Rosa, who bakes on Sunday mornings

There is usually flour somewhere on Rosa's weekend. She bakes on Sunday mornings, sourdough when she is patient and cinnamon buns when she is not, and she will describe the difference with more passion than most people bring to anything. It sets the tone: earthy, warm and easygoing, she makes an evening feel like being welcomed into someone's kitchen, even in the grandest hotel in London.

Long chestnut brown curls, eyes of deep brown, and a curvy 160 cm figure she is entirely at ease in: that is Rosa at first glance. She dresses in a relaxed boho way, a long skirt, a shell necklace, a denim jacket over a silk top. She is in her mid twenties. She collects records, digging through the crates on Berwick Street most weeks, and can lose an afternoon in a gallery without noticing. She speaks English with a laugh that fills a room.

Her ideal afternoon starts south of the river. A wander through Borough Market while the traders are still calling out prices, a warm pastry eaten standing up, then along the riverbank to Tate Modern and the vast Turbine Hall. By early evening she is ready for a glass at a hotel bar with the Shard glowing overhead, and a long, easy supper that nobody wants to end.

Rosa lives in Marylebone, a short cab from the hotels of Paddington, and she is happy to cross the river to London Bridge for a market afternoon. She works Sunday to Thursday from mid-afternoon; ask Henrietta for a slot.