It’s Thursday evening and a trail of people are heading up Grosvenor Square. They go two-by-two mostly, some in little gaggles, all are well-dressed in quite different ways. Some are in shirts and some are in dresses, some are in hoodies and some are in trainers that cost as much as a second-hand car. Their destination, it seems, is the same as mine. A great, grey, shimmering cliff of Portland stone from which has been carved a handsome Edwardian mansion.
We pass a doorman dressed in a grey cape and go through heavy double swing doors into a room of high-watt splendour. Chandeliers are reflected to infinity by endless mirrors on the walls and ceiling; there are blue velvet banquettes trimmed in gold and the white and the black cabochon marble floor is so sparkling you could eat your lunch off it. They might even let yo if you were one of the members – they won’t say exactly how many but it is said to be a few hundred – who have been invited to join London’s newest members’ club, The Twenty Two. It has only been open for a few weeks and they’ve already had Madonna, FKA Twigs, Idris Elba and Christian Louboutin in.
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