Roxi, companion in Spitalfields

About Roxi

Spitalfields market shuts at six and the restaurants around the edge fill up by seven, and that hour in between is Roxi's favourite time to be standing on Brushfield Street. Curvy, 168 cm, black hair long and worn loose, eyes brown, with a posture that turns a plain dress into a decision. Dark colours, a good heel, and a coat she takes off the moment she is inside.

Early twenties, fluent English, and quick enough that a slow evening visibly costs her something. Roxi is warm, funny and slightly restless, and she is honest about all three. She knows the market traders and the restaurant staff by name, she is a dreadful loser at anything competitive, and she will tell you a story about her week that gets better every time she retells it.

Dinner is Gunpowder on White's Row, a tiny room with a very short menu, where everything is shared and nothing arrives in the order you expect. She orders too many small plates and then finishes them. After that it is five minutes to Liverpool Street, five to Shoreditch High Street or twenty on foot around the old streets if the night is mild. She lives in Pimlico and comes east by road, half an hour.

Spitalfields is the easiest corner of the east to stay in, five minutes from the City and one street from Brick Lane. Prices sit on rates. Ask booking for a date in the second half of October and it will be held in writing.

Booking her

Roxi is away until the second week of October and Nell is taking dates for after that now. Send a day and an area, and the desk will confirm it in writing once she is back in London.

Every figure she works to is public on the board, and the steps sit on the booking page.

An evening with Roxi

She treats an evening like a series of short rooms. Twenty minutes in a bar on Brushfield Street, an hour at a table where the plates keep coming, then somewhere else entirely, because sitting still past ten is not really in her nature.

The good news is that everything here is within six minutes of everything else, so the restlessness never turns into a trek. Brick Lane one way, Liverpool Street the other, the old houses on Fournier Street in between and lit like a film set. Roxi is loud in the good sense, an evening with her has momentum, and the quiet hour at the end feels earned rather than polite. She will ask for the walk home along Commercial Street even when a car is sitting there.