Margo, companion in Kensington

About Margo

By the time Margo has hung up her coat she has taken the measure of the evening and decided to enjoy it. She is 166 cm and slim, her long dark brown hair dead straight, her brown eyes not flinching at anything. Her wardrobe is disciplined, a narrow dress, a heavy coat, good shoes that have been resoled rather than replaced. In her early thirties, she is the companion guests ask for when they have outgrown being impressed and would simply like an interesting adult across the table.

She talks in English with an editor's economy, and she is willing to disagree with you, politely and at length, which is why dinner with her never goes flat. Her interests are painting, long novels and the kind of travel that involves reading about the place first. She has strong views and holds them loosely. She is also genuinely discreet, so guests tell her more than they planned to, and none of it goes anywhere.

In Kensington she wants one room and three hours. Launceston Place, a few quiet streets back from the gardens, is the table she chooses: low ceilings, careful cooking, a room where nobody is shouting. She will walk over from the W8 hotels rather than take a car, and afterwards through the gardens gate while the park is still open, or along the church street if it is not. Her home is in Knightsbridge, twenty minutes away on foot along the park side.

The W8 hotels and her walking routes are listed on the Kensington page. Dates go to booking; they join her list in the order they arrive, and you will hear from Cordelia the day the diary opens.

Booking her

Margo is travelling at the moment, so the desk takes dates rather than confirmations for her: send yours to Cordelia and you will hear on the day her diary reopens. She books from three hours upwards.

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 Margo

She would rather meet at the restaurant. Eight o'clock, a table she has sat at before, a bottle chosen without ceremony. The first half hour is questions, hers, and they are better than the ones you get asked at work. By the main course she has an opinion about something you said and she is not going to let it go.

That is the pleasure of an evening with her. Nothing is performed, nothing is flattered, and the three hours go faster than any of it should. Afterwards she walks, into the gardens if the gate is still open, otherwise up past the antique windows, and she says goodnight at the hotel door without fuss. Guests tend to book her again for a longer evening the second time.