Stacy, companion in Chelsea

About Stacy

Stacy stands 176 cm and has stopped apologising for it, which took her about a year and was worth the trouble. She is slim, with long near-black brown hair and brown eyes that do not give much away at first. She dresses in long, simple shapes that suit the height, flat shoes more often than heels, a coat that reaches her ankles. In her early twenties, she looks composed to the point of severity until she smiles, at which point the whole impression rearranges itself.

Her English is unshowy and she is a far better listener than talker, at least until the second hour. She studies pictures seriously, the contemporary kind rather than the gilt-framed kind, and she has the confidence to say when something is bad. She swims, sleeps properly, and does not drink much, which tends to make her the clearest head at the end of an evening. Guests who expect a striking companion to be hard work find her a relief.

Her Chelsea evening opens at the Saatchi Gallery in the Duke of York's grounds, five minutes off Sloane Square, where the rooms are white and enormous and she will walk them at her own pace and let you walk at yours. Afterwards, dinner on the King's Road or one of the streets behind it, and then the square itself, quiet by ten. She lives in Chelsea, a short walk from all of it, so the meeting point can be the gallery entrance instead of a hotel lobby.

Galleries, hotels and the streets that join them are on the Chelsea page. Send a date and an hour to booking; the reply tells you which door to stand at and when.

Booking her

Gallery hours end early, so for that version of the evening the desk sets the meeting for the late afternoon and lets dinner follow. Send Cordelia your date and hotel and the confirmation comes back with both halves arranged.

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 Stacy

Meet her at the gallery at five. She goes round at her own speed, comes back to whichever room you have stalled in, and tells you what she thinks without checking whether it is the correct opinion. It is a good hour and it does more for a first meeting than a bar ever manages.

Dinner is on one of the streets behind the King's Road, somewhere with a small menu and no music. She talks more as the evening goes on and is very funny by the end of it, in a completely deadpan way. Afterwards, Sloane Square with the fountain running and the last of the traffic, and she walks you back to your hotel with no interest at all in a second bar.