Some hotels are for those on business, some for the weary, others for lovers. …At Sloane could only be for the latter. Though it exists to provide food, drink and shelter, its foremost — or is that dominant? — concern is surely seduction.
Seduction, but nothing lascivious: there are no wink-wink, nudge-nudge flourishes, no crude leather furnishings, no tactless statues. It is not making a spectacle of itself. Discretion is preferred. Witness the outside: a handsome red-brick, white-windowed Victorian mansion block, it has no signage; for those who do not know, there are no clues beyond a doorman rocking on his heels. Through floor-length curtains, there is nothing so prosaic as a reception: in its place is a candlelit library under Arts and Crafts lanterns, black bookcases filled with photography bibles, a scattering of games. Antique vases sit on top of the cases, etched with scenes of Greek naughtiness. The room is dominated by a long table at which staff sit at their laptops, as stylish as the room they work in. You feel better about yourself on walking in, as if their good looks might be catching.
