Nothing about Jasmin arrives quietly. At 160 cm she is one of the smallest women here and easily the fastest on her feet, with long chestnut brown hair worn straight down her back and brown eyes that are usually bright with whatever she is about to suggest doing next. Early twenties, she dresses to move rather than to be photographed: something short and well cut, heels she can genuinely dance in for three hours, a scent chosen that afternoon because the weather changed its mind.
Flirtatious is the word people reach for first and curious is the more accurate one. She wants to know how things are made, whether that is a cocktail, a perfume or a career, and she will keep asking until the answer actually makes sense to her. Her English is fast and warm. Salsa is the real obsession, three nights a week when the diary allows it. Mixology is the hobby that got badly out of hand. Perfume is what she spends money on without apologising.
Her hours begin at nine, when the theatres empty out and Charing Cross Road fills with people deciding what to do with the rest of the night. She will take you to the salsa room off that stretch, where the floor is busy enough that nobody is watching either of us, and she is patient with beginners for exactly as long as it takes to get you upright. A late plate somewhere small follows, then whatever the hour suggests.
Soho is home, which puts her minutes from Charing Cross and most WC2 doors. Late is the point rather than the exception here: ask booking how her night looks and you will get a straight answer, not a sales pitch.
Her home stage is Soho, and she travels from there to the venues this house covers. Her full listing sits with the rest of the company on the companions page.