Molly, companion in Soho

Dean Street on a Thursday is Molly's natural habitat. She is 164 cm and curvy, dark brown hair worn long and wavy, brown eyes, and at 24 she has the kind of face that people decide they like immediately and then cannot explain why. She dresses for walking, which in Soho is simply the correct decision.

Her English is fluent and she is properly funny, the sort who tells a story against herself first. She is unusually good at reading how much conversation somebody actually wants. She knows the market stalls by name, holds opinions about sherry that she will defend past midnight, and will happily spend an entire booking at a counter talking to you and to nobody else. She is not impressed by expensive rooms and says so cheerfully, which saves everybody a good deal of effort. What she likes is a serious kitchen and a seat close enough to watch it working.

Barrafina on Dean Street is her suggestion and she means the queue as well as the food: twenty minutes standing outside with a drink is, she insists, part of the evening. Afterwards the hotels around Soho Square are four minutes and Covent Garden about nine on foot. She lives in Soho, so short notice here is genuinely short: a message at seven is often a knock at eight. She will happily do the whole evening on foot, and usually does, because nothing in Soho is far enough away to justify a car.

She is listed on the Soho page. Check the figure for whichever length suits under rates, then send booking a hotel and an hour and she will walk over.

Molly is one of the quickest arrivals inside W1D and W1F because she walks. Send Romilly the hotel and the hour and he will come back with a time rather than a window.

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

Molly's evening is built around a counter and a conversation. She will have you standing outside with a glass for twenty minutes before you eat, which sounds like a flaw and turns out to be the best part: by the time the stools come free you have stopped being strangers. Then small plates, ordered as they occur to her, and a drink she chose.

After dinner she likes to walk. Not far, just the loop through the market streets while the stalls are being packed away and Soho briefly belongs to the people who live in it. Then your hotel, four minutes away, and an hour or two with the door closed. She does not fill the quiet parts with chatter and she does not check her phone once.