Weekends are spoken for early with Nancy, and there is a reason for it. She is 170 cm, curvy, with golden blonde hair worn long and blue eyes that make people trust her far too quickly. Thirty, and entirely unbothered by the number. Her wardrobe runs warm: gold rather than silver, a dress with movement in it, a coat that looks like it belongs on a boat somewhere. She is one of those people who appears to have been somewhere sunny even in February.
Sunny is the accurate word and easygoing is the useful one. Nothing much rattles her, plans can change at the last minute, and she treats an evening that goes sideways as the better story. Her English is fluent and warm. Swimming is the daily habit, forty lengths before most people are awake. Road trips are the annual escape, preferably with a bad map. Sushi is the food she will steer you towards if you leave the choice anywhere near her.
She lives four streets from the Piazza, and her Covent Garden evening barely needs a plan. Sushisamba on the corner of the market suits her, high up with the glass and the noise, and after that she likes the square itself once the crowds have gone and the opera house doors are standing open for the interval. She has watched this district change for years and will point out what used to be where without a trace of sentiment.
Home is Covent Garden itself, which is why weekends fill first and why short notice occasionally works midweek. Wednesday is the sensible day to write to booking if you want a Friday or a Saturday.
Her home stage is Covent Garden, and she travels from there to every venue on the circuit. Her full listing sits with the rest of the company on the companions page.