In the chill of the March night air, sweat continued to trickle down my face.  Nerves undoubtedly played a part, however, the main reason for sweating so profusely was the route I'd taken to reach The Lanesborough for my first interview.  Despite being born in Woolwich, up until now, in March, 1995, I'd spent very little time in Central London, with the exception of my travels to and from St. Ermin's and the LA2.  So, having ended my journey at Victoria Station, I jumped on the tube and then got off at Oxford Circus.  Once above ground, I headed westward along Oxford Street then turned left down Park Lane, where I believed I'd find The Lanesborough situated at the bottom.  Passing the famous Dorchester and London Hilton hotels on my left, I looked into the distance to see the twin flames of the torches above The Lanesborough's main entrance flickering in the wind.  Being unsure of exactly where I was going, I'd left my home in Lee in plenty of time for my interview at 10.30pm with the hotel's Front of House manager, a man by the name of Michael Naylor-Leyland.  I'd never met anyone with a double-barrelled name before, but it sounded like he must be very well-to-do.  I'd also never had an interview that late before.  However, as I'd applied for the post of night auditor, both my first and second interviews would be at night, followed by two further interviews on separate days.  

Sitting down at the bus stop outside The Lanesborough, I glanced at my watch. Despite taking the long way around, I still arrived with plenty of time to spare. As the M People album, Bizarre Fruit, playing on my Sony Discman, I turned around to survey the hotel's awesome edifice. Resembling a Greek temple, four large cream coloured stone pillars at the hotel's entrance, two on one side and two on the other, supported an entablature upon which was engraved the hotel's name. The flames of the two torches, each at opposite ends of the entablature, danced in the wind. Situated on Hyde Park Corner, The Lanesborough sits opposite the Wellington Arch, with the eastern side of the building overlooking the arch and the gardens of Buckingham Palace. Having been the former St. George's Hospital, as a hotel, The Lanesborough opened on New Year's Eve in 1991. Although the royal family of Abu Dhabi owned the building, Texan oil heiress Caroline Rose Hunt owned the business as the founder of Rosewood Hotels and Resorts. Rosewood Hotels held an impressive portfolio of luxury resorts all around the world, from London to Paris and from Dallas to Beverly Hills.

With the cool breeze having dried most of my face yet with no tissues to hand to dry off the rest, I turned over the cuff of my black bolero jacket and dabbed away the little sweat that remained the headed towards the hotel. Pushing open one of two heavy oak doors, as I stepped in, the sight of more cream coloured fluted Corinthian columns and a cream marble floor patterned with black squares met my eyes. I approached the hotel's twin reception desks where a tall, thinman in a morning suit busied himself plumping up the cushions of the four chairs split between two ornate glass-topped tables. Announcing that I'd come for an interview with Michael Naylor-Leyland, the man looked me up and down, glared at my bolero jacket, my beloved bolero jacket, and informed me he was Michael Naylor-Leyland. While not sounding overly well-to-do, Michael Naylor-Leyland, or MNL as I would often hear him referred to thereafter, had an air of charm and suaveness about him. Leading me away from the main reception and into a room off the hotel's library bar, called the Withdrawing Room, I gained a better look at MNL's brown hair, with flecks of grey, in a kind of shortened mullet style. Despite his seeming disapproval of my choice of jacket, I seized the opportunity to redeem myself when a staff member interrupted the interview and reminded MNL to ring Saskia when he'd finished. In an attempt to curry favour, I mentioned to MNL the coincidence that I had a younger sister named Saskia, to which he explained that Saskia was his wife. So, my apparent fashion faux-pas notwithstanding, and for which I'd be gently mocked by future colleagues, I'd passed my initial interview. I would also pass the
second, which took place this time with the night manager, an elegantly tuxedo-clad man by the name of Lawton Price. My third interview took place during the day with the head of Human Resources, a rather stern lady called Ann France. Making me work hard for my place at the hotel, and stating repeatedly that she didn't understand why I would want to work at The Lanesborough, (notwithstanding the fact that the hotel was a 5-star deluxe hotel while St. Ermin's was a mere 4-star), I would learn subsequently that the night audit post had been promised to a waitress in the Conservatory restaurant. However, Lawton wanted someone with night audit experience and something of a stand-off ensued between Lawton and Ann France,
which, thankfully, Lawton won. My final interview took place with Mr. Gelardi, the hotel manager. Unbeknown to me, if you were fortunate to make it to an interview with Mr. Gelardi, that invariably meant you got the job, an audience with Mr. Gelardi being a mere rubber-stamping exercise. To say after four interviews that I felt relieved would be an understatement. I swore it would've been easier to get into Fort Knox!

