In late June, I needed to spend the night in without having any place to do so. So I booked a room at because someone, somewhere, I swore, told me they’d liked it. Yet as I sat in the back of a black cab from Gatwick, smelling like the soggy pasta I ate 8 hours ago in seat 42B and sending the same text over and over—“You liked Dean Street Townhouse, yeah?”—I got the same response.
“Never stayed.” Check-in at the hotel, which is part of the Soho House group, is at 3 p.m.
I arrive just past noon. The interiors feel like a polished English country house: a rich wooden bookcase lines the peach painted walls and a chandelier hangs from the ceiling, while a circular turquoise tufted velvet couch sits in the middle. Just beyond is another sitting area where a coffee table has a print copy of .
Antique lithographs hang right behind it. My room isn’t ready yet, but the woman at the reception desk tells me a secret: behind that bookcase is a trick door that leads to a corridor with two full bathrooms. Would I want to freshen up? It’s there, jetlagged in a secret shower lined with Cowshed spa products, that the lightbulb finally goes off.
Wait—I didn’t hear about this place. I read about it. In Yes, : Prince Harry’s scorched earth memoir that sold 3.
6 million copies in its first week and dominated the newspaper headlines for many weeks more. Because He revealed that Camilla Parker Bowles allegedly leaks private information about the royal family to the press. He .
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