bertie Wooster in his London pad. He should be holding a preprandial Julep while his slim cigarette is lit by the butler (all suites come with one), but he is snatched from his reverie back to real life, the one in which he is required to prevent our toddler from using the Linley table as a runway for a toy aeroplane.
Despite the delicate finishes, Claridge's is surprisingly child-friendly. An antique rocking zebra at the foot of the staircase is not too delicate to be ridden. In the Foyer, smiling waiter Shamim finds us a quiet corner, then charms our exuberant son with a teddy bear and pots of home-made jam. Yusuf, the lift man with an uncanny memory for faces, plumps him onto the sofa - yes, sofa - in the last manned lift in London, where Madonna has sat and a thousand prima donnas before her.
Meanwhile I soak up to my neck in the sunken bath, in a bathroom of monochrome marble that is like a portal to old-world London. If it weren't for the Bamford shampoo and efficient plumbing, I would not be surprised if I had, in fact, been transported back to the 1920s. Then I would wear sequins, and sweep down that staircase like Dietrich, as the pianist played Gershwin.
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The Grand Piano Suite by Diane Von Furstenburg at Claridge's, London
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French Salon at Claridge's, London
Hallway in a suite at Claridge's