Lucy looks for Jupiter over Frith Street

Lucy has a habit of checking the sky before she checks the room; on a clear evening she is hunting for Jupiter above the rooftops of Frith Street. It is a charming habit in a woman who is otherwise wholly present. Slender at 163 cm, she has dark brown curls that fall long and do exactly as they please, and warm brown eyes. Her style is bohemian with a seaside ease, a loose linen dress, silver rings on several fingers, a knitted wrap for when the evening cools. In her mid twenties and soft in manner, she seems to drift into a room and then stay precisely where she is wanted.

Dreamy, yes, and genuinely artistic. Lucy sketches in the margins of napkins, talks about constellations with real knowledge rather than horoscope chatter, and holds strong opinions on espresso: short, dark, drunk standing up. She runs along the Thames at dawn, which may be how she manages to be so tender and unhurried by evening. Her English is gentle and thoughtful, the kind of voice that turns an anonymous room into somewhere you might actually unwind.

Soho was practically built for her coffee habit. Bar Italia, a Frith Street fixture for generations and famous for its late hours, is where she likes an evening to begin, perched outside under the neon sign with a ristretto and a front row view of the street. Afterwards she might lead you up to a terrace to search for stars through the glow, and then back to your hotel, where the curtains stay open because the city lights are her second favourite sky.

The Victoria line carries her from Pimlico to Oxford Circus in three stops, and she is free for daytime meetings as well as midweek evenings. A single note to booking naming your hotel is all it takes.