High life
Regine's way
Taki
High lifers have been in an uproar since last week. Not unlike their counterparts on the other side of the Atlantic, at the United Nations, jet-set play-persons and other fashionable creatures of the night have been speculating and arguing over last week's exceptional events. Needless to say, the polemics were not over the fall of history's greatest (per head of population) murderer, Pol Pot and his clique, nor the date of the Shah's departure and eventual sanctuary. (St Moritz, Palm Springs, Beverley Hills). On the contrary, the argument has been over an ascension rather than a fall. And the subject rather different from a coldblooded killer like the Cambodian monster or an unrealistic Ruritanian like the Shah.
Briefly, the dispute among the Beautiful People is whether Regine's latest venture on the top of the old Derry and Tom's store in Kensington High .Street will be a success or not. Will Regine take over London as queen of the night? Or will she go the way of Bennett's, Dial 9, Le Prive and Wedgies: alive but moribund. (For Spectator readers, however, here is a useful tip. If any of you are interested, there are great bargains to be found in Persian carpets, used cars, and stolen jewellery when mixing with the clientele of these clubs).
To judge by the opening night confusion would be unfair. There were flamingos roaming in the vast hanging gardens and Shetland ponies trying to be squeezed into the lifts along with Caroline Grimaldi and Philippe Junot. There were heavies beating up ambassadors and waiters trying to kiss Sylvester Stallone. There was Bernard Lanvin, a French perfume-maker and terrible snob (he hates the idea that his parents went into trade rather than something more acceptable to the nobs), walking around with raised eyebrows and a Gallic scowl only to be mistaken for a gay giving a come-on and shoved into the lavatory by an aggressive queen. The rest of the celebrityprops who are de rigueur for an opening were also there: Jack Nicholson, Joan Collins, the obligatory newscaster from the BBC, and, of course, Mark and Lola. (The former being nice to an acid-pen gossip writer and then spoiling it all by comparing him to an investment).
In the middle of it all, a flame-haired Regine was as cool and imperturbable as a German Panzer commander fighting the French. She saw that everyone got a hello, that old clients got a kiss and that the press was given what it was there to get, free booze and very little information. Gossip columnists were fawned upon more than the couple from Monaco, who were busy denying rumours that they accept payments Helping Regine to draw the Beautiful People was Dido Goldsmith, a girl who is about to displace Florence Grinda as high priestess of the jet-set. Dido, amazingly, even got John Aspinall to attend the opening, a feat unheard of in the annals of seduction. Aspinall simply hates nightclubs and people who throw away their money on booze when they could either gamble it or feed it to wild animals.
Twenty years ago, starting with almost nothing, Regine was given a small piece of the action in an obscure nightclub in the south of France after dancing the 'twist' there non-stop. She has never looked back since. She has, however, always remembered her first benefactors and clients. One can go away for years, come back to a new club with an impressive facade, but always find the same waiters and the same Regine greeting you as if you were her most important customer. Despite the Arab onslaught and the money they throw around, Regine still tries to keep a few Europeans in her clubs for show.
The last thing that will probably make Regine's a success, but somehow the most important, is that London is a major tourist centre without a nightclub for the tourist. Annabel's will turn them away, so will Tramp's. Anything else is not worth going to. Regine's will fill the need. Universally known, she will probably be decorated one day for helping the balance of payments. She could even become a Dame.
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