Hotel Victor

Late one October night, Mr Smith and I arrive in Miami. As our cab winds through the coastal city’s streets, my head rests on Mr Smith’s shoulder – we are both sleepy from a busy week – and fluorescent lights flicker over our drooping eyes. Finally, the cab pulls up at Hotel Victor in South Beach. We open the front door; it is instant caffeine.

Hotel Victor is a grand art deco hotel on bustling Ocean Boulevard, and as we step into its bright lobby, filled with lime green and purple chairs in playful shapes, we see tanned Floridians sipping martinis at the curved Thirties-style bar – the hotel’s original reception desk. It is impossible to feel anything but electrified.

Jacques Garcia’s design ensures this is a hotel that oozes sex appeal. After checking in with the handsome concierge behind a sexy dark desk, we head up to our suite. The room looks like an under-the-sea opium den, complete with a deep red sofa, tasselled hanging lamps resembling Portuguese Man o’ War jellyfish, a marble soaking tub, and a king-size bed with mountains of fluffy pillows. Giant windows look over the ocean – even the toilet paper is so thick and ribbed that it resembles fancy bed sheets. And most seductively, our Chinoiserie boudoir glows in that warm yellow lighting that makes everyone look instantly and effortlessly gorgeous. I grin at Mr Smith, and he winks back.

It’s now 8:30 am. I wake up early and leave a sleeping Mr Smith in a pile of blankets. My destination: a poolside breakfast. The Hotel Victor boasts an infinity pool and sundeck on the second floor overlooking the bustling street scene (A+ people-watching, I note, as a gaggle of bikini-clad women and thickly-gelled-haired men stroll by) and, if you gaze out further, you can spot the sandy beach and sparkling ocean. I grab a chunky towel at the entrance, choose a wooden lounge chair and resist the decadent Lobster Eggs Benedict in favour of oatmeal with brown sugar and dried fruit, along with a freshly squeezed orange juice. The waitress asks if I’d like a Mimosa, but I decide to wait until Mr Smith’s awake to start spiking drinks.

As I eat my oatmeal, I observe how civilised a scene this is. A few early-bird adults laze around the serene pool deck, reading newspapers and drinking coffee…when suddenly the hotel speakers clicked on and the ‘oonz oonz oonz’ of dance music starts pumping. I lay back in my lounge chair, take another bite of oats, and smile. Good morning, Miami.

11:30 am. Finally, Mr Smith rises from the cloud-like bed and takes a rain shower. The room’s marble shower splashes water down from above, which feels like a shoulder massage, and next to you, a small window looks down over the pool, which, if you pull aside the curtain, adds a secret thrill of exhibitionism.

Seafood restaurants dot Ocean Drive, and tanned, barely clad hostesses call out lunch deals at us as we stroll by. ‘$10 entrée special!’ ‘Best crab sandwiches!’ ‘Two-for-one margaritas!’ We end up at Big Pink, on Collins Avenue, an iconic American joint with a big menu and even bigger portions. I order a Mediterranean salad (not forgetting I’ll be in bikini in a hour), while Mr Smith splurges on a cheeseburger, french fries and a chocolate malt shake. (He, of course, let me take sips.)

After lunch, we hit the beach. Beach chairs and umbrellas rented and Mr Smith swims and bodysurfs for hours, while I read my book. As the sun lowers in the sky, we consider hitting Spa V for Knead Me massages and a Turkish hammam, but the rhythm of the waves lulls us into sunkissed naps instead.

Like most couples on romantic getaways, Mr Smith and I typically love debating restaurant options, then heading out for a night on the town. But our room is so cosy and plush that we honestly don’t want to leave. As I admire the abstract nude photographs hanging around the room (‘Is that a nipple?’ I squint), while Edith Piaf and Serge Gainsbourg croon from the room’s iPod speakers, we make a shocking decision. We stay in: words rarely uttered in Miami.

Mr Smith fills the giant rectangular bath (overlooking the ocean, but of course) with steaming hot water and aromatic bath salts. We turn on the jets and showed off our new freckles from the day in the sun. After lounging for what seems like blissful hours, we get out of the tub and Mr Smith slips into a navy waffle-knit robe monogrammed with the hotel’s 1930s logo. (And thank you, Hotel Victor; there’s nothing sexier than a Mr Smith, hair damp and tousled from a bath, wrapped in a robe.) The room service menu offers steaks and pastas, and we finish off with a plate of warm cookies with a mini shake.

As the stars twinkle over us, the room is so quiet and lovely that we feel a million miles from work stress and real life. ‘We could be anywhere,’ I murmur dreamily. Mr Smith agrees, then kisses my forehead and cracks open the window for some warm ocean air… Suddenly we hear a drag queen belting out a Whitney Houston cover from down the street. What were we thinking? We are definitely in Miami.