I sipped on my third mojito and tried not to topple over the balcony as I gazed at the London lights, from Tower Bridge to Big Ben and beyond. It would be very uncouth to pose for a selfie, I reasoned, everyone around us was ordering Champagne and lounging like extras from Made In Chelsea.
Abi had warned us Radio, in the newly opened ME Hotel on The Strand, was “very wanky” so I was looking forward to it immensely. Gratifyingly, a haughty supermodel-type tried to prevent our entry, claiming they were ‘over-capacity’ and that Darcy wasn’t available. Abi, however, is a barrister. It was highly entertaining watching her calmly argue our case before producing her iPhone and displaying several emails from the owner confirming our reservation. “Wow, really, for all those people?” the Kate-wannabe cried, completely breaking character, and ushered us into the lift, inserting the source of her power (a keycard) to allow us up to the roof.
Just before the doors closed, a breathless blonde barged in. A doorman called to her to ‘please come out so I can assist you’ but she stood her ground, exclaiming loudly that she had just spent two grand in the restaurant, the least they could do was let her up to the bar. I stifled a giggle, tried not to catch the girls’ eyes and thought to myself “ah but the emperor is mostly likely naked.”
We emerged to the tip of a glass pyramid. Peering through it we could see the hotel reception 10 floors below. Radio was dark and most certainly not full to capacity, with unobtrusive music and an eclectic crowd of suits, ladies and two men in football shirts eating onion rings (no really).
Two of us headed straight to the ladies, where there was a queue (naturally) until two young girls tumbled giggling out of a cubicle before posing for pictures in the mirror. “I’ll let you go in by yourself,” my friend said pointedly, with a look that clearly stated she too saw what the emperor was wearing. I was tempted to dust down the toilet seat.
We sat out on the terrace in an enormous wicker seat while my London friends identified all the landmarks for me.
“That’s Somerset House, they hold art exhibitions and things in the courtyard, and that’s The Shard, it’s very expensive to go up there, but I really want to… There’s St Paul’s cathedral and the Tate Modern….” It really was impressive.
I wandered through the bar, people watching and smiling sympathetically at a bearded barman who dropped his flair bottle, and stepped through the sliding glass door onto the south-facing terrace. This one was less crowded, two men and a woman lay back on cream sofas with curtains on three sides sipping Champagne and a couple of men in suits smoked as they lounged by the railings. I noticed a glass box at the apex of the two balconies which was curtained from the inside and roped off. When I rejoined the girls, they told me it was a bedroom and I marveled at the excess. I’ve since Googled it and found it is in fact the glass cupola of the duplex ME suite and would cost me £3180 per night (room only).
We left at two and tottered outside to hail a cab. I knew I’d be feeling a bit delicate the next morning but I also knew it would be worth it. If you’re going to go out, you might as well go all out, and tonight had given a whole new meaning to ME time.