The Pavilion
Thirteen events a year, and the private rooms we open inside them. A villa, a terrace, a berth or a suite, staffed by us, with our own chef and our own suppliers. No stands, no branding walls, no badge queues.
A room goes ahead when it reaches eighty percent of what it costs to hold. Until then the gap is shown as it is.
Each bar is a room, its height how far it has got. Gold means it has cleared eighty percent and goes ahead. A small mark is an event with no room open around it yet.
The last Grand Slam of the year, played in New York at the end of the summer. Night sessions under lights, and a fortnight where the city rearranges itself around Flushing Meadows.
The year's first Grand Slam, played through the Melbourne summer. Three weeks of tennis in a city that treats it as a festival, and the one major where the southern hemisphere sets the calendar.
Tennis on the Paris clay in early summer, slower and more theatrical than the grass. A fortnight gated by tradition, where the crowd settles in from lunch through the last match of the day.
Grass-court tennis, strawberries and the quiet of Centre Court between points. Two weeks that are gated and tradition-bound, and one of the few places an establishment crowd stays put for days.
No rooms are open yet. The season is the calendar we build them around. How patronage works.