Stacy, companion in Liverpool Street

About Stacy

Bishopsgate at six is a river of people going the other way, and Stacy stands a clear head above most of it. Slim, 176 cm, near black brown hair worn long, eyes dark brown, and the stillness of somebody who worked out early that she would be noticed regardless. Plain dark clothes, a long coat, flat shoes as often as not, and she carries nothing she does not need.

Early twenties, fluent English, and calmer than the hour or the postcode would suggest. Stacy is watchful before she is talkative, and she reads a table quickly: who wants to be drawn out, who wants to be left alone for ten minutes. She is fond of markets, terrible with directions despite living here, and has a habit of noticing the one interesting thing in a room that nobody else has looked at.

Eataly on Bishopsgate is the easy start, thirty seconds from the station: a hall of counters and small tables where you can eat properly at nine without booking anything. After that it is the hotels, or the nine minute walk north to Shoreditch if the evening has legs. She lives in Chelsea and is clear about the journey, half an hour on the District line or rather more by road after seven.

Liverpool Street is the busiest interchange in the east and the last trains run late in every direction. The fare list lives on rates. Ask booking to hold a date after the third and Nell will confirm it in writing.

Booking her

Stacy is out of London until early October and the desk is holding dates for after that. Give Nell a day and a hotel and she will confirm it in writing once Stacy is back.

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

An evening with Stacy

The station is the whole logic of an evening here. Everything is within nine minutes of it, so nothing has to be planned more than one step ahead, and Stacy is comfortable letting a night decide itself.

Start with a table at the counters, because eating early makes everything afterwards easier. The first half hour is quiet, and then it is not. If you want the City version of the evening she will steer you to a hotel bar with a view of the towers; if you want the other version it is a nine minute walk to Shoreditch High Street and a completely different set of rooms. Either way she keeps an eye on the last services and tells you when one matters, which is a small kindness nobody else bothers with.