Know your limits

There’s only so much one can take of seeing celebrities in the paper stumbling out of clubs and bars in the early hours of the morning, looking as though they’ve been dragged backwards through the night. The photographs are always the same: smudged mascara, lipstick halfway across their faces, dresses twisted, heels in their hands as they lurch towards a waiting car. People like to pretend it’s just an unfortunate snapshot taken mid-blink, but after a while, you realise that nine times out of ten, they aren’t unlucky — they’re simply half-cut. Having spent so much time in those very same exclusive establishments, I often see them in person before they become tomorrow’s headline. Trust me, the camera doesn’t exaggerate; if anything, it’s merciful.

Protecting Image and Dignity

What constantly amazes me is the lack of self-awareness. How they must feel knowing that millions of people have seen their underwear, caught in an ungraceful flash as they tumble from the back of a taxi, or watched their meticulously applied makeup slide down their cheeks in streaks, is beyond me. I can’t imagine waking up to find my worst, drunkest moments splashed across every gossip site in the country. That kind of exposure would be my worst nightmare. So I make it a personal rule to always look and feel immaculate, no matter how late it is or how wild the night becomes. In my line of work, it isn’t just vanity — it’s professionalism. Knowing your limits, especially when you’re out with clients and operating in high-end social circles, is absolutely essential.

The World of Exclusive Haunts

Don’t misunderstand me: as a top agency escort in London, I genuinely enjoy being out and about. The increasingly popular haunts in Mayfair and Knightsbridge are like my second home. I know the doormen by name, the maître d’s greet me with a kiss on both cheeks, and the barmen know precisely how I like my drink presented — even when there’s not a drop of alcohol in it. There’s a particular thrill to walking into a glamorous bar filled with influential men and women, the air thick with money, perfume, and quiet competition. I like the low lighting, the hum of conversation, the clink of crystal glasses, and the sense that anything could happen.

Drinking on My Own Terms

I’m not teetotal; I’ll happily enjoy a glass of champagne or two, especially when it’s a fine vintage and someone else is footing the bill. But I never surrender control to alcohol. I eat a proper meal before I touch a single drop — no nibbling on a lone canapé and calling it dinner. It’s a plate of something substantial, or I don’t drink at all. The idea of feeling lightheaded after a single sip of an alcopop is ridiculous to me. I refuse to risk feeling sick, dizzy, or unsteady on my feet in six-inch heels. A hangover is completely out of the question; I simply will not tolerate it. I have clients to see, appointments to keep, and an image to uphold. Besides, my personality is vibrant enough to carry me through any social situation without relying on alcohol as some sort of social lubricant. I don’t need a stimulant to be witty, engaging, or seductive; that’s my natural state.

Meet Michael: The High-Roller Client

My client for the evening, Michael, is a perfect example of why it’s so important to maintain that composure. He’s a finance investor with a portfolio that sprawls across postcodes and continents, from a quaint cottage in Surrey to a prestigious apartment block in New York with a doorman and a concierge who’s on speed dial. He’s one of those men who radiates self-assurance the second he walks into a room: expensive watch, immaculate suit, and the kind of casual arrogance that comes from knowing he can buy his way into any restaurant, private members’ club, or VIP area he pleases.

Michael is cocky, yes, but he’s also extremely generous. He adores the performance of indulgence — booking the best table, ordering the most extravagant dishes, making a show of instructing the sommelier to bring out something ‘special’ from the cellar. He likes to wine and dine me, to see me surrounded by luxury, as though my presence is somehow a reflection of his success. He buys me designer gifts without blinking and insists on top-shelf champagne as a matter of principle. And, of course, he loves to keep the drinks flowing. He takes it almost as a personal challenge to see my glass permanently topped up, as if an empty flute is an insult to his generosity.

The Art of Saying No Without Saying No

Turning down a client’s offer is never easy, and with Michael, it’s especially delicate. He doesn’t take no for an answer, at least not gracefully. If I were to flatly refuse a drink, he’d take it as a rejection of him rather than the alcohol itself. So I have to be subtle. I’ve become very skilled at navigating evenings where the champagne pours relentlessly, but my sobriety remains firmly intact. Whenever I know we’re going somewhere where there will be a bar — which, frankly, is almost everywhere we go — I prepare myself mentally. I remind myself to be extra alert, to watch the levels in my glass, to time my sips, to disappear to the ladies’ room if I need a moment to regroup.

A Night at the Casino

On one particular evening, Michael decided we should go to a casino. The place was all dark wood, plush carpets, and soft amber lighting — the kind of setting designed to make you forget time and money are real things. As soon as we arrived, he ordered a bottle of champagne, then another, and before long, my flute had been refilled more times than I cared to count. At one point, he poured me a third generous glass and watched me with that satisfied, expectant look of his, clearly pleased with himself. I lifted the glass to my lips and let the fizz just barely touch them, tilting it slowly to give the illusion of a proper sip. Then, as soon as his attention drifted back to the roulette table and his friends, I lowered it discreetly and let the bubbles settle.

I got away with it, of course. Men like Michael become utterly absorbed in the game, in the thrill of the win, in the banter with their buddies. While he was busy pushing chips across green baize and flirting with luck, I focused on maintaining my poise. And in most of the high-end bars, I have a secret advantage: I know the staff. After enough visits, the barmen recognise a familiar face and a discreet signal. A wink here, a slight nod there, and they understand. Where Michael thinks he’s ordering another round of champagne for the two of us, the barman knows to pour me something that only looks alcoholic — sparkling water with lime in a flute, or a clever mocktail that could pass for a cocktail at a glance.

The Importance of Staying Sharp

This kind of arrangement is essential in my world. I simply cannot afford to be sloppy. My clients expect perfection, and I demand it of myself even more fiercely. My appearance, my demeanour, my conversation — everything has to be polished. Alcohol dulls the edges, blurs the lines, and makes it far too easy to say or do something you regret. I’d rather maintain my composure, stay sharp, and remember every detail of the evening. When you understand your limits and respect them, the night always goes more smoothly. You can enjoy the atmosphere, the company, and even the occasional drink, without sacrificing your standards.

Private Displays, Not Public Disasters

And then, of course, there’s the issue of dignity. I have no desire to be the woman featured in tomorrow’s gossip column, caught mid-fall with her dress riding up and her dignity falling faster than she is. Knicker-flashing, in my view, should be strictly reserved for private moments, behind closed doors, when I’m alone with my man and completely in control of the situation. If he happens to enjoy a little public display, then that’s a different conversation — but it will be one we enter into knowingly, not because I’ve had one glass too many and lost track of my hemline. My body, my image, and my reputation are mine to manage, and I intend to keep them that way.