Emma Piette set up the first of a new generation of private members' clubs – it didn't last long. What happened next?
Christmas 2002, Dubliners were raving about The House. This illegal drinking club occupied an exquisite Georgian townhouse off Dame Street.
With members like Jasmine Guinness and Bono, The House epitomised hip new Dublin. But four weeks after it opened with a legendary all-night party and a 'no publicity' policy that guaranteed column inches, The House closed down, and the couple behind it disappeared. So what went wrong? Here, for the first time, co-founder Emma Piette tells the whole sorry tale, and reveals what happened next.
In August of 2001 I'd just finished setting up a private club in London called Soho House. You probably know the name. It's where Jude Law's child, two-year-old Iris, choked on an ecstasy tablet found on the floor during a kid's birthday party. I needed a change, so my twin brothers picked me up in a van to help out with a festival in the Burren.
Now we switch to the present tense. I'm trying to put this all behind me, but in a way, it's still going on... After a journey of 16 hours we arrive in a valley surrounded by a purple moon-like landscape and the boys erect a tent. My cousin Lu joins us with some Dubliners. We have a wild few days in this mysterious landscape; the spirit moves.
Returning, the van is packed tighter than a truckload of sheep (similar number of brain-cells left). The boys have acquired extra baggage in the shape of girls, and I'm stuffed in the back like an envelope. I can't stand another moment in that position, so I ask them to drop me in Dublin. I meet up with cousin Lu, and roam the city.
The pubs are packed Dublin is kicking. I'm thinking this would be a great place for a membership club, and I go searching for a building. I fall in love with The Sick and Indigent Room Keeper's Society; it's perfect for my concept and Lu is the ideal partner. She's one of the best chefs in Dublin and socially as enthusiastic as me. My long-lost sister.
I go back to London to raise money for the concept. At a smart wedding in Cornwall I meet a surfer called Charlie. After listening to my phone call to possible backers in London, he says, "Don't worry Em, I'll buy the building. Let's go to Dublin."
"What are you talking about?" I reply. "You're a surf bum, you haven't got any money."
"On the contrary, Em. I'm a property developer."
We move into the building to prove the concept before buying it, and open The House on a trial basis for one month. We dress the club like a 17th-century Georgian private home, with coal fires, private dining and a cosy drawing room. The trial is a huge success and I meet some fantastic characters. I fall in love with Dublin, the building, my partner and Lu. There is plenty of mischief. We turn John Hurt away on New Year's Eve for being too pissed, and decide as one to ban Gavin Lambe Murphy. Sadly, he never turns up to be evicted.
Just as we are acquiring the right licensing and planning prior to buying the building, a private bidder swoops in with a cash offer way above ours. I lose the building, and my lover.
Charlie and I split up; we close The House and empty the building. Around us, scenes are being shot for The Actors (renting the place out as a movie location seemed a good way to try and recoup some of our losses). Charlie and I look daggers at each other across Michael Caine, Miranda Richardson and my hero Dylan Moran; sadly I'm not in the right frame of mind to chat him up.
I move myself and what is left of the club to Slane. Shell-shocked, the Boyne river is very soothing and I meet good people. I breathe a sigh of relief and decide the countryside, a bit of yoga, some riding and a new project is just what I need.
One afternoon I'm contemplating an organic vegetable garden with my house mate when he receives a telephone call: one of the worst reprobates in Ireland is coming over to check out his garden furniture. I don't know why but my ears prick up, and I go to the local pub to meet Marcus Chawner, a tall, handsome, well-spoken Irishman with a tan. So this is the guy they call the Duke of Rutland, because according to him he was admitted to the Rutland centre for all three woes: drink, drugs and gambling. He's just the diversion I've been looking for. After a couple of days of drinking solidly in Slane, I look at Marcus passed out on my bed and think: "how sweet."
The next day, after our first pint in the local, Marcus asks me to come to Bali with him. He has a furniture export business, we could have a new life together. My head filled with romance, Guinness and adventure, I agree. I figure now isn't the moment to stop him drinking, but he assures me there will be no top shelf in Indonesia. We set off for the ferry to say goodbye to my family in England, checking out many of the pubs in Ireland en route.
Dinner with the parents is perfect. I have a large family and most were there to say good bye. Everyone has a merry time and Marcus is charming. He pulls it off! I'm touched and ready for an adventure. I buy my ticket to Bali. We take off on Garuda Airlines. Free booze the whole 17 hours.
"This'll be the last time, luv. Just one for the road."
The charm is wearing a little thin, but he's still cute and there will be no top shelf in Bali. By the time we arrive, I'm almost ready to shed my Irishman, but then he kicks into action, speaking the lingo.
