Theatre buddy

Do you ever have that one friend you instinctively associate with a particular ritual? The sort of person who, whenever you think of manicures or spray tans, immediately springs to mind because you always book your beauty appointments together. It’s like going with your best mate to the beauty therapist once a month for a proper girly giggle: cheap prosecco in plastic flutes, the hiss of wax strips, the two of you whispering gossip through face masks. Or it’s the shopping partner who understands, on a cellular level, why Prada’s new line matters and who can spend an entire evening refreshing the Selfridges website, agonising over whether to wait for the sale or pounce at full price.

That’s what Isaac has become for me—a specific kind of companion for a specific kind of pleasure. He has quietly, but very firmly, claimed the role of my theatre buddy. It sounds almost trivial when I put it like that, as if he’s simply the friend I text when I fancy a musical. But for me, as one of London’s top escorts, the way he has carved out that space in my life is anything but ordinary. My work is usually fluid, week to week; I rarely decline a client’s booking if it fits my schedule, and there’s an unspoken understanding that nobody gets to assume ownership of my diary. Yet with Isaac, I find myself committing to dates weeks—sometimes months—in advance, blocking out entire evenings, even weekends, because I know that slot is “ours.” In my world, such forward planning with a single client is almost unheard of.

Meet the Publisher

Isaac is a publisher—one of those men who seems to have stepped straight out of a glossy magazine spread. He’s forty, effortlessly flirty, and the sort of attractive that turns heads without him even trying. There’s an easy confidence in the way he occupies space: the quick, knowing smile; the habit of standing just a little too close when he’s making a point; the scent of his cologne lingering on his shirt collar long after he’s shrugged off his jacket. He lives in a stunning apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows and a skyline that looks like it’s been curated, drives a sleek car that purrs rather than roars, and has more than enough money in the bank to indulge any whim that happens to cross his mind.

Right now, his indulgence of choice is the theatre, and we love the theatre. Not just the occasional trip to a big-name musical, but a full-blown love affair with the West End. If there’s a new production opening, he’ll be there. If an old favourite is being revived with a fresh cast, he wants to see how it compares. He’s the sort of man who will happily spend an evening bouncing between reviews and trailers online, mapping out which shows to see over the next few months. And whenever he goes, I’m the one on his arm, his chosen companion in the dark, velvet seats.

A Man’s Man with Impeccable Taste

He’s very much a man’s man—broad-shouldered, decisive, and quietly alpha in his own understated way. He booked the show-and-meal deal for us the first time without even asking my preference, simply texting me the performance details and a restaurant that’s impossible to get into unless your name is on the right list. It made me smile; there’s something deeply appealing about a man who takes charge like that. Yet, when it comes to hotels, his standards become almost comedic.

I always offer suggestions, of course. I have excellent taste in sleeping arrangements and could easily recommend a discreet little boutique hotel with thick carpets and staff who never ask awkward questions. But with Isaac, there’s a line I don’t cross. He insists on booking his own room, and I’ve learned not to argue. Partly it’s because he enjoys the process of choosing, but mostly it’s because nothing ever seems quite good enough for him.

The Mystery Hotel Critic

I’m convinced he moonlights as a mystery hotel guest in his spare time. He has an almost forensic ability to spot faults that other people would never notice. A slightly scuffed skirting board, a less-than-fluffy towel, a window that doesn’t seal perfectly and lets in the faintest whisper of city noise—he’ll find them all. Suites, penthouses, so-called ‘luxury’ rooms, he’ll stroll through each one as if conducting a silent inspection. You can almost see him mentally scoring the place out of ten while he runs a finger along a shelf or tests the firmness of the mattress.

Because of this, he knows exactly which hotels make his personal top five. He has them categorised in his mind: the one with the spectacular view, the one with the endlessly attentive but never intrusive staff, the one with the bath you could practically swim in. When he doesn’t feel like staying in his own gorgeous apartment—when he wants to step out of his regular life and into something a little more cinematic—he’ll book one of those favourites. And when he does, I’m the outcall escort who gets to sweep through the revolving doors, cross the hushed, marble-floored lobby, and ride the lift up to his chosen suite. His theatre buddy upgraded to leading lady.