Securing a job at The Lanesborough also meant having to find alternative accommodation and moving away from Lee. So, around this time I took a single room in a shared terraced-house on Davisville Road in Shepherd's Bush in West London, between Stamford Brook and Ravenscourt Park tube stations on the District Line. Consisting of a single-bed, a single wardrobe, a fridge and a wash basin, my room appeared sparse and pokey. Curiously, it also had its own electric meter which gobbled up pound coins. With the bed lacking a headboard, I dragged the fridge to one end of the bed and against which I rested my pillows. I never saw any of my housemates. What with me working nights, and, presumably, them working days, we truly were like ships passing in the night. Not long after moving in, I also registered with the local GP surgery. Thank goodness I'd only have to go there the once. This occurred following an ill-conceived attempt to remove the hair from my scrotum. Mistaking the length of time I should keep the hair removal cream on, and after doing so for too long, I would later suffer an adverse reaction. Waking up the next day to an extremely painful and shrivelled scrotum that had morphed overnight from a
perfectly smooth sack into something resembling the texture and appearance of an ugli fruit, in complete desperation, I booked an emergency appointment at the new doctors. With my humiliating predicament revealed in full, the doctor packed me off to the chemist in short order. Closing the door as I went to leave, suitably embarrassed and with prescription in hand, I heard the doctor let forth a rampant burst of laughter. Oh, well, c'est la vie!

Travelling to my new job also meant a daily ride on the tube. In the main, I'd walk to Stamford Brook and pick up the District Line eastbound before changing at Hammersmith. From there, I'd jump on the Piccadilly Line to Hyde Park Corner. What would certainly not be lost on me, even on my first night, was the difference between the sight before me while working my way up from the underground and where I'd find myself approximately twenty-minutes later. The smell of sweat and stale urine in the air coupled with the plight of the street homeless bedding down in the tunnels and walkways under Hyde Park Corner contrasted sharply with the image above ground of international celebrities, multinational CEOs, bottles of Bollinger and trays of petit-fours. Indeed, the summer of 1995 would transpire to be a hot one and the stifling temperatures intensified the pungent odours of the London Underground.

In between work, that summer would see me begin to develop something of an active social life. When not at work, I'd head into town to meet the casual friends I'd made at 'The Brief', where we'd hang out in the dim light of the downstairs bar, strutting around to the dance tracks of the day, courtesy of resident DJs Glen and Orlando. Otherwise, when I wasn't working of a Friday or Saturday, we'd start off at The Brief then head to Cavendish Square, behind Oxford Circus, to another downstairs club called The Phoenix. Introduced to The Phoenix by a waiter at The Lanesborough, I found it's intimacy and unpretentiousness instantly appealing and it became, for me, a happy place. Sporting my new cherry red DMs, white jeans and Mexican-style bandana, I'd head over to The Phoenix with my mates from The Brief where we'd tear up the tiny dance floor to such cheesy summer bangers as 'Sunshine After the Rain' by Berri, 'Santa Maria' by Tatjana and 'Sky High' by Newton. My energy was such at that time that I'd wake up early between night shifts and meet my deputy night manager, Tristan, for a game of tennis near his home in Wandsworth. I'd also meet some of my Lanesborough colleagues in Hyde Park in the late afternoons to play softball against other hotels in the area before convening in Shepherd Market in Mayfair for a few drinks. From there I'd go on to the hotel to work my night shift. Towards the end of that year, I'd find myself going to The Brief for a few drinks and meeting my friends there before heading to The Lanesborough to start work. By this time, I'd also finally grasped how to tie a full Windsor knot, something I'd struggled to learn to do and in which I'd often have to enlist the help of Tony, the night butler, on those occasions when we happened to be in the changing room at the same time.

