people; couples mainly: the men in sharply fitted suits, the women in elegant, flowing gowns. At the door, the bouncers said hello to every well-dressed
patron.
David straightened his tie and ran his hands through his thinning hair. One drink, he told himself, and then he’d call a taxi. He could hear the chatter, could feel the excitement of the
patrons flooding through the door.
‘Good evening, sir,’ the doorman said. ‘Welcome to the Delphinium.’
Inside, the lobby smelled richly of tobacco, leather and freshly cut flowers. Men and women streamed through it and down the grand stairway. At its foot, the dark smoky bar area
was full; groups were talking and drinking, some sat at booths, others around round tables; others standing, cigarettes aloft in long holders. Once through the door, David paused, taking in the
sound of women’s heels on marble, of muffled conversations, of soft piped music. ‘Isn’t this just to die for?’ a woman wearing an emerald dress with silver brocade said to
her companion as she walked by. ‘Isn’t it just divine?’
Realizing he was blocking the door, David walked slowly in the couple’s wake, passing two payphone booths and the reception desk, thinking of just how much John would have loved this
place: its clubby gentility, its well-dressed women and effortless American chic. Ava Gardner would fit in here, he thought, Frank Sinatra, Dorothy Parker, but most of all John. He could imagine
him, drink in hand, talking his way around the room like he’d been born to do just that, a smile on his lips and women swooning at his accent.
David reached the stairs and was about to descend to the bustling bar when a man hailed him. He was slick-haired and wet-lipped, his face that of utmost concern.
‘Excuse me, sir, can I perhaps be of assistance?’
David looked at the man, then at the staircase. ‘I’d just like to have a drink, actually, if that’s okay.’
The man smiled and looked slightly relieved. ‘But of course, sir,’ he said. ‘You may also like to know that Miss Amelia will be on stage in’ – he took out his
pocket watch and looked at its face – ‘a little under fifteen minutes. She will be performing in the Oak Bar, which is through the double doors to the left of the bar area.’ With
that he bowed his head, clicked his heels and walked off towards reception.
David moved slowly, slightly confusedly. He heard snippets of conversation, the high giggling laughs of flirting women, the gruff chuckles of men. He could not keep his eyes from the tables. If
the men looked like movie stars, the women – their hairstyles curled and coiled, their waistlines obviously cinched by corsetry – seemed otherworldly. Their make-up was immaculate, and
when David’s glance fell on one of the women for too long, his was met with a look of withering contempt. Embarrassed, he kept his head down until he reached the bar.
‘Hello, sir, what can I get you?’ the bartender said. Like the earlier employee of the hotel, he was impeccably dressed with an oiled widow’s peak and a manicured pencil
moustache.
‘I thought a cocktail,’ David said. ‘It seems everyone else is drinking cocktails.’
‘A wise decision, sir. And is there a particular cocktail you would like . . . ?’
‘Well, I did think—’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I would recommend the Manhattan. I pride myself on making the finest Manhattan in the county.’
David lit a cigarette and nodded. ‘A Manhattan sounds great, thank you.’
In the nearest booth, three couples were discussing their Malibu beach homes, the problems of domestic staff and plans for a Parisian holiday. One of the men had recently bought
a Triumph Thunderbird motorcycle and was talking about it in rapturous terms. The woman to his right said that, as far as she was concerned, it was absurd to be scared about the big things in the
world when you could die at any moment – especially on the back of a
patron.
David straightened his tie and ran his hands through his thinning hair. One drink, he told himself, and then he’d call a taxi. He could hear the chatter, could feel the excitement of the
patrons flooding through the door.
‘Good evening, sir,’ the doorman said. ‘Welcome to the Delphinium.’
Inside, the lobby smelled richly of tobacco, leather and freshly cut flowers. Men and women streamed through it and down the grand stairway. At its foot, the dark smoky bar area
was full; groups were talking and drinking, some sat at booths, others around round tables; others standing, cigarettes aloft in long holders. Once through the door, David paused, taking in the
sound of women’s heels on marble, of muffled conversations, of soft piped music. ‘Isn’t this just to die for?’ a woman wearing an emerald dress with silver brocade said to
her companion as she walked by. ‘Isn’t it just divine?’
Realizing he was blocking the door, David walked slowly in the couple’s wake, passing two payphone booths and the reception desk, thinking of just how much John would have loved this
place: its clubby gentility, its well-dressed women and effortless American chic. Ava Gardner would fit in here, he thought, Frank Sinatra, Dorothy Parker, but most of all John. He could imagine
him, drink in hand, talking his way around the room like he’d been born to do just that, a smile on his lips and women swooning at his accent.
David reached the stairs and was about to descend to the bustling bar when a man hailed him. He was slick-haired and wet-lipped, his face that of utmost concern.
‘Excuse me, sir, can I perhaps be of assistance?’
David looked at the man, then at the staircase. ‘I’d just like to have a drink, actually, if that’s okay.’
The man smiled and looked slightly relieved. ‘But of course, sir,’ he said. ‘You may also like to know that Miss Amelia will be on stage in’ – he took out his
pocket watch and looked at its face – ‘a little under fifteen minutes. She will be performing in the Oak Bar, which is through the double doors to the left of the bar area.’ With
that he bowed his head, clicked his heels and walked off towards reception.
David moved slowly, slightly confusedly. He heard snippets of conversation, the high giggling laughs of flirting women, the gruff chuckles of men. He could not keep his eyes from the tables. If
the men looked like movie stars, the women – their hairstyles curled and coiled, their waistlines obviously cinched by corsetry – seemed otherworldly. Their make-up was immaculate, and
when David’s glance fell on one of the women for too long, his was met with a look of withering contempt. Embarrassed, he kept his head down until he reached the bar.
‘Hello, sir, what can I get you?’ the bartender said. Like the earlier employee of the hotel, he was impeccably dressed with an oiled widow’s peak and a manicured pencil
moustache.
‘I thought a cocktail,’ David said. ‘It seems everyone else is drinking cocktails.’
‘A wise decision, sir. And is there a particular cocktail you would like . . . ?’
‘Well, I did think—’
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I would recommend the Manhattan. I pride myself on making the finest Manhattan in the county.’
David lit a cigarette and nodded. ‘A Manhattan sounds great, thank you.’
In the nearest booth, three couples were discussing their Malibu beach homes, the problems of domestic staff and plans for a Parisian holiday. One of the men had recently bought
a Triumph Thunderbird motorcycle and was talking about it in rapturous terms. The woman to his right said that, as far as she was concerned, it was absurd to be scared about the big things in the
world when you could die at any moment – especially on the back of a
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