A West End show, then dinner, then your hotel: a London date diary

Some dates I remember for the room at the end. This one I remember for the second act. A West End date with an escort is my favourite kind of evening, because the build-up comes built in: there’s little to do in the stalls except sit close and wait. The show stays nameless; the rest went more or less like this.

Getting ready in Earl’s Court

5.30pm. Stockings first, always. They take patience, and I like starting an evening with something that can’t be rushed. Then the black dress that zips at the back. Hair up, because the stalls get warm. Earrings that won’t catch on a collar. Lipstick last: a red that survives a cocktail and most of a kiss.

Then the Piccadilly line into town, which in heels and seamed stockings is its own small piece of theatre.

Meeting before curtain-up in the West End

7pm. You’d sent the street and the time, nothing more: exactly right. You’re outside early, pretending to read the posters, and I spot you before you spot me: the only man on the pavement studying his reflection in the glass doors.

Hello is a kiss on the cheek that lands nearer your mouth than you expected. You go a little pink. I take your arm, we find our seats in the stalls with ten minutes to spare, and your knee is suddenly very aware of mine.

The interval, and the second act

7.30pm. I behave beautifully in the first act. I laugh in the right places, lean in to whisper something rude about the leading man’s coat, and leave my hand on the armrest between us so you can wonder whether it means anything. (It does.)

8.45pm, interval. You’ve pre-ordered the drinks, which I find unreasonably attractive. Mine is red and bitter with an orange twist. We stand in the crush at the bar, my back to the wall and your hand on my waist, talking about everything except the play. The bell goes and neither of us wants to go back in. We do, though. I have plans for the second act.

9.10pm, second act. Lights down. My hand finds your knee and stays there, and somewhere around the big song it moves an inch. Then another. I keep my eyes on the stage, perfectly composed. You give up on the plot entirely. Ask me later how it ended and I can tell you; ask yourself and you’ll draw a blank.

Late dinner in Covent Garden, then a black cab

10.15pm. A short walk to a late table in Covent Garden, somewhere loud enough that nobody hears what I’m saying to you and dim enough that it doesn’t matter. I choose the wine; you forget the menu. We talk about the show for five minutes, then everything else: your work, my worst haircut. I steal from your plate. My foot finds your ankle under the table. We both turn down dessert at the same moment, and laugh about it.

11.30pm. A black cab on Long Acre. Down Piccadilly, round Hyde Park Corner and along the edge of the park to your hotel in Kensington (it was Mayfair last time; I’m not fussy). The cab is too bright, the driver wants to talk about the roadworks, and the journey is exactly four minutes longer than either of us can stand. Your hand on my stocking top. My lipstick, by now, on your collar.

Your corridor is long, carpeted and silent, and I take my heels off halfway down it.

Cut to: your door, and the zip at the back of my dress, which was always going to be your job.

How to book a dinner date escort in London

A dinner date is three hours for £650 or four for £800, and each extra hour is £180. A show plus a late table runs nearer five hours by the time we reach your door, so book four and add the fifth up front (£980 in all) rather than glancing at your watch in the cab. If you already know you won’t want me to leave, an overnight starts at £1,400 for ten hours and gets us all the way to breakfast.

I need 24 hours’ notice for a date, though earlier is better: you probably bought the seats weeks ago, and I’d like to be free on the night you’ve got them. There’s no deposit. Everything is settled before curtain-up, cash or bank transfer, and then it’s never mentioned again. The one extra is my taxi: on a date you cover it, which on this one meant the cab home from your hotel, since the Piccadilly line into town was my own idea.

The tickets and the table are yours to book: two together, in your name. Put the show time, the neighbourhood and your hotel in our WhatsApp thread, typed out rather than linked, and I’ll be on the pavement ten minutes early. The evening itself is the girlfriend experience, just with better seats.

Dress code: tell me what you’re wearing and I’ll match it. A suit gets the black dress and the stockings. Black tie gets something long, and my best behaviour in public. Jeans and a good jacket get something shorter. Whatever I turn up in, the zip is still at the back.