Behind Closed Doors….
Ever since its humble beginnings, Shepherd Market has been home to dens of loucheness and fun. Property developers come and go but the oldest profession appears eternal
Column by Guy Shepherd
The Bohemian flare that Shepherd Market has historically demonstrated is well documented. In recent years its flame has diminished but the embers continue to smoke weakly. The original home of the May Fayre, that gave this ridiculous district its name, was a livestock market. Traders would come in from the countryside and this microcosm for larger economic models demonstrated man’s greed for trade and the resultant exuberances of excess during the celebration of capital gain. The Market naturally became a hotbed for vice and debauchery. The alleyways were awash with prostitutes and the pubs and taverns brimmed with bawdy punters that serviced the trade as the pints flowed. As the surrounding area became increasingly wealthy and gentrified, the grand residences and hotels of Park Lane, the casinos and cinemas of Curzon Street plus the chaps’ clubs on Piccadilly, maintained business as usual. A respectable gentleman could easily drift through the front of these respectable establishments and then float out the back into the spit and sawdust of Shepherd Market to satisfy his drug and sexual urges.
To this day, gentlemen of a certain age go misty eyed when visiting our secret little village. A friend of my father’s sadly lost his wife to some ghastly disease but, happily, found love again and, wanting to pop an important question, visited GUY&MAX to arm himself with the correct bore of romantic armament. Having chosen something that any self-respecting girl would not refuse, my father took his pal out for lunch at L’Artiste Muscle, purveyors of all things great in French bistro cuisine. Sitting, facing the window, opposite my father, he looked up at the first floor window across Shepherd Street and sighed before reminiscing, “The last time I sat here was in the 1970s and the reason I remember was because I got a pay rise that day.” “What an extraordinary thing to remember”, my father observed, to which his mate replied, “Yes. I happened to look up at that window one lunchtime and saw my boss putting his shirt back on. When I returned to the office, after an extended break, I pointed this out to him and suggested the pay rise for which he was subsequently most forthcoming and generous.”
Other notable lotharios and dandies have been less fortunate about their indiscretions here. Sebastian Horsley lived in 15a, next to my boutique, before his move to Soho. “Originally I lived in Shepherd’s Market, but that went downhill when the prostitutes moved out”. A doyen to extraordinary fashion, crucifictional art, hard drugs and questionable sexual depravities, his own documentation of the ins and outs, for want of a better expression, with prostitutes here are graphically accounted for. Most associate his, and many others’, lifestyle to be exclusive to Soho but, for those in the know, Shepherd Market provided all within a handful of tiny streets. May he rest in peace.
But there are few local stories that best summarise our little island of Mayfair beauty than that of Jeffrey Archer. In 1987, the Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Party, despite a fragrant wife in the countryside and an affectionate mistress in London, saw it fit to commandeer a prostitute from Shepherd Market called Monica Coghlan. He followed her and a client to a hotel in Victoria before paying her 70 pounds for sloppy seconds. Or thirds. By treachery, lies, false alibis, diary fraud and implicating those he loved and befriended, he was awarded half a million pounds when the press were defeated in a much publicised libel case. Fourteen years later, when running for the post of London Mayor, his web of deceit finally caught up with him and he was sentenced to four years at Her Majesty’s pleasure in Belmarsh Prison for his crimes. Now that’s my Mayfair.
A handful of lurid open door establishments still remarkably exist here despite the ongoing local gentrification. Gaudily painted hallways, with fluorescent penned signs on A4 sellotaped to the staircase walls, invite one to “Mayfair Magic” and “Young Girls Upstairs”. I often stun first time, disbelieving, visitors with my “Thirty Second Whore Tour.” Some more discreet enterprises have gentlemen quietly calling on mobiles outside before a scantily clad nymphette quickly opens the door, ushers them inside, glances left and right and clicks the door shut. It is always good sport timing the fellow in and out. Mr Horsley’s former flat was one such establishment. It is a mere metre from my shop’s windows which, in those days, were open glass to display the gallery of jewels within. Nowadays, we have embraced the salon style, blacked out windows, discreet portals to our craft with sofas and discretion to satisfy our clientele’s desire for privacy, comfort and anonymity. Back then, one friend, wit and sometime spy, suggested a marketing ploy. “Why don’t you set up a camera that takes a picture of the chap as he leaves the premises which is simultaneously projected onto a large screen, for his immediate attention, along with the caption in neon, ‘Guilty. Now buy her a diamond…’ ”
We did not go for this alternative sales technique. Having said that, it was common knowledge that one particular success story in my beloved trade was started from a local hotel where ladies of a certain financial persuasion would insist to their wealthy benefactors that they would rather be paid in jewels for the services they proffered. The deal was for the Sheik, Oligarch, et cetera to purchase a piece of precious hardware for the dame which the jeweller would give her 30 per cent back on return. She gained hard cash. The jeweller made a profit and retained his stock. Repeat, ad infinitum. Damn, I wish I had less scruples. Or screw pulls.
This type of hooker is Mayfair’s finest. Some are housed in beautiful flats and have professional titles such as Escort, Companion or Concubine. My favourite encounter emerged from a house across the road from GUY&MAX, before landlords tore it down, dug miles underground and built similarly looking homes that they will eventually sell for ten times more money to people that will never live in them. It was a Saturday and I was putting out the jewellery in the front window, pre salon style again, when one of the most beautiful women I have ever had the joy of ogling at opened the door of the house and walked up the ramp towards the street. She had beautiful, rich, dark, slightly waving locks. Which bounced. Her angelic face shone in the early morning light. She wore black stilettos, black fishnets, a black leather mini skirt and a black polo neck that highlighted the perfect form of her ankles, legs, hips and breasts. Which also bounced. I stopped and stared, mesmerised. How could somebody look so perfect when they were clearly in the same clothes from the previous evening’s furore? On reaching the top of the ramp, she slid seamlessly across the road to the waiting, chauffeured, black Rolls-Royce, opened the door and floated in, beautiful bum first followed by seemingly endless legs. About 20 seconds later, she emerged laughing and red faced. The chauffeur was laughing too. She saw me staring and smiled awkwardly before walking five yards down the pavement to the considerably more modest black mini cab that was parked behind the Rolls. In the right car eventually. Its driver was laughing too. So did I. 