Cricket

Gloriously unsentimental about the red light, Cricket treats it as street furniture and works beside it without a flicker. Twenty-two, tall, centre-based.

Cricket has lived beside the lamps and the water long enough to find foreign fascination with both gently hilarious. That unshockability is her superpower: nothing about the trade, the hour or the request unsettles her, because none of it is exotic, it is Tuesday, in Amsterdam, where she lives. She is twenty-two, a hundred and seventy-two centimetres of plain, unvarnished directness, living in the centre a canal or two from most of the addresses she works. Dutch with the porters, English with the world. Her sessions are frank, warm and completely unperformed, and guests who wanted the city itself in the room get exactly that.

Cricket 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.