Margo, calm after the Square Mile

No loud perfume in the lift. No phone on the table. No raised voice, ever. Margo's rules are simple, and they are the reason City guests find her so restful. She is 166 cm and slim, with dark brown hair worn long and perfectly straight, brown eyes that reveal almost nothing until she chooses, and a wardrobe that leans towards vintage lounge elegance: a black crepe dress, a velvet jacket, gloves in winter only. Early thirties, Knightsbridge based, and refined to the last detail.

Mysterious is not a pose with her, it is a preference. Margo answers questions about herself with better questions about you, and somehow the evening ends with you knowing more than you expected anyway. She plays piano, mostly late at night, mostly Satie. She looks at contemporary art slowly, one room per visit. Her garden, small and walled, is where she thinks. English is her language, spoken softly and exactly, with a calm that makes a long day of numbers feel far away.

For a City evening, her compass points at the Barbican. A concert in the hall, a walk along the high walkways past the lake and the towers, then back to a hotel near Moorgate or Bank for a late supper. She likes the raw concrete and the soft music together, calling it the most honest building in London. In your room she asks for the lamps rather than the ceiling light and lets the conversation go wherever it wants for as long as the booking allows.

Her City file is under City of London. Read the rates and ask the desk which evenings she has open next.