I'm dilly-dallying a little as Anna is late and that is very unlike her. Military when it comes to punctuality.
Though it's more likely that it's London in its current state that has delayed her.
London is all happy today. High on dopamine. The sun and shine, in on the celebration, dancing amid the colours, music, people parading its streets. I'm conscious of the effect these substances have on me. Too much of and I overdose.
And so, while I had the willpower, I tore myself away, crossed the park to where she booked us lunch. The Peninsula London Hotel's eighth-floor restaurant. With its prestigious SW1X postcode that I imagine the hotel specifically chose. The location, too, suited it. And, too, rustled a few feathers since it opened in September 2023. I remember, as Adlington & Co. were part of the design team. And sometime after opening, James booked us all a celebratory dinner in one of the famed chef's private dining rooms. Us, Anna, myself, and our significant others. Mine declined, so I never went.
He declined most if not everything James and Charlotte invited us to. And when I eventually questioned it, it sparked an argument. Said he didn't like the relationship between James and I. So what did I do? I did all I could to show him there was nothing between James and me. Guess what? That, too, was cause for more arguments. Eventually, I dropped it. I stopped making excuses to James and James stopped inviting us. I breathed deep realising now it was his small phallus energy that caused that and nothing to do with James. Or me.
Exhaled.
But I remember having real cause to go to James' office one day and him swiping a leading design publication across his desk to me. Pages open to a glorious write-up of the Peninsula London, his full name, James Adlington-Cellurier, spread eagle across the fold-out. The absolute pleasure on his face. We spoke less and less by then, but I was truly happy for him.
That smile plastered itself across my face as I glided past the doorwoman and the enormous glass door she'd swung open for me. I'm unsure who smiled first, but she was smiling, too.
Inside, eyes draw across an open space and out to the court yard where a Bentley Bentayga waited. James had once asked if I knew what a good measure of a luxury hotel was apart from the pool, spa, butler service and a stool for my handbag. (We were working on one of our first projects together.) I'd said no because I truly didn't. 'It's the lobby', he said.
Now standing in this lobby where space is a luxury not a premium, I can see it. And too truly distinguish trademarks of Adlington & Co. in the expansive, light-filled, three-floor ceilinged lobby I'm standing in. Inspiration pulled from contemporary Britain—not that they had to go anywhere to do so. Its full display, I'm sure, best admired from the pianist's location three floors up. And today, this very British space hums with a decidedly British affair: afternoon tea and conversations about the weather.
Seeing the said property in person, I'm quietly proud as I walk around.
Well, I've never stayed in a Peninsula Hotel. Still, based on my recollection of a Bond movie I've watched twice (once, while half asleep), I can see they brought the hallmarks of their Hong Kong-based Peninsula chain with them: luxury, glamour, thoughtful service, and their renowned white suit, gloved and chin-strapped pillbox-capped personnel. And even if they hadn't, their reputation as a masterclass unrivalled in hospitality precedes them.
Along with the lift I'd just exited, my expectations had peaked. And so too had others, seeing how all but one table remained free on this eighth floor terrace. And I am ever so pleased when the waiting staff leads me to it.
I sit. Observe Belgravia's leafy tree tops and its immediate neighbours' rooftops. Across the road, the Lanesborough Hotel, a little off to my left, Park Tower Knightsbridge. Hilton Parklane stands out, lauding its presence over its swanky W1K postcode and a little way up from there, I watch the Dorchester Hotel's flags flap in the mid-day breeze. The memories tagged to these places start my hurt afresh.
I breathed deep.
Again.
We'd dined or stayed in all of them. I'd footed those bills, too. Matter of fact, I'd footed the bill for every damn thing, our house, the car, our holidays, expenses, groceries, his family back in the Caribbean. My sanity. ME.
Exhaled.
The red flags were there waving at me, but I chose not to see them, to believe differently. Now what? He's laughing at my expense and pretending to be the victim in the shitstorm he left me in. I fixed my face to the criss-crossed sky, with its own theatre and performance choreographed by Heathrow.
I'm beginning to think I should have sent one of the hotel's Rolls-Royce Phantom IIs or hybrid Bentley Bentaygas for 'Miss Anna' when she turns up. All five feet, nine inches of her, escorted by a waiting member of staff. Tanned legs strut out from under her fitted mini flippy pink hemmed dress.
Hun, I am so sorry I'm late. London is on another of its highs today.
I know, right.
Getting up to match her energy with a big warm hearted hug.
How are you? How are the babies? How's Jonno? I ask in quick succession as we sit.
Ohh!
Handing me the other bag she's about to put on the bag stool. A Harrods jute grocery shopper for life.
What's this? Peering into the bag. And when my brain comes alive, asked. Has Jonno been home?
No.
No? I shot back, my face confused, fixed not to move.
His parents are here. Flew in yesterday for his birthday. Well, that's what they say. We both know they're here for the babies.
