The floors youdon’t sleep on.

The Pool

Twenty-five metres of it, cut into the podium two floors below the street. No windows, no clock, and a ceiling that holds the sound down. Open from six.

The Spa

A stone vault, warmed from the floor. Steam at one end, cold at the other, and a corridor between them that was drawn to be walked slowly.

The Reading Room

Two thousand volumes, a fireplace that works, and a rule against telephones. It keeps its own hours and the concierge does not knock.

The Screening Room

Thirty seats in oxblood mohair, a 4K laser projection and a booth. Bookable by the hour, and yours alone when it is.

The Garden

Three storeys up, a court of hornbeam and birch by Ferrier & Poole. The street will never find it, and the tower shelters it from the west wind.

The Concierge

Twenty-four hours, in person, in the arrival hall. Deliveries, dry cleaning, the restaurant you did not book and the car you did not order. Meridian retains its own staff — they are not a service contract.