Nobody misses Milena in a lobby. She is 175 cm and curvy, black hair straight and reaching the middle of her back, brown eyes already assessing the room before anybody speaks to her. Mid twenties. For the wharf she dresses one notch above the room: a dark dress with structure to it, a coat that means business, heels that raise her past six foot and do not trouble her at all.

Her English is clear and she is comfortable in the sort of company that talks about work until ten and then stops abruptly. She does not pretend to be fascinated by markets and she is not bored by them either. She reads widely, swims at a pool near her flat, and is refreshingly direct about what she does and does not enjoy, which saves everybody a lot of guesswork. There is no game to work out with her, which people find restful.

An E14 evening with her usually runs through Iberica on Cabot Square, where the tables look out over the water and the small plates keep arriving until you stop them. She likes a late table, nine or after, because the wharf empties and the room stops being an extension of the office. She lives across town in South Kensington, so the desk builds in the travel and she arrives without a rush on her.

Late tables at nine or after are where she is happiest, and the run across town is planned into the evening rather than rushed at the end of it. The Canary Wharf page has E14, the hotels and the others who work it. A night and a hotel sent to booking is enough to settle whether the evening is hers.

Nothing has been written up under Milena 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.