Ever since its opening as a hotel in 1991, the twenty-four hour butler service set The Lanesborough apart from the other top class hotels in London, while at a cost of £3,500 per night, the hotel's Royal Suite became the most expensive hotel room in England. For the price tag, guests could expect a suite which took up half of the second floor of the hotel and with a commanding view overlooking Wellington Arch and the gardens of Buckingham Palace, in addition to their own 24-hour butler and a chauffeur driven Bentley. As a night auditor tasked with shutting down IT systems, checking room rates, pulling reports for the accounts department and resetting systems for the next business day, most of my work took place behind the hotel
reception and out of the way of guests. There, dressed in my morning suit, I'd answer the hotel phones, taking both internal and external calls. This I would do until things quietened down, usually around 1am, by which time I could begin my audit.

Not long after joining the night crew, I found myself tasked with training a chap named Daniel, a management trainee a few years younger than me, on the night audit element of his management trainee program. At the outset, it became clear that training Daniel would be no easy task, as he seemed more intent on star-gazing and hob-knobbing with the rich and famous at the reception desk than coming to grips with the rigours of the night audit. So, I did my best to persevere with my younger charge's intermittent dashes into the back office to announce that he'd just seen Christopher Walken, or Lionel Ritchie, or Michael Bolton. On my part, I did my best to steer clear of the higher profile guests and was largely successful in this, with the exception of two who were, at the time, among the biggest stars in the world. Throughout their stay in December, 1995, one of them would be the cause of innumerable headaches, while the other, visiting two months later in February, 1996, left me with the kind of memory I still hold dear to this very day.

Given the hotel's reputation for class and grandeur, it seemed a forgone conclusion that the Christmas tree that year would be something special. Festooned with silver bows and an array of elegantly wrapped boxes piled up underneath, the plump ten-feet-tall fresh-cut tree stood proudly opposite the hotel's twin reception desks. Erected in the first week of December, the tree's appearance would coincide with that of a very special guest. The arrival of this guest would herald the one and only time I'd ever be chastised by Tristan. Following the departure of Lawton Price a few months after I joined night audit, as Lawton's deputy, Tristan took over the role of Night Manager. An altogether amiable man in his late 20s, Tristan made for a competent and experienced manager and, being tennis partners too, we enjoyed good interaction both in and out of work. All that changed one night during the week the Christmas tree appeared. What made this particular night a memorable one, and for all the wrong reasons, was the arrival of international superstar, Mariah Carey. 

Mariah Carey's trip to London to promote her 'Daydream' album culminated in an autograph signing at Tower Records in Piccadilly on 7th December. Despite my reluctance to leave the relative safety of the back office, I joined the other available members of the night team to form a welcome party for Miss Carey, who was due in around 11pm by private jet. We assembled behind the two large oak doors which we kept closed in order to shielded ourselves from the chilly December night air. Having turned the phone's ringer up so I could hear it from the main doors, I dashed to and fro several times during the next two hours to answer calls before rejoining the night staff in what had become by now weary anticipation. Just then, a large black car roared into the hotel driveway following which a large group disembarked. As we held the doors open, a young blonde-haired lady backed in clutching a Handycam. Following her camera-toting assistant, who continued moving slowly backwards, in skipped the renowned Miss Carey, wearing black knee-length boots, like the ones I'd seen at the LA2, complete with black leggings and black cropped skin-tight jacket. No sooner had she spotted the Christmas tree than she skipped towards it, remarking that the presents beneath it must all be for the staff. Not so. In fact, our Christmas present that year would be a plush white bathrobe, the kind of which were to be found in the guest's rooms. However, our bathrobes would have 'The Lanesborough, London, 95', embroidered on the chest pocket. Skipping away gaily following her remark about the presents, Miss Carey headed for the hotel lifts and, as quickly as she arrived, she'd gone.

