Nancy, companion in Covent Garden

Thirty suits Nancy in a way that twenty five did not, and she is the first to say so. She is 170 cm and curvy, golden blonde hair worn long, blue eyes, and she has the settled confidence of somebody who no longer needs an evening to prove anything to her. She dresses for the theatre crowd and slightly above it.

Her English is fluent and she uses it generously. She is the easiest introduction on this list, warm on arrival rather than after twenty minutes of warming up, and she remembers what you told her last time without making a performance of remembering. She sings in a choir, reads crime novels without apology, and is excellent company for anyone who has spent the whole day being sensible. She is also honest about what she enjoys, which makes an evening with her considerably simpler than it might otherwise be, and she has no interest whatever in being mysterious.

Her Covent Garden evening is the classic one and she is unapologetic about it: the Ivy on West Street, a booth if the booking went in early enough, then a walk across the piazza while the last buskers pack up. The Strand hotels are six minutes from the table and the Kingsway ones eight. She lives here, five minutes from the theatre doors, which makes her the most reliable name for a night decided at short notice. She knows which tables in WC2 will still be serving at half past ten.

Her nights show on the Covent Garden page. Each duration has its own figure under rates. Name a hotel and a time in a booking message and she is confirmed quickly.

Nancy is warm from the door and needs no settling in period, which makes her a good first booking. Give Romilly the hotel and the hour and she will be confirmed quickly.

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

Nancy makes the first ten minutes disappear. She greets you as though you had arranged this weeks ago, takes her coat off, sits down and asks about your day in a way that actually wants an answer. That is the whole difference between a good evening and an awkward one, and she does it every time without appearing to try.

Dinner with her runs long. She orders a pudding, she tells you about the choir, she asks what you are reading and then argues about it. If there is a show she times the meal around it precisely; if there is not, she is content to sit until the room empties. Afterwards it is a short walk to almost anywhere in WC2, and the last hour of the booking is unhurried and quiet.