Roxane

We trained Roxane ourselves, in this building, with the rest of the list watching and chipping in — not hired off a listing site with habits we'd have to unlearn. Every woman here vouched for her before her name went up, which had never once happened unanimously before, and her first repeat guests arrived faster than I can remember anyone's doing.

What she has now is a clean exactness — taught clean, kept clean — and a quality of attention that can't be taught at all: the sense that the hour has her whole mind on it, no autopilot anywhere. What she doesn't yet have is the accumulated range of a Verity or an Odette, and the £250 rate says so without embarrassment. Same room and same standard of hour, with a therapist earlier in her arc.

She's a good first door in if the rates gave you pause, and a good second opinion if you've a regular here and a curious streak. Her room's at the Barbican, EC2; address follows the booking. Outcalls she covers within central London, daytime and early evening — airports and the late hotel runs are still Lena's territory. The rules never depended on seniority: the guest's hands stay on the table, and stop means stop. The £250 is everything you'll pay.