Lea, curtain up at half past seven

Leave two tickets at the box office and Lea will find them. She is small, 161 cm and petite, with auburn hair in loose long waves that she pins up for the stalls and lets down for the bar afterwards. Her eyes are hazel, greener under stage lights, more gold in a hotel lobby. She dresses with a designer's eye for texture: a soft wool wrap, a silk blouse the colour of clay, a single handmade ring. Early twenties, living in Belgravia, and sweet without ever being shy.

Spontaneous is the word she uses for herself, charming is the word everyone else uses. Lea will change a dinner plan because a side street looked interesting and make the new plan better. Interior design is her daytime fascination; she notices how a hotel suite has been lit before she notices the view. On weekends she throws pots in a shared studio and brings home more bowls than any kitchen needs. Theatre is the constant. English is her language, and she tells a story with her whole face.

St Martins Lane is her idea of a perfect base for the evening, a hotel that treats its lobby like a stage set, a few minutes on foot from a dozen playhouses. Meet at six for a glass in the bar. Walk to the show and let her explain the set design at the interval. Afterwards, a late supper close by, then back upstairs, where she kicks off her shoes, curls into the armchair and reviews the entire second act with the conviction of a critic.

Theatreland sits at the heart of her West End diary. Check the rates for a four hour evening, then send the desk the show, the hotel and the curtain time.