Milena, never a maybe

Behind the glass

Milena answers most questions in a single word, and the word is rarely maybe. Crossing a lobby takes her about eight seconds, and by the end of it she has decided where the two of you are sitting. She is tall, 175 cm, curvy and deliberate in heels. Her hair is black, very long and buffed to a mirror shine; her brown eyes are lined with a steady hand. The clothes are sharp: a black suit, heels she can genuinely walk in, gold at the ear.

Direct becomes a kindness in her hands. She says what she thinks, means what she says and never leaves you guessing. Fierce on a tennis court, surprisingly patient at a potter's wheel. Mid twenties, she speaks a crisp English, takes her espresso short and fast, and prefers restaurants where people have made a little effort for the occasion, because she certainly will have.

In W1 that restaurant is Chiltern Firehouse, the old red brick fire station on Chiltern Street, a few minutes from Baker Street station. She likes the courtyard in warm weather and the bar when it turns cold, and gives the whole evening the air of an opening night. Waiters tend to stand a little straighter at her table. After dinner there is always one more place, a Marylebone hotel bar with decent music, before she decides the night has earned its ending.

From South Kensington she reaches Baker Street in about twenty minutes. Evenings and overnights are both open, and she decides quickly. Send the details through booking and expect a straight answer.