Señor Ramirez, dressed in a black uniform with gold brocade trim, breathed in the chilly morning air. An autumnal haze crept along the empty street, wrapped itself around his legs and soaked into his thick winter coat. For forty years the aged doorman had stood outside Hotel Savoir Faire, hailed taxis, opened doors and looked the other way. Señor Ramirez saw all, said nothing, twisted his handlebar moustache and waited for new clients to arrive. Hotel Savoir Faire was not for tourists, and only those in the ‘know’ dared enter. Eagle-eyed and furtive, guests arrived safe in the knowledge that their stay would be kept a secret; no one signed in and no one signed out. That was the allure and the hotel knew well how to attract its customers. It drew them in with promises of opulence and swank; each room exuding the heady whiff of thrills unseen and rapture unrestrained. The closed doors watched but never told, and tactfully locked themselves in moments of high abandon.

The marble columns witnessed in silence, listened to the influx of lovers come and go. Sensed the rapid steps of deceivers who scurried past, stooped under the weight of one more lie; and felt the sad slow scrape of fretful lovers who lingered expectant, propped against the cool stone. ‘Just one more kiss.’

Into this alluring haven a tender youth arrived for a rendezvous. Face red, hands shaking, he stumbled up the crimson-carpeted steps that led to the grand dining room, not knowing what to do. A novice to such chicanery and quite unprepared, he spluttered out his name whilst trying to appear composed.

‘No need for names, sir, we all understand,’ said the maître d’, who smiled and directed him to his pre-booked place. A chair pulled out, a gesture to sit, and down he plonked himself, all stiff and obvious amongst the restaurants debauched clientele.