Ivy

Ivy works in miniatures, the small adjustment, the light touch at the right vertebra, the almost-nothing that changes everything. Twenty-three, Jordaan.

Big gestures are easy and Ivy distrusts them. Her sessions are assembled from small, exact kindnesses: a hand resting a moment longer, warmth applied a centimetre from where you expected it, pressure that shifts by degrees rather than announcements. The accumulation is the point, by the final quarter hour, guests who could not name a single dramatic moment cannot move either. She is twenty-three, winter-born and warm the way winter people are, dark-haired, small, and at home in the Jordaan's hush. She speaks Ukrainian, Russian and English, and uses no more of any of them than a quiet room needs. Tantra and sensual hours suit her scale of working. A quiet booking by any measure, and one that guests tend to remember well afterwards.

Ivy 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.