I Had A Sleepover At Claridge’s – Here’s What It’s Like Inside

I feel a bit wistful as I cut off a hunk of sourdough and put it in the toaster in West London. This time last week I was clattering in leopard print heels over the polished black and white tiles of the foyer at Claridge’s, feeling that if ever our time was up, I’d have to make sure I’d go down drinking champagne dressed up to the nines at this most storied of hotels. Now I’m still eking out the experience with the last few slices of bread I picked up from their in-hotel bakery when I left (trust me, a week later, it’s still perfect).

I’ve had a long history with the grande dame of Brook Street but I’d never actually stayed there. Last week that was rectified and it was worth the 30-year wait. A suite of my own, a balcony from which to gaze over the rooftops of my home town, a chilled glass of the very best champagne in hand, chocolates to nibble and a monogrammed robe to wrap up in. Could I book it for the week? And perhaps never even leave?

Hotel Review: Claridge’s, London

The moment you swing through those revolving doors, you feel instantly better – more polished, more glamorous, more sophisticated. Things only improve after cocktails in the moodily dark Fumoir bar and the most sensational supper at Dante, where a mini martini with your face in the froth is whisked out as soon as you say, ‘I need a drink’. My friend and I were the last to leave.

Hanging out at Claridge’s was part of my very first job. I’d somehow managed to get a post at Condé Nast Publications, which was five minutes down the road in Hanover Square (alas no longer – the end of an era). It was in a newly created department called Contract Publishing, which offered the service of creating Condé-style magazines for clients. The Savoy Group, as they were then, were one of our first, so as an assistant I would sit quietly in meetings with PRs and marketing departments across the group’s portfolio, which then included The Savoy, The Connaught and The Berkeley too. But Claridge’s (named the UK’s best hotel for the last two years running) was always my favourite.

For a start, you’re almost guaranteed to see someone famous in the lobby. For middles, it was where I had one of my most extraordinary professional happenings, which did include one of the most famous people in the world.

Condé Nast Contract Publishing had been engaged to publish a bespoke magazine by a millionaire Hong Kong property developer who had interests in one of London’s most luxurious properties. He’d insisted that his Eastern European ‘associate’ appear on the cover. Crowned as ‘Gold Girl’, she fronted not just the first issue but both that we ever did for him.

He also happened to be friends with Michael Jackson. My editor at the time had been at school with Louis Theroux, who was desperate to get to Jacko for an interview – so one evening I found myself in Claridge’s Bar with Theroux, my editor and the property tycoon – who called Jackson there and then to try and set something up. Famously, Theroux – despite all his endeavours – never got to interview Jackson, and instead documented his failed attempts in the 2003 BBC documentary Louis, Martin & Michael. We, however, did – and ran a 12-page Jackson feature where he was interviewed in conversation with the aforementioned Gold Girl. It’s one of my professional nuggets of gold.

Of course, this is just one of my tiny anecdotes about a building whirling in myth and legend, with stories imbued in every brick. Keeping those stories evolving is Paula Fitzherbert, the legendary Head of Communications, who still reigns supreme (just as she did when I started out in my kitten heels). If you know luxury hotels, you know Paula.

The morning after, as I emerge restored by a deeply blissful swim, sauna and massage in the subterranean spa, she shows me her latest wheeze: the Talking Heads gallery. Along the corridor on the ground floor and looping down the staircase, longstanding artist-in-residence David Downton (I had my portrait sketched by him on a napkin in my Condé Nast days) has not only drawn the hotel’s most famous patrons from days of yore (Churchill, Jackie O, Audrey Hepburn) but, ingeniously, Paula had the idea of keeping things relevant and contemporary (the charge of any great PR) by asking him to also capture her most dazzling guests of now. Take a peek and you’ll find model Erin O’Connor, milliner Stephen Jones, designer Paul Smith and editor Edward Enninful among the modern-day luminaries who can often be spotted strolling along that famous lobby.

Paula also shows me a curation of wonderful Claridge’s memorabilia and items from the archive, from advertisements that promise ‘moderate prices’ (something you won’t find today!) to dance programmes (bring them back!), fans, books and old reviews. It is a mini museum, if you like.

Some of those treasures feature in a brand-new book – the official biography, no less. Claridge’s: Queen of Hotels, Hotel of Kings by historian Martin Williams, in that unmistakable jade green, is a delicious dive into the hotel’s illustrious past and present, packed with stories that make mine look positively tame.

But a book is no substitute for the real thing. So here I am in West London, eking out the last of that sourdough with blissful nostalgia. When it’s gone, there’s only one thing for it. I’ll have to go back for more.

BOOK IT:

Doubles from £930 per night at maybourne.com. Buy the Claridge’s book here.