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It was sometime in early October that I sat down to dinner at Brasa in Fulham. I took the window seat, and she sat down very demurely and ordered a glass of Syrah Rose. I had the same, but it didn’t matter what I was drinking. Outside, the autumn light made the streets burn red and gold, and I half listened to her relate a date she had once been on. ‘One quite like this’ she said, ‘but the outcome was much more predictable. He wore a hat not dissimilar to your own, but his smile was softer, brighter, and his eyes made signs that he actually cared for my storytelling.’ She giggled, and paused over her starter of grilled baby squid, capers and shallots. I stuck my fork into the potted rabbit terrine, and called the waiter over, ordering another bottle of something, plucking at my cap, rubbing my chin, distracting myself by making small, sad shapes in the sourdough.

I realised then that words were needed, so I tried some pleasantries… ‘your necklace, is it…I mean, I have seen one quite like it…oh, it’s a real diamond?’ and then, with the gulp still in my throat, and my eyes turned to the little boy and his mam on the corner outside…‘they will be opening a new members club here.  Do you watch Made in Chelsea? No? Oh, well they will be attending the launch party.’  I then hungrily did away with the 14 Oz Galloway Sirloin (“one of the best I have ever tasted” I said to myself right then), swallowing a large glass of Montepulciano d’Abbruzo as I did.

That night was one of those nights which end without much more being said or done or won.  ‘Probably because the food and service did all the winning for me’ I reasoned later on, lying in my bed with a ridiculous smile pasted across a very confused face, remembering how she devoured the triple chocolate brownie and vanilla ice cream while I did my best Bruno Mars impression. ‘Nobody’s gonna tell me I can’t’ I had said apologetically, finding her smile too desirable to really make sense of my failed attempt to force feed her a spoon of white chocolate mousse, ginger crumble and strawberry coulis.

Now, nights come and go, and autumn winds turn colder, and a man keeps up his swagger by buying a tailored three-piece tweed suit, a new ‘long hat’, and for more informal occasions, tries the almost-unsightly almost-revolutionary prescription of crossing a waistcoat with a Lacoste polo shirt. Such was my attire when I stumbled up the stairs to the newly designed Broadway House Members Club just a month later.

My lips were curled up menacingly, for I knew she would be there again, probably standing in a red dress at the rooftop bar, sipping on a house fusion of chilli vodka, pink grapefruit tequila and lemongrass & ginger rum. The dress was purple, distinctly rich-looking and two emeralds glimmered on two perfect ears. She was framed by the West London skyline, draped in a cool mist that lingered about her bare shoulders. I was aware that this was going to be difficult, for there were three others marked on her horizon, with slicked back hair (the fineness of which reminded of a rare black stallion), polished shoes, and cigarette lighters that seemed to be set in pure gold. I didn’t notice the barbecue, the trays of champagne and the smell of apple wood chips diffused with Chanel No. 19 perfume. All I saw was the cherry in her mouth, the outrageous smoothness of her being.

Now please, indulge me a moment. The setting was spectacular – rarely have I been to a member’s club with a rooftop and waiters on hand to mix a homemade orange cocktail infused with Jack Daniels, marmalade and old-fashioned Victorian lemonade. Nor have I seen so many cool cats drift so far away from Shoreditch, each with their own peculiar brand of necktie. Nor has the feeling of complete and utter ‘love’ followed in one person’s wake, she, half-floating towards a gentleman lying nonchalantly on a black bean bag, his obvious prowess a razor to my heart. She held eye contact with him all the while, smiling, passing him a drink, before turning, her eyes opening wide, her lips pursing with amusement. ‘How long are you going to stand their staring at me? And what on earth are you wearing! You look utterly daft. Come here you mad boy!’

Later that evening, it was just me and her and the moon, with a couple of Nordic looking chaps in close proximity that didn’t appreciate my very particular method of grooming.  ‘Are they going to be here all night?’ I ask casually, ‘I mean, it’s obvious that you can’t resist me. Even I can tell you that.’ ‘Well, you’ve definitely improved since last time’, she murmurs, sipping some Vina Pena ever so elegantly. ‘You can even put a sentence together this time. Really massive fail last time.’ ‘I know. I shouldn’t have worn that hat.’ I return, smirking bashfully. There is silence, and I offer to find her another drink.  ‘No, I’ll get you one.’ She giggles, and sides away, her profile making me fall down onto the black bean bag. ‘You must be outta your mind my lady.’ I say softly, obscurely, almost tearfully as she goes down to the cocktail bar.

Broadway House Members enjoy the use of wi-fi, a licence open until 1am, priority dinner and party bookings at Brasa, access to Eight Members Clubs in Moorgate & Bank, and perks including hotel deals, members’ wine tastings and cocktails master class evenings.

Brasa London
474—476 Fulham Road
London SW6 1BY
Phone: 0207 610 3137