Chloe

Chloe arrives by bicycle in all weathers, hair pinned up in a hurry that somehow holds, quick across the Jordaan and in no hurry at all once the door is shut.

Everything about Chloe is fast except the hour you booked. She answers fast, crosses her district fast, the bicycle, the bridges, the shortcut past the flower stalls, and then, at the door, downshifts completely, as if speed were a coat she hangs beside yours. The contrast is her calling card and she knows it. She is twenty-four, fair, Jordaan-based, and carries the neighbourhood's geography in her head to the house number. Her oil sessions favour repetition over variety: the same long pass down the back, again and again, until it stops being a stroke and becomes a state. French when delighted, English by default, brief in both. The knock comes sooner than you expect; the hour lasts longer than it should.

Chloe decides which bookings she takes and may decline any of them; she sets the limits for what a session includes, says what they are, and may end a visit at any point, as the terms set out.