Lea, companion in Belgravia

About Lea

Belgravia suits Lea for the same reason she suits it: neither of them raises a voice. She is petite, 161 cm, her auburn hair long, wavy and worn loose, her hazel eyes warming up several seconds before she smiles. Her clothes are small and well made, a wrap dress, a good coat, heels sized for stucco pavements. She is in her early twenties and reads a room quickly, which is why she is comfortable in places where other people spend the first half hour checking whether they belong.

She speaks English and uses it lightly, teasing rather than declaring, and she is funny in a way that takes a minute to land. She notices things: that you have had a hard week, that the table next to you is celebrating something, that the waiter is new. Books and cities are her subjects, and she is honest about the ones she has not read or seen, which is more charming than pretending. She is affectionate company without ever crowding you.

Her Belgravia evening is short on distance and long on comfort. The Alfred Tennyson on Motcomb Street is the room she keeps coming back to, a corner upstairs, a fire when the weather earns one, ten minutes on foot from the SW1X squares. Before dinner she likes a slow lap of Eaton Square with the windows lit and the curtains not yet drawn. She lives in Belgravia, so she can be at your door quickly and can stay for a fourth hour when the evening asks for it.

Her corner of Belgravia, squares and all, has a page of its own here. One note to booking with the hotel and the hour in it is plenty, and Cordelia answers by return.

Booking her

Send the desk your hotel, the date and the hour, and Cordelia will write back with Lea confirmed and the meeting point set. She lives inside the postcode, so an extra hour added on the night is usually possible.

Her figures are the same figures every companion here works to, printed on the rates page, and the order a booking runs in is on the booking page.

An evening with Lea

She likes to start outside. A lap of the square first, ten minutes, no destination, while the houses light up one by one and she tells you which ones have basements the size of a swimming pool. It is a small thing, and it sets a night up better than any hotel bar could.

Then upstairs at her usual place, a corner table, the fire lit if the year allows it. She eats properly and takes her time over it, and the conversation goes wherever you steer it. Nothing about the night is loud. At the end she walks back with you through streets where the only sound is a taxi two roads away, and the evening finishes exactly where you asked it to.