Royalton

Our New York cab driver completely misses the Royalton. He drives past without even realising the nondescript facade is a hotel. We only discover we’ve passed it when the numbers on the buildings indicate we should have arrived, but haven’t. Not seeing any signs of a grand hotel, we start to question the address scribbled down on our handwritten note. Then the driver calls out to a passerby and we are assured we have arrived.

Perplexed, we walk our bags back a half a block, and find what appears to be an exclusive entrance at number 44, West 44th Street. Just up the street are similar buildings housing the New York Bar, the Harvard Club, the Penn Club and the New York Yacht Club – we are in exclusive company indeed.

The unmarked doors of the chic and discreet Royalton only amplify the feeling that we have become members of some fanciful and elite society that only receives invited guests. Think of the club in Eyes Wide Shut, but without the extreme strangeness.

On entering the Royalton, we are greeted to a sensual feast. It turns out the obscure doors hide a bustling, cool, cosmopolitan crowd in a dark, modern lobby and bar. A floor-to-ceiling gas fireplace divides and defines the large lobby, as do softy glowing modern light fixtures and recessed seating areas dotted with chocolate-brown sofas. The creative use of space and furniture placement all help create the feeling of private alcoves, where seduction takes priority.

A man called Neil meets us at the door, and welcomes us in a manner befitting old friends rather than first-time guests. He ushers Mr Smith and me down the long, carpeted lobby that feels much like a fashion-week catwalk, and introduces us to Andrew – our new best friend for the weekend. Andrew checks us in and sends us off to our room in an efficient, yet friendly manner. We’re beyond impressed with the quality of service and attention to detail within the first few moments of walking through those infamous doors.

Even the small, intimate elevators ooze sex appeal. The lift opens slowly to reveal dimly lit corridors reminiscent of a luxury ocean liner. I am always giddy when staying in a new hotel and the Royalton is no exception. I slip the key in the door, anxiously awaiting the big reveal. When entering a hotel room some people immediately check the televisions while others size up the minibar – I always head straight to the bathroom. The first thing I notice is a five-foot circular Roman tub with rain shower.

The bathroom wall is covered in hundreds of tiny square mirrors, and a massive globe pendant lamp is suspended overhead. I can’t resist standing in the tub to try and get a grip on its sheer size. I feel as though I am inside a giant disco ball. In short, the whole room screams hedonism. The only thing missing is Donna Summer purring ‘Love To Love You Baby’ in the background.

When I finally make it back into the main room, I am amazed by all the space on offer. By any standards our room is extremely generous in size – by New York standards it’s enormous. A long wall of windows lends a light, airy and contemporary feel. And, much to my pleasure, our home for the weekend is extremely well appointed, and comes complete with a fireplace and a built-in banquette running the length of one wall. I make a quick mental note to visit again during the autumn or winter months, as the fireplaces are not available for use after 1 May. Given the temperature outside, and the numerous other indulgences the room affords, it’s not a problem.

Continuing the ocean-liner theme, our crisp, white Frette-dressed bed is provocatively set in a darkened niche, sectioned off with heavy grey curtains. Doing away with the predictable beside tables, it is recessed into an oversized, polished-wood porthole. Wall sconces and single tapered candles play a big role in the alluring décor. Even the bathroom is fitted out with candles and matches. Temptation is clearly the name of the game.

We shake off the travel fatigue with a glass of whisky and then head out for a little retail therapy. Some of our Manhattanite friends are hosting Mr Smith and me for cocktails, and I decide a new a frock is necessary. In my mind, a party is always a good excuse to visit my favourite New York department stores, so we spend the next few hours traipsing our way around Saks Fifth Avenue, Bergdorf Goodman, Bloomingdale’s and Henri Bendel. Not that one really needs an excuse to shop in NYC.

After cocktails, we head on for dinner. I am a huge fan of the late US interior decorator Dorothy Draper and for a while I’ve been clamouring to eat at the newly opened Union Prime, which has been designed by Carleton Varney in the exuberant, anti-minimalist Draper style. This steak and sushi house is a banquet for both the palate and the eye, and I quickly fall in love with its quirky, updated take surf and turf. We dine on oysters, calamari and artichokes with fennel aioli, and beautifully prepared yellowfin tuna tartare. It’s perfection.

Not wanting to miss the buzz of the Royalton’s lobby-cum-bar, we skip after-dinner drinks and make our way back to the hotel. It is well after midnight and the place is still abuzz. We settle into one of the secluded seating areas for a cocktail before slipping away to our room. Candlelight, cocktails and discretion… what more could one ask for in the pursuit of romance?