With all eyes on our world famous guest, I hadn't noticed a man come in after her and who now sat at the reception desk. This man I would learn was Mariah Carey's then manager, a man by the name of Randy Hoffman. Returning to the back office, I couldn't help but overhear Mr. Hoffman as he briefed Tristan as to a major change in procedure regarding calls to the Royal Suite, where Miss Carey would be staying for the next few days. Most high profile guests who stayed at the hotel relied on a pseudonym which would appear on the hotel guest list and would be given to external callers in order for the telephonist to safely connect the call. Miss Carey's pseudonym, I had been briefed beforehand, was Maria Beasley. I had also been told that under no circumstances was I to put any calls through to the Royal Suite unless the caller asked for Maria Beasley, or M. Beasley. Randy Hoffman explained to Tristan that the pseudonym was now being changed from Beasley to Hoffman and only callers asking to speak to Maria Hoffman, or M. Hoffman, should be put through to the Royal Suite. Tristan then came into the back office and explained the change to me. As soon as he left, I began my delayed night audit.

No sooner had I started than the phone rang. On the other end of the line, an abrupt sounding man with an American accent asked to speak to Maria Beasley. When I advised the man that we had no guest in the hotel by that name, he exploded. Yelling at me down the phone that he knew Maria Beasley was staying at the hotel, he demanded I put the call through. Suddenly, I felt hot and began to panic. However, my courage rose and I repeated to the man what I'd told him before. With this, the line went dead. After having calmed myself down, I continued with my night audit, mulling over the thought that perhaps I'd spared Miss Carey from the inconvenience of a nuisance call. Justt then, Tristan came flying into the back office and
marched up to the other side of the table where I sat with my reports all spread out. Appearing even hotter and more harassed than I must've looked a few minutes earlier, Tristan proceeded to berate me for having upset Tommy Mottola, from whom it seemed clear, Tristan had just been on the end of an ear-bashing. Ignorant of this Tommy Mottola and not aware of having been rude to anyone, I became instantly defensive and told Tristan I had no idea what he was going on about. While attempting to calm things down, Tristan explained that Tommy Mottola was in fact the CEO of Sony Music Entertainment and the husband of Mariah Carey. Still puzzled, I explained that I hadn't spoken him, at which point Tristan revealed that he'd phoned in just now asking to be put through to the Royal Suite. With the misunderstanding now becoming a little clearer, I explained that a man did call in asking for Maria Beasley, however, as the pseudonym had been changed to Hoffman, I didn't put the call through as per the change of instructions from Randy Hoffman. Never one to allow myself to be bullied, I pointed out to Tristan that had I put that call through and it had turned out to be a bogus caller, I'd be in the kind of trouble that could potentially have cost me my job. After all, it wasn't my fault that Tommy Mottola hadn't been made aware of the change of pseudonym, and, having defended myself vigorously to Tristan, I returned to my night audit, leaving him in no doubt that now I was the one who was pissed off.

I wish I could say that this incident was the beginning and the end of it all, but I'd be lying if I did. The difficulty continued a few nights later when Miss Carey called the phone of the in-room dining waiter to place a food order. If the waiter, at that time a good-natured Dutch fellow by the name of Lambertus, was away from his desk, the call would divert to my phone in the back office. Being something of a creature of habit, I tended to take my lunch in the staff canteen around 3am each night. Yet, on the night in question, my plans for lunch would be scuppered when I went to head down to the staff canteen and a diverted call from the Royal Suite to Lambertus's phone came through to me. Answering the call, I recognised the voice of Miss Carey instantly. I apologised that she hadn't been able to reach in-room dining and asked her if she would like to leave her order with me and I'd deliver it to the waiter immediately. With that, she proceeded to reel off a food order that would've fed a small army, and, not wanting to upset her too after the Tommy Mottola debacle, I told her that I would ensure she received her order as quickly as possible. Dissatisfied with my response, she asked me exactly how long that would be. Reluctant to give an exact time for fear it would turn out to be wildly inaccurate, I wilted under pressure and said the order would be with her in about half an hour. After voicing her displeasure at the delay, Miss Carey hung up. Without a second to lose, I flew downstairs and handed over the enormous order directly to the only chef we ever had on at night and wished him the best of luck. Poor Lambertus. I'll bet he copped an earful!

