tight bun with wispy strands that
frame her heart-shaped face. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are cobalt blue and dazzle against her pale skin (‘a tan is so ageing, darling’), and she always smells of face powder
and Chanel No. 5. She used to be a professional dancer. Among many other things, she was one of the Windmill Girls at the famous theatre in Great Windmill Street, which remained open throughout the
war and which was famous for its nude tableaux vivants. I’ve never really understood exactly what that means, though. Lily just says it was ‘art’. She always wears black
and white (‘you can’t go wrong, darling’) and is never to be seen without a double string of real pearls around her neck. When I look at her I am reminded that real style
transcends time. She tells the most wonderful stories of London in the fifties. She’s utterly fabulous and I love spending time with her.
Her customers enter Lily’s tearoom just a few steps down from the basement shop floor where there’s a sign saying ‘Please wait to be seated’. I know Londoners hate to be
kept waiting for anything, but you need this moment to take in the wonderful surroundings. The tearoom hasn’t been decorated since the 1930s; somehow it escaped Sebastian’s dire
makeover back in the late 1980s. Black and white tiles cover the floor and the little round tables all have claret-coloured vintage table lamps with faded, tasselled shades that glow invitingly. It
makes me think of the film Brief Encounter , even though there isn’t a railway carriage in sight. It has a warmth and intimacy I adore, and when I’m there I always imagine the
hundreds of love affairs that must have played out here over the past century. The old walls are painted a deep, rich burgundy and along each side of the room brass lights glimmer merrily beneath
faded gold lampshades. Vintage tea cups are laid at every place and original, framed black-and-white movie stills from the thirties and forties hang on the walls, with signatures from stars like
Cary Grant, Clark Gable and Bette Davis, all of whom visited the store at some point.
I grin as I notice that since my last visit Lily has put two real Christmas trees either side of the sign and has adorned them with gorgeous vintage decorations and fairy lights shaped like
candles, as well as hanging old-fashioned paper chains around the room. She clearly disapproves of the store’s Christmas decorations as much as I do. She waves at me from behind the counter,
which displays a number of china cake stands filled with the most delicious homemade cakes, pastries and desserts. None of them is baked by her, though. Lily won’t mind me saying this, but
she can’t cook to save her life. She says it’s because she was too busy having dinner dates every night in her youth to learn. And I don’t doubt it.
‘Darling Evie,’ she calls, ‘I almost didn’t recognize you! You look like you could have been a Windmill Girl!’
I touch my hair and realize I still have the peacock-feather fascinator on from earlier. No wonder Carly looked at me strangely when she came in. I tug it off my head and try not to blush.
‘Come and sit down!’ Lily ushers me into the tearoom, twirling around me with her dancer’s grace. ‘Iris, look who it is!’ she calls merrily. I turn to wave at Iris,
who beams at me as she lifts a piece of Victoria sponge to her lips.
‘Sit down, dearheart!’ Iris says, and she dabs the corner of her mouth delicately with her napkin. ‘Lily, dear, stop gabbling at her and get this girl a cup of tea. She looks
like she needs it.’
Mrs Jackson is in her late sixties but, like Lily, she looks more like a movie star than an OAP; Jane Fonda springs to mind. Iris’s dyed and highlighted hair is perfectly straightened in a
sharp, flicky style around her face, and her eyes shine brightly from within her carefully painted gold and tawny-brown powdered eyelids. Her lips are always covered in
frame her heart-shaped face. Her lips are painted red and her eyes are cobalt blue and dazzle against her pale skin (‘a tan is so ageing, darling’), and she always smells of face powder
and Chanel No. 5. She used to be a professional dancer. Among many other things, she was one of the Windmill Girls at the famous theatre in Great Windmill Street, which remained open throughout the
war and which was famous for its nude tableaux vivants. I’ve never really understood exactly what that means, though. Lily just says it was ‘art’. She always wears black
and white (‘you can’t go wrong, darling’) and is never to be seen without a double string of real pearls around her neck. When I look at her I am reminded that real style
transcends time. She tells the most wonderful stories of London in the fifties. She’s utterly fabulous and I love spending time with her.
Her customers enter Lily’s tearoom just a few steps down from the basement shop floor where there’s a sign saying ‘Please wait to be seated’. I know Londoners hate to be
kept waiting for anything, but you need this moment to take in the wonderful surroundings. The tearoom hasn’t been decorated since the 1930s; somehow it escaped Sebastian’s dire
makeover back in the late 1980s. Black and white tiles cover the floor and the little round tables all have claret-coloured vintage table lamps with faded, tasselled shades that glow invitingly. It
makes me think of the film Brief Encounter , even though there isn’t a railway carriage in sight. It has a warmth and intimacy I adore, and when I’m there I always imagine the
hundreds of love affairs that must have played out here over the past century. The old walls are painted a deep, rich burgundy and along each side of the room brass lights glimmer merrily beneath
faded gold lampshades. Vintage tea cups are laid at every place and original, framed black-and-white movie stills from the thirties and forties hang on the walls, with signatures from stars like
Cary Grant, Clark Gable and Bette Davis, all of whom visited the store at some point.
I grin as I notice that since my last visit Lily has put two real Christmas trees either side of the sign and has adorned them with gorgeous vintage decorations and fairy lights shaped like
candles, as well as hanging old-fashioned paper chains around the room. She clearly disapproves of the store’s Christmas decorations as much as I do. She waves at me from behind the counter,
which displays a number of china cake stands filled with the most delicious homemade cakes, pastries and desserts. None of them is baked by her, though. Lily won’t mind me saying this, but
she can’t cook to save her life. She says it’s because she was too busy having dinner dates every night in her youth to learn. And I don’t doubt it.
‘Darling Evie,’ she calls, ‘I almost didn’t recognize you! You look like you could have been a Windmill Girl!’
I touch my hair and realize I still have the peacock-feather fascinator on from earlier. No wonder Carly looked at me strangely when she came in. I tug it off my head and try not to blush.
‘Come and sit down!’ Lily ushers me into the tearoom, twirling around me with her dancer’s grace. ‘Iris, look who it is!’ she calls merrily. I turn to wave at Iris,
who beams at me as she lifts a piece of Victoria sponge to her lips.
‘Sit down, dearheart!’ Iris says, and she dabs the corner of her mouth delicately with her napkin. ‘Lily, dear, stop gabbling at her and get this girl a cup of tea. She looks
like she needs it.’
Mrs Jackson is in her late sixties but, like Lily, she looks more like a movie star than an OAP; Jane Fonda springs to mind. Iris’s dyed and highlighted hair is perfectly straightened in a
sharp, flicky style around her face, and her eyes shine brightly from within her carefully painted gold and tawny-brown powdered eyelids. Her lips are always covered in
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