Bianka, dinner moved upstairs

Who reads the wine list first? At Bianka's table, she does, and she hands it back with two sensible choices circled. Curvy and 165 cm, she wears her hair long, a light brown the sun has lightened at the tips, and her hazel eyes pay attention. Her clothes give away her hobby: a vintage coat with a proper silk lining, a scarf found on a market stall and worn like new, shoes older than some hotels. Early twenties, Knightsbridge based, and never underdressed for a lobby.

Warmth is her default setting. Attentive is the word guests reach for afterwards, usually because she noticed they were tired before they said so. She cooks Italian food at home with real patience, risotto stirred for the full twenty minutes, pasta rolled by hand on a slow Sunday. Wine tasting started as an evening course and became a habit. She speaks English, easily and kindly, and asks the sort of questions that make a long day of meetings feel like it happened to someone else.

In the Square Mile she prefers the grand end of town. Picture the Four Seasons at Ten Trinity Square once the offices empty: a glass of something white and mineral in the bar, a slow look at the menu, then a decision to move dinner to the room because the company is better than the noise. She orders for two without fuss. She dresses so the dining room and the suite both suit her. Nothing about the evening needs checking twice.

Her City bookings are filed under City of London. Read how booking works, then tell the desk which hotel, which night and roughly when dinner should start.