Another source of frustration during Miss Carey's stay would be the additional work involved for back office staff. At this time, she was one of the biggest recording artists in the world and had travelled to London with a huge entourage. She also received a significant number of calls into the hotel from the United States. Ordinarily, when a guest was out of the hotel or unavailable to take a call, we in the back office would type out a message which was then printed onto elegant A4 paper in triplicate. Two perforations in the paper would enable us to tear the paper into three. These identical messages would then be placed in three separate envelopes, one of which was left at the concierge desk, one left in the butler's main pantry on the second floor, while the third would be slipped underneath the guest's door. This meticulous process had been devised to ensure a guest never missed a message. Ordinarily, this wouldn't require too much effort. However, each time a call to the Royal Suite went unanswered, the caller would invariably request that, in addition to their message being left specifically for Miss Carey, in order to ensure she received it, the same message must also be left with every other member of her entourage. During her stay, Miss Carey's entourage was several members strong, with a single message having to be duplicated many times. Still, it certainly kept us on our toes!

Lastly, during one of the first few nights of Miss Carey's stay, she'd phone down to the back office and ask for the international dialling code for the US, to which I responded with 001. She'd do the same thing the following night and every other night that I took her call to which I'd respond with the same three digits, 001. Many years later, having become good friends with Daniel, the management trainee, and by then with both of us in our forties, he and I sat together one night and reminisced about our time at The Lanesborough. When it came to the subject of Mariah Carey, I happened to mention to him her habit of calling down each night and asking for the code to dial the US. With a wry smile, he then revealed that on his night shifts she'd do exactly the same thing with him!

Despite the temporary inconvenience of the hotel's more demanding guests, perhaps for the first time in my life, I began to feel a real sense of contentment. I'd never have imagined then that events would transpire to see me leave The Lanesborough by the middle of the summer. However, on account of those whose paths I'd soon cross, I'd come to realise that the summer of 1996 would see my adulthood begin in earnest. Who knows why we cross the paths of the people we do and how we can never know whether our lives really do change course or whether we remain on the course we were always meant to be on.

So, prior to my unintended departure during the summer, within the first three months of the new year, I'd cross paths with two people, both of whom would leave lasting impressions on me, albeit for entirely different reasons. The first would involve an altogether brief yet surreal encounter, while the other I'd meet unexpectedly one night at The Brief Encounter. With the Mariah Carey fiasco of eight weeks ago now something of a distant memory, Tristan would shortly redeem himself in my eyes in a way I couldn't possibly have imagined. Amid an atmosphere of febrile excitement and anticipation, on Monday 12th February, 1996, arguably the biggest star in the world checked into The Lanesborough.

For the purposes of this retelling, the magic actually began during my shift on the night before.
Having assembled as many of the night staff as he could in the back office, and clutching a memo from Sony Music Entertainment in his hand, Tristan read aloud. The memo revealed that our esteemed guest would be coming to London to receive a lifetime achievement accolade at
The Brits Awards show at Earl's Court on 19th February and would be staying at the hotel for just over a week. As Tristan read on, my mind began to wander, until he reached the part where the memo explained that our celebrated guest did not sleep well at night, and, curious as to the goings on behind the scenes, could often be found during this time wandering the back stairs and checking out the kitchens. This was definitely music to my ears and gave me hope that one night in the next week, while making my way down to the staff canteen, I might come face to face with perhaps the most enigmatic entertainer of our time. Alas, fate would not conspire in my favour, with my nightly forays downstairs for my lunch that week proving fruitless.

