Lucy, companion in Victoria

About Lucy

Nobody hurries Lucy, and after an hour in her company nobody wants to. Slender at 163 cm, she wears her dark brown curls long and leaves them to their own devices, and her brown eyes stay on you while you finish your sentence. She dresses gently, linen in summer, wool in winter, silver rings she turns when she is thinking. In her mid twenties, she has an unhurried manner that makes the two streets behind Victoria station feel a long way from the concourse you arrived on.

Her English is soft and considered. She listens in the real sense of the word, which means she remembers, and she will bring something back up twenty minutes later because she has been turning it over. She draws, badly and happily, and she walks the river most mornings before the traffic starts. She has no appetite for a loud room, and she will steer you away from one so politely that you will think you decided against it yourself.

In Victoria she keeps to the streets south of the station, where Pimlico begins and the noise stops. Grumbles on Churton Street is her room: small, old, unbothered by fashion, five minutes from the SW1V hotels and the kind of place where a bottle lasts the whole evening. Before or after, there is a walk through the garden squares with the plane trees and the front steps and almost nobody about. She lives in Pimlico, so both ends of the evening are simple to arrange.

The quiet side of Victoria is mapped on its own page, hotels and walking times included. Write your date to booking, and Cordelia will tell you which door she will be standing at.

Booking her

Lucy takes daytime meetings as well as evenings, which suits guests with an early train. Cordelia needs nothing beyond the date and the hotel, and she confirms Lucy with the meeting set at your door or at the table, whichever you prefer.

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 Lucy

She is at her best in the slow middle of a week. You meet at seven, walk five minutes south, and the station noise disappears somewhere around the second corner. The restaurant is small enough that she greets the room, and the table is the one by the window because she asked for it days ago.

Dinner takes as long as it takes. She is the rare companion who is comfortable with a pause, so the conversation goes deeper than it usually would by nine o'clock. Afterwards, the squares: Warwick, then St George's, both empty, the lamps doing the work. She will walk you back to the hotel with her arm through yours and no appetite at all for a nightcap in a loud bar.