Cindy, first mate at the oyster bar

Cindy judges every room by its light before she judges anything else, a photographer's reflex she has never managed to switch off. The good news is that she tends to improve whatever light she finds. Slim and 168 cm, she has long blonde hair in loose waves, blue eyes that crease easily when she laughs, and a sunny, poolside kind of style that London somehow never dims: a white shirt dress, bare sandals in summer, a cashmere wrap once October arrives.

Her personality is simple to summarise and lovely to spend time with. She is cheerful without being loud, sporty without being competitive, and so easygoing that a first hour tends to feel like a reunion. Yoga starts her days; sailing fills her summer weekends, crewing off the south coast for anyone who will have her aboard. In between she photographs the city: reflections in shop windows, the geometry of shadows on stucco. In her mid twenties, she talks in relaxed, sunny English that suits long, lingering suppers.

Seafood feels right for a sailor, so her Mayfair pick is Scott's, all polished brass and crushed ice, with the oysters opened in plain sight and a terrace full of people who clearly have nowhere else to be. Cindy likes a seat facing the room, a dozen natives or a simply grilled sole, and a glass of something crisp. She promises to photograph nothing at the table, except perhaps the light on the ice.

Cindy comes over from Chelsea, a short ride to Mount Street and the hotels around it, and she is usually free from the afternoon into the early evening. Everything from a single hour to a dinner date is listed on the rates page.