Angelika, after seven on City Road

Seven o'clock, and the City is emptying. That is the hour Angelika prefers to arrive. She stands 172 cm, with the square shoulders and easy stride of somebody who plays tennis before work, and her long black hair falls perfectly straight down her back. Brown eyes, very little make-up, a dark dress that moves well. She wears one piece of gold at a time and never checks her reflection in the lift doors. Relaxed glamour is the whole idea: nothing fussy, nothing that needs adjusting at the table.

Confidence is the obvious thing. The playful side takes longer to show, usually around the second drink, when she starts teasing you about your choice of hotel. She talks in unhurried English and listens with her whole face. Contemporary art is her daytime habit; she will cross the river for a single new room at Tate Modern and tell you honestly whether it earned the trip. She still books a court for half past six most Tuesdays, whatever happened the night before. Evenings belong to live jazz, heard close, never through a speaker.

Her City evening runs to a simple plan. A drink in your hotel bar while the office crowd thins, then a short cab to Nightjar, the low-lit basement on City Road where a band plays most nights and the cocktails take their time. She asks for a table with a clear view of the drummer. She stays silent through the solos and talks between numbers. When the set ends she takes the long way back, through the empty lanes of the Square Mile, towers lit and nobody else around.

She lives in Mayfair, and a cab east to a City of London hotel takes around twenty-five minutes. Every length and figure is laid out on the rates page; once you have chosen, booking needs only her name, the hour and your hotel.