We finished that sentence in unison and a light hearted chuckle between us. And I hugged the sugar apples and tamarind package they'd so thoughtfully brought me to my chest.
Mr and Mrs Gardiner are so sweet. Tell them I say thanks.
You know, you can always come around like you used to and tell them. Plus, Jonno and I miss you. The babies, too, and... it'll get you out of the house.
(The house.)
No longer wishing to meet her gaze, I dipped my head into my hand. Pinched on the upper bridge of my nose to starve the emotions about to threaten me.
Not too untimely, our server comes over. A sharing basket of sourdough bread and butter in hand for the table. Tops up my water glass and that of Anna's. And as Anna is yet to look at the drinks menu, agrees to return.
Jess, how are you?
I am... fine.
No. Really. How are you? Eyes daggering me.
I look her way to tell her I'm okay. She presses those lips of hers together instead of pressing me. That disbelieving look on but she parks it, and I am grateful.
Gosh, it's so nice out here.
Giving the terrace its full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree attention. And I nod in agreement and take a sip from my glass.
What are you drinking? Looking at my glass
Tramonto.
Tramonto. What's that? Flicking back through the cocktails menu.
I list the ingredients. She stops flicking those pages. Instead looks at me dead on. The ingredients stopping short of any alcohol, set a question on her face, not her lips. I shake my head.
Oh, thank god for that.
And waves to our server, who returns, takes her drinks order, and too enquires about our food choices. But we are yet to look at that. On the card is a seven-course tasting menu by the hotel's Michelin-starred chef, which Anna suggests we try. It looks a treat but when our server highlights it can take up to three hours, we both decline. Instead, we opt for something more freeing of our time. Besides, the beetroot starter and smoked monkfish main on another menu sounded delightful, so that's what we ordered.
The thoughtful service I mentioned earlier—the servers have it—kept our drinks, water, bread and butter topped up as the afternoon went on. The clientele, too (a little more reserved than our usual hot spot at SexyFish)—relaxed into their meal, sipped on world-class wines and exchanged soft conversations in the light and spacious surroundings. And I was grateful for it—the peace and quiet, that is. The warm sunshine, too.
We'd not too long gone through our starters, English Mora Farm Beetroot and St Austell Bay Mussels, simple but elegant dishes, when they set down our mains.
Roasted Monkfish, Eel and Red pepper miso with its delicate, beautiful flavours. Anna had swallowed her last forkful of Veal when she professed we needed to look at British food in an entirely new light. And I nodded in wholehearted agreement.
Ooh, hun, I have the most adorable thing to show you.
Fishing her phone from her tote and swiping to a video of her goofing around with the kids. A soca song plays in the background, one I'm often dancing to with the kids. The youngest pleading with her, Mom do your bum like Aunty Jess. Do your bum like Aunty Jess. She replies I can't do my bum like Aunty Jess. The little one asks why, and the older one quips, 'Because she's not cool like Aunty Jess.'
Oh my god, I adore your kids. Cackling. A noise much above anything happening on that terrace.
They miss you, Jess.
Giving me a sympathetic smile, and I went quiet. Swirl my wild strawberry dessert around my dish that had arrived.
Whats happening in that beautiful mind of yours?
She'd asked that after we'd said nothing for a little while. My head down, eyes staring into the dessert; I unconsciously made swirls in. I exhaled, exasperated by it all. The truth is I was still processing it, trying to work out how I was now on the brink of losing everything I'd worked so hard for. The pain re-masking my face.
Jess. She paused. Does James know?
Oh gosh, no. Well I haven't spoken to him.
Are you going to?
I guess, but not right now.
The truth is, I couldn't deal with James' 'I told you he was no good for you.'
Jess. She paused again. Have you and (she flicked her chin in the direction of out there) spoken since?
No.
Has he offered any explanation? Offered any apology? Anything?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Nothing.
That little...
She catches herself and instead calls our server, ordering more drinks.
You know, because some of his friends on the island are hubby's friends, word has come back to him. He's been saying there's no love lost between the two of you.
No shit. Well, Anna, both you and I know that that's bullshit. Rather it's his way of dealing with his horseshit.
The. Liittle. Shiit.
She'd dragged out her Russian accent to say that. The combination of which had the two of us in stitches.
Hun, it's going to be okay. You know that, yes.
She'd pulled up her chair next to mine. I nodded. Raw emotions once again fought to unseat me, and too resurface my meal. But I sat steadfast, Anna holding my hand, our heads resting against each others.
It's going to be okay.
And on that rooftop in Belgravia, I cried.
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Good for: Impressing guests, Closing a deal, Excellent service, Experimental English food
Where: 8th Floor, Peninsula London Hotel
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Disclaimer: While this is both a restaurant review and a creative piece, the name of the architect/interior designer has been changed for the latter purposes.