"A taxi 10 dolla..."
"Ah scalli...!"
I'm hooked again.
We take a cab through tiny back streets, dodging mopeds some with whole families on to the Sayang hotel in Kuta. Money is a little tight, but we both have some coming and I have my Irish mobile and my London mobile, so we sell the Irish one (a ritual burning of bridges) and check in. The Sayang is a lovely little hotel with swimming pool surrounded by exotic flowers, birds and banana leaves and a 24 hour bar.
We go to bed. Marcus passes out. In the middle of the night he wakes up:
"I'm just going downstairs for an orange juice, luv."
Next morning we wake to the sound of cockerels, mopeds and jungle noises and go down to breakfast by the pool paradise. Seated at the bar are some Aussie surfers, a couple of pretty western girls and a sinister man in his 50s; obviously in Bali for the young girls. After breakfast I am handed my bill.
"Fourteen double whiskies? I don't think this is ours."
Marcus looks sheepish.
"Ah well, I was a bit thirsty in the night, luv."
We settle by the pool and make friends quickly. The bar tab increases daily until it's cheaper to pay the barmen not to serve Marcus. It's time for business.
Marcus goes off to see an ex-girlfriend in Jakarta, sell his furniture and my phone, and get a bit of cash. He returns two days later with the shakes and a million rupiah. Fifteen million rupiah later, the hotel manager wants our account settled. We both try to get money sent over. Just before the police are called we settle up and move to our new accommodation, where we make a deal for a month and set up home.
Marcus promises to stop the drinking and start working. I take him to AA, where we make quite an entrance, and he makes a moving speech. We're back on track. Marcus goes off on a business trip to Java and I stay home to decorate our new house. I can't believe I'm living in Bali and my Irish boyfriend is on a business trip to Java. I go shopping and buy a beautiful painting of Buddha. Unfortunately my card is stolen. Luckily Marcus arrives back two days later with a bit of money, a fish and a telephone number of the guy with the rest of the money. Nothing is ever straightforward, but it's lovely to see him, he looks good and sounds sober; we're a happy couple.
We plan our business: I'm going to deal in crafts and clothes to fill the back of his containers of furniture. I meet an antique dealer and auctioneer from Surrey called Rupert. He and Marcus get on well and he agrees to take a container of the copied traditional-style furniture in which Marcus already deals. Things are on track for a life in Bali.
Then one day Marcus receives an e-mail from Anita, the ex-girlfriend in Jakarta. She's coming to Bali to look after a pregnant friend. I sense something is up; now that she knows about me, this girl obviously wants him back. Suddenly the love nest is filled with ex-girlfriend and her friends, one heavily pregnant, all speaking Indonesian. I blow up, she blows up and the truth is as I feared: she still loves him and wants him back. He now loves us both. Well of course, this is accepted in Indonesia, but I'm not sharing a penniless alcoholic of few prospects with another woman. The truth is, she loves him and I don't.
"You can have him" I shout, leaving.
Somewhat upset, I move out and leave Marcus with the Indonesian entourage. After a couple of swoops on the house with an "Ojek" moped chauffeur, I lose touch, leave a few things and then Marcus disappears. An Indonesian youth in the street shouts "Emma, your husband, he with another woman. You want an Indonesia man?"
I think it's time to move out of Kuta.
I get an e-mail from an actor friend in London who says, "you must look up my friend in Bali..." So I do. The friend turns out to be a woman who had been at one of our AA meetings and remembers Marcus's entrance. She agrees to put me up in her beautiful compound in Seminyak.
A completely different Bali experience ensues: glamorous and spiritual. I tour around by motorbike, meet a Balinese king and stay in the palace where Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall honeymooned. I meet the surf photographer Jeff Divine, and many ex-pats. I have an accident on the bike and am in bed for three days, but I am The English Patient, lying in my mosquito-netted bed in my Balinese hut, visited by several admirers.
I start to pine for Ireland. On the morning I'm due to leave, I receive an apologetic e-mail from Marcus, now living in Jakarta with the Indonesian girl. I wish him all the best. I'm sure we will meet again one day.
I didn't go to Bali to have a great love affair. I went out to get over another love affair – not with a person but a project, the House. I don't regret the trip. I saw Bali, and I've learned to appreciate what I left behind. Marcus was of physiological fascination to me, I fancied him rotten but I never believed we could seriously be an item. I've always had an urge to cure men of addiction, as I once did it successfully. Drunks are often complex, talented people. One day, Marcus may well overcome his addiction and become a formidable man. That is the person I would like to have a great love affair with.
Meanwhile, it's time to start using the future tense: my future.
Published in the December 2002 edition of The Dubliner magazine
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