Rosa, companion in Marylebone

Small, loud, and entirely disarming: Rosa is 160 cm and curvy, chestnut brown hair worn long and curly, brown eyes that are never still. At 25 she is the warmest arrival on this list, the sort who has your coat and your attention within a minute of the door closing, and she dresses with more colour than anybody else here.

Her English is fluent and more or less constant. She is affectionate company, generous with compliments she actually means, and completely without side. She sings, cooks the kind of food that takes six hours and cannot be hurried, and will tell you about her grandmother inside the first half hour, which most guests end up considering a highlight of the evening. She is entirely without pretension and would far rather eat well in a small room than badly in a grand one, and she will say so before you have booked anything.

Her Marylebone evening begins at Wigmore Hall on Wigmore Street, an hour of chamber music at half past seven, which sounds austere and is in fact the most romantic thing in W1. Dinner follows on the High Street, four minutes away, and the hotels around Portman Square are six. She lives in Marylebone, so her journey is a walk rather than a ride, which she says is the reason she has never once been late. The High Street is four minutes from her door and she knows every kitchen on it by name.

She is on the Marylebone page with the rest of her district. Look at rates for the lengths, then tell booking whether you would like the concert built in.

Rosa walks to most of her Marylebone bookings and is reliably early. Tell Romilly the hotel and the hour, and mention if you would like the concert built in.

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

The Rosa version of an evening has music in it if she can manage it. An hour at Wigmore Hall, where the audience is silent and the room is small enough that you can hear the players breathe, and then out into Marylebone with plenty to talk about and no need to invent a subject.

Dinner is the warm part. She orders too much, insists you try everything, and by the time the plates go you will have told her something you did not intend to. Afterwards she likes the short walk back and a long, easy hour with the lamps on. She is not a quiet companion and she does not pretend to be, but she knows exactly when to stop talking, and she always does.