She notices the small things first and mentions them three hours later, which is either charming or unnerving depending on what you were doing at the time. Tiffany is 169 cm, finely built and light on her feet, her chocolate brown hair long, her brown eyes staying on a thing until they are finished with it. Early twenties. She dresses in textures rather than statements: a sequinned sleeve, a heavy silk, something that catches light as she moves, and shoes that were chosen after the dress rather than before it.
Graceful is the surface quality and playful is what arrives once she is comfortable. She teases lightly and takes teasing back without a flicker. Her English is fluent and precise. Street photography is the real habit, though hers is all detail: hands, reflections, the corner of a sign. Champagne is the honest weakness. Design hotels are the professional curiosity, and she can tell within a minute of entering a lobby whether anybody thought properly about the lighting.
Her Covent Garden evening happens under glass. The atrium at NoMad on Bow Street, across from the old magistrates' court, is three storeys of plants and light with a bar at the bottom of it, and she considers it the best room in the district for a slow start. Afterwards she likes Floral Court, the quiet courtyard most people walk past, and then whichever table in Seven Dials is still taking orders.
Soho is home, ten minutes on foot from Covent Garden, and midweek is when her diary has the most room in it. Ask booking for a Tuesday or a Wednesday and she will almost certainly be free.
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.