With Tristan having finished reading, the night team disbanded to their respective duties, and with my reports scattered about me, I began my night audit. Suddenly, the phone rang on my work computer followed by the name 'Lewis Wilson' which flashed up on the screen. It didn't escape my notice that the call came from one of the extensions in the Royal Suite. Picking up the phone, I was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of my butler friend Richard on the other end. With a heady mix of excitement and astonishment in his voice, Richard said that he couldn't believe what the staff at Sony Music had done to the Royal Suite in preparation for tomorrow's big arrival and suggested I pop up and see for myself. Knowing I was unlikely to get another chance once our megastar guest had checked in the following day, I hurried upstairs to the Royal Suite for what would be the only time I'd set foot in there, to see for myself what it was that had Richard in such a tizzy.

As I mentioned before, the Royal Suite consisted of half of the second floor of the hotel, with views overlooking Wellington Arch and the gardens of Buckingham Palace. During my time there, the Royal Suite became a home away from home for senior American politicians, international recording artists and global CEOs. With my role being a primarily back office one, albeit with some guest interaction, I ventured to the guest's suites on the rarest of occasions. However, this was undoubtedly a special occasion and something for which I've remained grateful ever since, considering what I was about to witness. Having found my way to the main door of the Royal Suite, I opened it and went inside. Immediately to my right, sitting unplugged on a counter top in a little galley kitchen, was a Häagen-Dazs ice-cream machine. Unsure of where to go next, I followed the sound of pinging coming from one of the rooms. I soon found myself standing in the living area of the Royal Suite amid an array of exquisite flower arrangements which had been carefully placed around the room. Peering into one of sprays to take a sniff, I suddenly spotted bottles of fruit juice and small packets of M&Ms and Skittles hidden among the flowers. Just then, Richard called out and I found him in the room next door playing happily on a pinball machine. Creeping up behind, I flung my arms around Richard in gratitude at his having invited me to partake of this amazing spectacle. Having loosened my grip, I looked around me and realised I was standing in something resembling a sub-branch of Hamley's toy shop. While Richard continued to duel with the pinball machine, I marvelled at an enormous life-size metallic robot which stood motionless next to an equally large jukebox. Intrigued to learn of the musical tastes of our renowned guest, I took the liberty of thumbing through the selected albums to see if any of his own music were included. To this day, the album that I recall clearly, most likely on account of its peculiar cover art, was 'Jollification' by British rock band The Lightening Seeds.

Pausing briefly from his game, Richard suggested I take a look in the dining room next door. Upon entering, I noticed the long mahogany table and chairs I'd seen in the hotel brochure had been removed, to be replaced by a sea of stuff toys and the biggest teddy bear I'd ever seen. Anyone unaware of who would soon occupy this suite could be forgiven for thinking it was about to host the most magical children's party ever, not the man who had the biggest selling album of all time and who, two months prior, had bagged the UK Christmas number one spot with the eco-conscious anthem 'Earth Song', yet, when you're the King of Pop, you can clearly have whatever you want.

During the week that followed, the hotel was abuzz with excitement, both inside and out. Inside, anecdotes spread among the staff of their various interactions with the megastar, while at the rear of the hotel, a legion of loyal fans, dancing and singing to his music, kept a round-the-clock vigil, hoping to catch a glimpse of the global pop icon. Seizing the opportunity to make mischief, some of the more brazen among the hotel's butlers would go to a window of any available suite overlooking the assembled masses at the rear of the hotel and deliberately open the window and, in an attempt to obscure their appearance, deliberately pull the curtain around their face and wave excitedly to the fans. Inevitably, this would send them into an absolute frenzy, thinking it was their idol in a playful mood. A rumour circulated that a butler had actually donned one of the famed black fedoras and red military-esque jackets before pulling back the curtain and waving to the milling throng, sending them into near meltdown. How anybody in the accounts office, which looked out onto the forecourt at the rear of the hotel, got any work done that week, I'll never know.

