Auburn waves, hazel eyes, and 161 cm of petite frame that somehow fills a doorway anyway. Lea wears her hair long and loose and lets it do most of the work, which leaves her free to dress plainly: knitwear in winter, linen in summer, flat shoes far more often than heels. Early twenties. She looks like somebody's clever friend rather than an event, and that is exactly the effect she is after.

She has English and she uses it carefully. For fifteen minutes she is quiet, and then she is not quiet at all, and the switch usually happens over the first plate of food. She grows herbs on a windowsill with mixed results, walks a great deal, and has an encyclopaedic memory for streets. Ask her the way to anywhere in SW1 and she will give you two routes and a reason for each.

Her Belgravia evening is a short one by design. Ottolenghi Belgravia on Motcomb Street suits her best, a bright narrow room where the food arrives in the middle of the table and everyone helps themselves. She orders four things and shares all of them. The squares belong to her, SW1 having been home for years, and the walk back to your hotel takes in whichever white stucco terrace she thinks deserves a second look.

Two hours suits her, three is better, and she will say honestly which one your evening wants. More on the postcode and the women who work it is on the Belgravia page. When the night is fixed, write to the desk with the hotel and expect a reply before the day is out.

Nothing has been written up under Lea 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.