Watercolour does not forgive heavy hands, which may explain a great deal about Patricia. She paints small landscapes on thick paper at the weekend, working quickly and lightly, and she brings that same light touch to every evening she spends with a guest.
She is twenty-eight and slim, 172 cm, her long hair a warm auburn brown, her brown eyes soft and attentive. Patricia lives in Belgravia and dresses in a romantic, faintly bohemian way: a floral dress with a structured coat, loose hair, a thin gold chain. She looks like someone about to catch a train to the coast, and like someone well worth sitting next to on it.
Film noir is her guilty passion. She loves the rain-slicked streets, the clipped dialogue and the women who always know more than they say, and she can finish a famous line from Double Indemnity if you give her the first half. Bookshops are the other weakness; she will vanish into Daunt Books on Holland Park Avenue for five minutes and emerge forty minutes later with two novels and an apology.
Her Notting Hill evening is the Electric Cinema on Portobello Road, one of the oldest working cinemas in Britain, with red velvet armchairs, little side tables and a bar where you can carry a glass of wine into the screening. Patricia always checks whether a classic is showing. Dinner follows nearby, then a gentle taxi ride back to your hotel. She is attentive without fuss and romantic without drama, and she speaks English quietly and thoughtfully.
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