As for the King of Pop having everything he wanted, there was one notable exception. One night during the week between his arrival and The Brit Awards ceremony, Hamley's closed their Regent Street branch one evening so he could shop in private. In the window that night stood a fabulous model of Disney's magic kingdom. With the model having caught Michael Jackson's eye, an enquiry was made as to whether the model was for sale. However, Hamley's staff advised that while it was not, they would gladly oblige and place an order for a replica to be made and then shipped to the Neverland ranch in California. As the tales from the staff of their various sightings and interactions with the King of Pop continued to unfurl, it became evident that the majority of my colleagues appeared to have had some dealings with him, with one among the notable exceptions being...me. That fact would also not escape Tristan's notice and his moment of redemption for the Mariah Carey brouhaha had come, on Michael Jackson's last night at The Lanesborough, which also happened to be the night of The Brit Awards.

That night, I arrived in the back office at my usual start time of 10pm and sat down next to my computer terminal, ready to answer the phones. As I began pulling off the report I used each night to check each guest's individual room rate, Tristan appeared at the door. Approaching, the table in front of me, he explained he was aware that I hadn't got to meet Michael Jackson. To rectify this, he asked if I would like to welcome him back to the hotel later that evening following his return from The Brit Awards. Stunned into silence by Tristan's suggestion, I barely muster my response before he told me to take my night audit down to the accounts office and begin it there and he would cover the phones.

With fumbling fingers, I gathered up my audit and hurried down to the accounts office on the ground floor, which looked out the forecourt at the rear of the hotel. As I turned the corner and approached the accounts office, I could hear the sound of the fans outside, chanting and singing along to his music playing on a ghetto blaster. As I pulled back the net curtain covering one of the sash windows, I peered out and saw some of the fans breakdancing to the music. It was far too noisy, and far too exciting an atmosphere to even consider doing my audit, so, I just sat back and enjoyed the spectacle unfolding before my eyes and it wouldn't be too long before the man of the moment arrived back. Outside the door to accounts, members of the hotel security team had assembled and were in constant contact via radio with the Jackson security team. I popped my head out the door of accounts and told the security guards that Tristan had asked me to welcome Mr. Jackson back to the hotel to which they replied that his ETA was approximately five minutes. Instead of returning to accounts, I remained with the security guards on the inside of the main door. Although my view out onto the forecourt was obscured by the net curtai covering the door, I could tell his car had pulled up the moment that, all of a sudden, the crowd unleashed a mightily thunderous roar. Reminiscent of a football match, the controlled chaos continued for as long as the King of Pop remained outside, greeting the multitude of loyal fans who'd braved the chilly February temperatures in the hope of meeting him, and he had not disappointed them. All of a sudden, a thin man, a little taller than me at no more than about 5 feet 10 inches, walked with purpose through the door. My eyes fixed firmly on him as he ventured in my direction, I wanted to take in as much of his image as I could to ensure that such a brief moment in time remained vivid in my memory before my eventual ageing would cause the rich detail to fade. Wearing tight-fitting black trousers and a military style black jacket, his clothing accentuated his pale complexion. I was struck by how thin he was and the angular formation of his eyebrows, suggesting they'd been shaped and pencilled or tattooed on. Upon reaching me I smiled and spoke aloud, welcoming him back to The Lanesborough. As he passed me, I looked down at the Brit award figurine clutched firmly in his hand. Having reached the same corner I'd turned earlier before going into the accounts office, he turned to face me, raised his hand to his head, smiled and then saluted. He turned the corner and then disappeared.

Oblivious to the fact that there was more to come that night from the King of Pop, I settled down in the back office and got on with my night audit. While working through my room rate report, I became aware of something I'd never heard at The Lanesborough, before or since, in the form of raised voices in the hotel lobby. My curiosity roused, I stood at the entrance to the back office and saw two burly African-American men involved in a tense exchange of some kind about who should have done this and who should have done that. At that moment the phone rang. I picked it up and on the end of the line was a lady who stated she was calling from Earl's Court. She explained she knew Michael was staying at the hotel and, while fully appreciating that I couldn't put her through to him, she asked whether I could get a message to him saying that he sang like an angel. While in truth that was impossible if I wanted to remain in a job, I didn't have the heart to say no outright and advised the affable lady I would try my best. With this, she offered her thanks and told me how lucky I was to be working in the hotel where Michael Jackson was staying. She then made a comment about someone jumping on the stage during Michael Jackson's act and then hung up. With the furore in reception having died down and having hardly made any dent in my audit, I spent much of the remainder of the night playing catchup.

