SUNDAY TIMES TODAY
Why Shepherd Market in Mayfair will shrug off the Martin Sorrell allegations
Mayfair’s Shepherd Market won’t be rocked by claims the ad king Martin Sorrell met a prostitute there. For centuries it has been a hub of high and low life, says Emily Sheffield
Emily Sheffield
June 17 2018, 12:01am, The Sunday Times
Shepherd Market has always drawn a colourful crowd from the richest seams of society — and also inspired much gossip. The square, once home to a vibrant market, nestles in the bosom of Mayfair between Piccadilly and the grand Georgian houses of Curzon Street, enclosed by a network of alleyways lined with restaurants and art galleries.
A few yards away is the private members’ club 5 Hertford Street, run by Robin Birley and frequented by royalty and celebrities. Kate Moss, Cara Delevingne and Princess Eugenie have all been guests here. There are also two of London’s most exclusive casinos, Aspinalls and the Colony Club, where millions of pounds are gambled every night.
Since the 1730s, the powerful, the political, the royal and the criminal have visited for the nightlife, the atmosphere and its central attraction — the courtesans and prostitutes who operate here.
In the 1920s it was considered London’s most fashionable and opulent district by the city’s bohemian elite. Today its red-light district may be much diminished, but it’s just as notorious and the regulars still include the rich and famous.
In the 1980s the author and politician Jeffrey Archer met a prostitute, Monica Coghlan, in Shepherd Market. His denial of the clandestine assignation led to an ultimately disastrous libel case and imprisonment for perjury.
Last week the market was back in the headlines for similar reasons — this time because of the allegation that the advertising mogul Martin Sorrell had used company money to pay for a prostitute housed in a Victorian flat just off the square.
Sorrell, 73, has strenuously denied all the claims but has had to step down as chief executive of WPP, the multibillion-pound advertising empire that he had created.
Readers of the country’s newspapers may be chattering in delight, but the residents have seen it all before. Shepherd Market remains a close-knit community despite the influx of tourists and moneymen and a new young and wealthy Middle Eastern crowd who love the Arab restaurants.
I know the environment well, as does my husband, Tom Mullion, as he and his partners have a tiny jewel of a restaurant, Kitty Fisher’s, in the square. It attracts its own notable guests: actors, politicians, fashion editors and financiers.
It is fittingly named after one of the area’s most celebrated courtesans, Kitty Fisher, who entertained her powerful lovers round the corner in Carrington Street, now home to an NCP car park, in the 1760s.
Kitty inspired several ditties in her honour, including the nursery rhyme “Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it”, and was reported by Casanova, no less, to have eaten a £100 banknote — worth £22,000 in today’s money — on a slice of buttered bread.
Her fame sealed the reputation of Shepherd Market, as did the annual May fair, held nearby, from which the wider area took its name. It began as a celebration of summer but then slid into far more insalubrious activities.
At night I love sitting at Kitty’s restaurant bar overlooking the square, especially when the first autumnal London mists snake around the pavements and you can imagine the area’s atmospheric history.
Above, in a few of the dilapidated Victorian windows, glow the soft red lights that are advertising the wares within. The colourful stream of customers who walk past can make for some brilliant people-watching. This particularly applies to those visiting one brothel opposite, which can be recognised by its garish purple hallway clearly visible through the open door.
The men who frequent it fall into two camps: those who creep quietly, clinging to the shadows, looking desperately left and right; and the confident striders, who never care who sees them and later emerge unruffled.
Quite a few of my father’s generation lost their virginity here in the 1960s, when it was humming with colourful characters and numerous busy brothels. Certainly a number of the older, grander society members of 5 Hertford Street are quite open about their virginal adventures in Shepherd Market. It was a rite of passage.
Nowadays most of the customers are the wealthy, immaculately dressed elder statesmen of the business world, seeking a perfunctory sexual transaction for a few hundred pounds. There is none of the glamour and allure of Kitty’s time.
When I visited last Wednesday evening, the area was heaving with its usual summer crowd, especially outside Ye Grapes pub. On weeknights it is always full of financiers from the “hedge fund alley” of Curzon Street.
Alongside Ferdi, the London outpost of the über-hip Paris restaurant, sits the door to No 30, one of only three remaining sex-worker establishments. Tash, the charismatic madam who once ruled here, has long gone and it’s now a well-run co-operative.
Further along, squished between William Hill and a cafe and hidden under the drooping branches of a vast beech, is No 50a, clearly signposted by a bright pink interior and a handwritten sign advertising “Beautiful young lady”. The women rent the rooms for a few days at a time for their regular customers.
This is where Sorrell was allegedly entering when he was snapped by two of his employees, who later fed the incriminating evidence to his senior management at WPP. (Last week WPP shareholders awarded Sorrell a £20m payout, taking his estimated net worth to more than £500m.)
There’s little evidence about who runs the flats now; they look tired and run-down, with paint peeling on the windows and dirty net curtains. Rumour has it that one old gent in a vintage gold-and-purple Bentley occasionally appears at the flats and then leaves clutching brown envelopes.
Many residents don’t want to give away incriminating details for fear of reprisal. Because, despite the moneyed sheen of the surrounding area, Shepherd Market has always attracted a criminal contingent. Crooks and gangsters remain familiar faces. They slip in for clandestine meetings with their lawyers, who use the bars and pubs as informal offices.
In the 1980s the area was a notorious haunt of the Maltese mafia, which openly ran a red-light district until the police raided and cleared everyone out.
On leaving the square last Wednesday night I bump into Birley, who is out walking his dog near his club. His easy, aristocratic charm belies how hard he works at ensuring that 5 Hertford Street remains one of the most exclusive hangouts in the world.
His eyes twinkle with unspoken gossip — he is famously discreet. And, laughing uproariously, he jokes that he probably lost his virginity around here too, before striding off into the gathering gloom.
@emilysheffield