West End Adventures

Over time, we’ve worked our way through most of the West End’s finest offerings. We’ve seen plays that left us talking for hours afterwards, dissecting every nuance over shared desserts. We’ve sat through grand, sweeping musicals with scores that lodge themselves in your chest, and quirky fringe productions tucked into tiny venues where the front row is so close you can see the actors’ breath. Some shows have been so delightful that we’ve seen them twice, even three times—an indulgence that feels deliciously extravagant.

You’d think, given his profession and his love of language, that Isaac would gravitate toward the classics: Shakespeare performed in doublet and hose, meticulous adaptations of prize-winning novels, serious plays about war and politics and tortured families. And he does appreciate those—he’ll lean forward during particularly sharp dialogue, his eyes glinting when a line lands perfectly. But his true, unabashed joy lies in the bright, unapologetically fun side of the West End. The sort of productions that feel like a glass of champagne—bubbly, a little frivolous, and guaranteed to leave you smiling.

The Publisher Who Can’t Sit Still

Watching him in those moments is my private treat. He tries so earnestly to maintain his composure, to remain cool and self-contained, a sophisticated publisher simply ‘appreciating’ the show. Yet I’ve seen the way his foot starts tapping when a familiar intro begins, how his fingers drum lightly on his knee in time with the music. During one performance, when Dancing Queen was reprised, I caught him completely off guard. The chorus swelled, lights brightened, the audience practically buzzed, and there he was, shoulders loosening, mouth twitching. He tried to sit still, to keep that smooth, detached air, but he failed wonderfully. A tiny sway here, a soft hum there—the boy inside the businessman briefly escaping.

I don’t make fun of him for it. I’m just as bad.

Our Shared Joy in the Music

When Summer Nights comes on, I’m the first one ready to throw my hands in the air, to sing under my breath, to let the nostalgia wash over me. I know the harmonies, the pauses, the way the crowd collectively inhales before the chorus hits. There’s a kind of shared conspiratorial joy in those moments: him pretending he doesn’t want to dance, me absolutely ready to. Between us, we create a rhythm, an unspoken choreography. He loosens his tie, and I lean in closer; our shoulders press together when we laugh. We’ve become a well-oiled duo, our theatre dates a ritual filled with tiny, familiar beats.

After the Curtain Falls

But as much as we enjoy the performances themselves—the glitter, the curtain calls, the standing ovations—it’s what comes after that truly belongs to us. When the final bow is taken and the lights slowly come up, the crowd spills into the night, buzzing with conversation. We step outside, still humming, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back as we weave through the throng. A car, a short drive, the city flickering past in neon and gold, and then we’re back at the hotel he’s so carefully chosen.

Once the door to his suite closes behind us, the evening takes on a different script. The noise of the city fades to a distant murmur, replaced by the soft thunk of his shoes being kicked off, the muffled clink of a bottle being opened, the rustle of curtains drawn against the skyline. The stage might be gone, but another one appears—a private one, tailored entirely to him.

A Private Performance

It’s here, in the quiet luxury of those rooms, that I give Isaac a different kind of show. No orchestra, no understudies, no audience beyond the two of us. Just dimmed lamps, crisp sheets, and the intimacy of knowing exactly what makes him relax, what makes him laugh, what makes that carefully held composure finally slip.

I like to think that, for all the premieres and limited runs he sees, this is the performance he anticipates most. Not the grand, choreographed spectacle in front of hundreds, but the intimate, improvised one that unfolds when the curtains have firmly come down everywhere else. It’s the late-night encore, the unadvertised extra scene, the one show that exists only in that room, on that night, with that particular combination of us.

And if his reactions are anything to go by—the look in his eyes, the way he reaches for me, the warmth in his voice afterwards—it certainly earns a standing ovation of its own kind. Not bad, I think, for someone who started out as just a theatre buddy and somehow became his favourite part of the evening.