Margo, reserve held at Berkeley Square

About Margo

Margo does not fill silence, she furnishes it. Slim, 166 cm, straight dark hair worn plainly because nothing about her needs underlining, brown eyes that consider before they commit. She is in her early thirties and reads it as authority; where others sparkle, she settles, and rooms tend to reorganise quietly around her. Guests meeting her for the first time speak less than usual and enjoy it more.

Her pursuits are interior. Contemporary art followed closely and bought occasionally, piano played for no audience, a garden tended with the patience she also extends to people. She speaks fluent, deliberate English and asks questions that arrive like moves in a longer game. The wit, when it comes, is sudden and worth the wait. People misread the quiet as distance for about an hour, then discover it was hospitality all along, room made for them rather than a wall kept against them.

On this site her ground is Berkeley Square and the gallery streets running off it. Her evening of choice starts at Isabel on Albemarle Street, a room she likes for taking glamour quietly, then a slow half circuit of the square under the plane trees before your hotel receives you both. She is composed anywhere, a Dover Street gallery opening, a suite with the curtains drawn, a residence in the quieter W1J streets, and hurry is the one thing she declines.

Her file sits under Berkeley Square. Consult rates for terms, and while she travels, the booking line is holding dates for her return.

How her evening opens

Margo keeps a deliberately small diary and rewards guests who plan; reserve before her return and the first evening back is effectively yours. Two hours at £500 is her preferred opening format.

Every figure she works to sits on the statement, and the rest of the account is one message away.

An evening with Margo

An ideal Margo evening has almost no moving parts. Eight o'clock, Isabel, a corner seat, one cocktail considered and dispatched. Dinner is unhurried and mostly excellent because she chose it; conversation finds depth early, she has no patience for the shallow end and no need to announce the fact. You will notice an hour has passed and mind that it did.

The square afterwards, briefly, for air and the trees at night. Then upstairs, where her stillness becomes the entire point, unhurried, deliberate, quietly generous, the same economy of motion that marked the dinner now marking everything else. She dresses without haste at the hour agreed and says goodnight like a signature at the bottom of a page. What was written above it stays private.