Petite, 160 cm, chestnut brown hair kept poker straight down her back, brown eyes that miss very little. Jasmin dresses for Soho rather than for photographs: something short and simple, a jacket that can handle a doorway queue, boots she can cross Wardour Street in. Early twenties. She looks like she belongs on those streets because she does, and she moves through them at a pace most people struggle to match.

Her English is quick and so is she. She talks in short sentences, laughs easily, and has a running commentary on Soho that she will share without being asked twice. She plays records rather than streams them, knows three record shops within four hundred metres, and has opinions about espresso that she considers facts. She is warm company, and she is never the quiet one at a table. She is also the first person at a table to notice when somebody else has gone quiet.

A W1D evening with her tends to begin at Andrew Edmunds on Lexington Street, all candles and crooked floors, with more wine on the list than food on the menu. She books the downstairs table when she can get it. Soho is where she lives, so once dinner ends she can name three places within five minutes that will still be serving, and one that will not be worth the walk.

Tonight is often possible with her, which not everybody on this list can say. Read the Soho page for the neighbourhood and the rest of the names working it, then message booking with the hotel and she gets checked straight away.

Nothing has been written up under Jasmin yet, which is usually what discretion looks like. A note goes on the board only when a client sends one in writing, she agrees to it, and the office has checked that it reads as a first name, a month and nothing private.