Some milestones hit harder than others. Your 40th birthday is a more bittersweet occasion than your 21st; your 60th wedding anniversary deserves its own Nobel prize. So when a mysteriously heavy black envelope plopped through the letterbox, I was intrigued to open it and find a membership card from Soho House. I haven’t laid eyes on my existing card for years, always scanning into the Houses on my iPhone. A physical card? How quaintly retro.
But this, it transpired, wasn’t just any card. It was a commemorative card designed by the artist Peter Blake. What was it commemorating? Why, my 20th anniversary as a member.
Just as Kate Moss is probably still scratching her head in disbelief at turning 50, I’m equally baffled that I’ve belonged to Soho House for 20 years. Wasn’t it yesterday that I was sending off my application with low hopes of it being accepted? At the time, I was fashion director of this newspaper — a creative job, for sure — but in 2004, I had no idea whether it would be enough to pass muster with the notoriously discerning committee, who according to rumour, had turned down luminaries way more creative than me.
Happily, the computer (and Vanessa) said “yes”, and so began a two-decade relationship with a club that has always welcomed me with open arms, even when my own were shabbily clad or carrying a toddler. They are where I’ve celebrated and commiserated, eaten and got (very) drunk, worked hard and played harder. When Soho House New York opened in the Meatpacking district, I made it my base every fashion week, while the top floor there rapidly became the epicentre of Manhattan. I had my babymoon at Babington manor in Somerset, my Mother’s Days at Shoreditch and my 49th in the Jacobean suite at Kettner’s.
As soon as lockdown ended, my friend Phoebe and I decamped to Soho Farmhouse in Chipping Norton to live like lords on the credits which chief executive Nick Jones issued to every member in lieu of the Houses being closed during the pandemic. For another birthday, I flew to Soho House Miami for a night, while a family holiday at Soho House Barcelona is still vivid in my memory thanks to Javier, a waiter whose kindness to my then-small daughters brought a lump to my throat.
If the Houses are larger, chic-er, idealised versions of your own home, it’s the staff that make them special
For if the Houses are larger, chic-er, idealised versions of your own home, it’s the staff that make them special. Groucho Marx might have refused to join any club that would have him as a member, but for those whose psychology runs more towards the self-deprecating, a Soho House membership feels like a privilege; a “f***, I’ve made it” moment of which there aren’t always that many in life.
I follow the Instagram account @sohohousememes like every other member, but if the Houses really were as full of arrogant tosspots as it makes out, I wouldn’t feel comfortable there. Though, I can’t vouch for the type of punters propping up the bar at 2am on Saturday morning.
Which brings me to my current status — middle-aged — a life stage where you’re not really going out in Shoreditch, Soho or SoHo as frequently or as late as you used to. When it comes to being a member of Soho House, how old is too old? In an “age ain’t nothing but a number” era, the correct answer is “never”, but the fiscal answer gives more pause for thought. Have I ever worked out the cost per visit of my annual four-figure membership fee? Hell to the no. I don’t want to know it.
Giving up my membership would feel like giving up on hope; the hope that there is life after parenting; the hope that somewhere out there is a good time waiting to happen, in a place that smells good, stays open late and always has a seat at the table.
There, lubricated by picantes and Cowshed hand cream, me and my three sign-ins will put the world to rights, safe in the knowledge that nothing bad will happen, and there will always be toilet roll. We live in turbulent times. You can’t put a price on a safe haven with good light, strong drinks and no photography. Privacy? Peace? I’ll pay a premium for them. Here’s to another 20 years.
