Heathens, Cowboys and The Santa Ana Winds

Sequins and suede were bathed in pink light, naked hips and nude shoulders, belly dancers in gauze. Gold-ringed toes teased legs under tables, and keys were tossed from camel-coloured coupes. No cameras, no press once you entered these doors, just amorous gestures and Freudian slips from loose lips that sipped warm amber whiskey. Diamond bracelets were slid off delicate wrists and left in the cardamom soufflé. Sandalwood burned and fortunes were read from floating green tea leaves in the Santa Ana winds. Palm trees swayed in wild sweet breezes in this haven for heathens, and cowboys and nymphos. In a City of Angels, it was the place with no angels, but always sunny and seventy degrees.