Liana, a gentle account kept near Marble Arch

About Liana

A gentle account, precisely kept, that is Liana. She is 167 cm, slim, chestnut hair falling straight, brown eyes that read a room before entering it. At 28 her manner is settled, graceful without display, intuitive without commentary. She is the companion guests choose when the week has been loud and the evening must not be.

Her private hours explain her public calm. French novels in the original, slowly; Pilates most mornings; a small garden she describes as her only real extravagance. She listens the way readers do, fully, and speaks when it improves on silence. Her English is soft and fluent, her presence low-lit. Nothing is performed. Her flat smells of tomatoes and old paper, the garden's doing and the novels', and she carries a little of that settled quality through any door she enters. Guests with demanding weeks call her the appointment their doctor would approve of.

Marble Arch is her corner of this site's map, the hinge where the park meets the Marylebone grid. Her recommended evening is Locanda Locatelli on Seymour Street, pasta worth the reverence and lighting that flatters conversation, then a slow return past the quiet end of the park to your hotel, she likes the Cumberland's corner at night when the traffic thins to nothing. Residence bookings in the W1H streets suit her particularly; she makes other people's apartments feel briefly like hers.

Her entry files under Marble Arch. Terms are set out on the rates page; a considerate booking message, day and hour, is all she asks.

How her evening opens

Liana's diary favours quiet weeknights, and she is at her best from the second hour onward, consider 90 minutes at £400 her true starting format. She confirms promptly and arrives serene.

Every figure she works to sits on the statement, and the rest of the account is one message away.

An evening with Liana

Liana's ideal evening is a slow exhale. Eight o'clock at Locanda Locatelli, where she will not let you skip the pasta course and will not hurry you through it either. Conversation arrives in its own time; she has a gift for making the pause before an answer feel like part of the meal. One glass becomes two. Nobody looks at a watch.

Afterwards, the ten minute walk back matters to her, night air, the park's dark edge, the city finally at a reasonable volume. In the room she is calm made physical, unhurried and attentive, a presence that lowers the lights a further notch. She leaves quietly at the hour agreed, and the evening keeps its temperature after she has gone. Guests call it restful. She calls it doing things properly.