Angelika, companion in Mayfair

Nine minutes from Bond Street station to most Mayfair doors, and Angelika times it better than the apps do. She stands 172 cm, built on the athletic side, with black hair she wears long and dead straight and brown eyes that stay on you instead of touring the room. She dresses for the room she is entering, never louder than it, and arrives composed, which in this postcode is most of the trick.

Her English is fluent and she uses it economically, which people mistake for reserve for about ten minutes. After that she is funny, direct and better informed than she lets on. She follows tennis seriously, reads the art pages before the news, and asks the kind of question that makes you explain your own work properly for once. Silence does not worry her and she leaves it alone. She also does not let a conversation die, which is the rarer skill of the two.

Mayfair is home, so the walk to a table is usually shorter than the wait for a taxi. Her standard evening opens with a drink and half an hour of nothing urgent, then dinner at Scott's on Mount Street, where she orders early and well and lets the room do the rest. Afterwards she is content either way: back through the squares on foot if the weather allows, or straight up to your suite if the night has run long. Guests staying between Grosvenor Square and Piccadilly usually see her at the door inside forty minutes of the desk confirming.

Her page sits under Mayfair. Durations begin at £250 for the hour and each one is printed on the rates page. Romilly holds the night on a single booking note.

Angelika is usually free from seven. Give Romilly the hotel, the hour and the length you want, and the reply comes back with her arrival time rather than an estimate.

Every figure she works to is on the board of rates, and the rest is one message away.

Book her for three hours and the shape is predictable in the best way. Seven o'clock, a drink somewhere with chairs worth sitting in, twenty minutes of small talk that turns into real talk faster than expected. Eight, the table on Mount Street, where she reads the menu once and decides. She keeps her phone away and her attention on you, and she is good at the part of dinner most people rush, the hour after the plates have gone.

Later she takes her cue from you. Some evenings end with a walk past the shuttered galleries and a nightcap upstairs. Others end at the restaurant door, politely, because the morning matters. Angelika treats both the same way and never makes the shorter version feel like a disappointment.