That is, until around 6.30am, when an internal call came in and the name 'Lewis Wilson' and the number 220 flashed up on my computer screen. Extension 220 belonged to the private phone in the bedroom of the Royal Suite, with Lewis Wilson the pseudonym of Michael Jackson. The heat was back on and I felt the same surge throughout my body as I had the night I'd taken Mariah Carey's hefty food order. However, this time the caller's voice sounded calm, quiet and unassuming, although peculiarly high-pitched...and unmistakably him. Beginning in a concerned and surprisingly informal tone, Mr. Jackson asked if I'd seen the news that morning. I replied that I hadn't as I tended not to read the papers although I said I was aware that the day's papers had indeed arrived. He went on to explain how he'd been made aware after finishing his rendition of 'Earth Song' that during the performance, someone had jumped up on the stage in an attempt to disrupt his act. He continued by saying he was also told that in the process of jumping up on the stage, the man had knocked some of the children off and that they had been injured. He expressed his concern, stating he wanted to check on their welfare and, while he did have a contact number for one of the families, every time he dialled the number the phone went “beep”. In order to try to help him, I asked Mr. Jackson for the number so I could test it for him, to which he read the number back to me. Having then studied the number, I soon realised he was a digit short. Although desperate not to disappoint him, I explained that there was no way of knowing the number of the digit which was missing and where in the sequence of numbers it fell. Offering him my sincere apologies, I advised that there was nothing more I could do. Nonetheless, in a calm and composed manner, he thanked me for my explaining the situation to him.

I wish I knew how to account for what happened next and what made me say what followed. Maybe it had something to do with what I'd seen in the Royal Suite, or hearing his concern for the allegedly injured children, or the fact that he seemed, and sounded, very childlike himself, but for some unknown reason I seemed intent on expressing my empathy with him. Just then, I asked him if I could say something to him. Responding in the same gentle manner as before he replied that I could. With this, I blurted out that while I couldn't relate to the kind of childhood he'd had, I understood how it felt to have your childhood taken away from you and how that feeling would remain with me for the rest of my life. In the brief silence that followed I could feel my heart beating hard in my chest, to which he provided my relief when he offered perhaps the most genuine and heartfelt “thank you very much” I've think I've ever received. With the Piccadilly line that morning temporarily suspended, I took the bus back to Hammersmith. Sitting at the back, I reflected on how surrealness of the last ten hours and just wanted to tap any of my fellow passengers on the back and tell them what had just happened, but I didn't. They probably wouldn't have believed me, anyway.

While stories of Michael Jackson and Mariah Carey et al may make for compelling tales to tell, what made The Lanesborough truly special was the people toiling away behind the scenes. They were the ones who really made magic happen. Chief among them were the hotel's courteous, professional and patient butlers, who catered to each guest's every whim, no matter how outlandish the request and wouldn't hesitate to answer a call to a guest in the bath who felt it was the butler's job to turn on the cold tap because the bath water they were in was too hot, or the unassuming group of Polish cleaners dressed in navy blue boiler suits, no socks and the kind of black plimsolls we used to wear for PE at school. They worked like trojans night after night to keep the hotel clean and appeared to take great pride in scrubbing the corners of the downstairs corridors with toothbrushes, and none of them ever spoke a word of English. Then there's was the highly efficient security staff, who kept us and the hotel guests safe. Everybody did their best, sometimes in the face of considerable provocation and ingratitude, to provide the best service in the world. Like theatre, what's going on behind the scenes can often be far more interesting than what's happening on stage and the back stories more compelling, exciting and representative of a life well lived.

So, by now it was March 1996 and, following a chance meeting at The Brief, I would leave The Lanesborough in June of that year, and the UK itself a month later. I'd find myself on a new adventure that would change my life and either make or break me. Oh and every time I see a bird of paradise or smell that luscious, heady scent of fresh lilies, I'm immediately transported back to The Lanesborough, although I wonder whether it was all just a dream.