Speak easy

He appears from behind the bar, grey waistcoat and scruffy beard. Like a jazz musician whose real work isn't here.

"I heard you're trying to go Upstairs," he says. We nod.

"There are two seats waiting for you at the bar if you go now," he says. "Just call first."

We saunter over to the vault-like door, schoolgirls with a secret. She picks up the phone. Where it rings we cannot hear. In five seconds, the door unclicks and we're in.

The wooden stairs and walls are rustic, the hallways lined with nude black and whites. Upstairs, static tunes tumble from an invisible phonograph.

Another waistcoated bartender says our wish is his command. Anything my lady has a thirst for? Yes. He mixes a frothy Armaretto concoction and watches as I sip, walks away only when I nod in appreciation.

She and I spend the evening curled on bar stools, staring at antique liquor bottles. People come and go, talking of Michaelangelo. Friends stay.

We move to big, straight-backed chairs in the corner, sip each other's drinks and talk about journalism and sexuality.

When we leave, the patrons downstairs watch with curiosity as we emerge from the metal door. Outside, Seattle is cold, but the ginger keeps me warm.