The Hitchhiker’s Guide to Companionship

In large, friendly letters on the cover of every great guide are the words: DON’T PANIC.

Consider this your guide. You’ve found yourself somewhere on the internet you weren’t necessarily meaning to be (or maybe you were), and now you’re stuck on what to actually do about it. Most people who eventually meet me have spent at least one evening closing tabs, reopening tabs, drafting messages they didn’t send, and wondering whether they were the only person ever to be this nervous about it.

They weren’t. You aren’t. 

Ready?

Who, What, and Why You’re Probably Overthinking This

A professional companion is someone whose company you book. Dinner, a quiet evening in, a weekend somewhere away. The “professional” part is the time and the care that goes into it. The “companion” part is more or less what it sounds like.

If your reference points are 90s films and bad television, please retire them. The reality is closer to a long, candlelit dinner with someone who happens to be very good at making you feel at ease.

How Long Should We Spend Together?

For a first meeting, my favourite length is somewhere between three and six hours. Long enough to share a drink at the bar, or linger over the menu and find your way into the kind of conversation that takes more than one course to surface. Short enough that you leave wanting a second evening, rather than a nap.

Longer bookings are absolutely an option (an overnight, a weekend, a trip somewhere), but for an introduction, a few hours over dinner or drinks is the loveliest way to find a little chemistry without either of us feeling like we’re auditioning.

How to Make First Contact

First messages can go wrong in one of two directions. The first is a wall of text that reads like a fanfic. The second is the opposite: three words and a question mark, as though I were takeout.

Aim for somewhere between. A first message that works will usually have:

• A greeting. Mine, ideally, is “Hi Bella.”

• A few lines about who you are. Not your CV. Just enough that I know you’re a real, breathing person.

• What you’re hoping to arrange. Dinner? Drinks? A spa day?

• A few dates that work for you.

What doesn’t belong in a first message: haggling, suggestive emojis, anatomical questions. We can get to know each other in person, like the civilized creatures we are.

Screening, or Why I Need More Than Vibes

Before we meet, you’ll be asked for some form of verification. A peek at your LinkedIn profile or a quick ID check. It isn’t personal. It’s how I keep both of us safe.

Think of it as the passport check. A bit of fuss at the gate, and then you’re through. The details are forgotten the moment they’re verified. After that, you’re a name and a face.

The Envelope

This is the bit that makes most first-timers go a little clammy. It needn’t.

How this works depends on where we’re meeting. If we’re somewhere private, the simplest thing is to leave it somewhere visible at the start. An unsealed envelope on a table works just fine. If we’re meeting in public, please hand it to me in a small gift bag.

Within the first few minutes, ideally. It isn’t discussed, isn’t counted in front of you, and isn’t mentioned again. Once it’s done, it’s done, and the evening begins properly.

If you’d rather skip the envelope choreography entirely, digital payment in advance is also welcome. It lifts the small bit of awkwardness off the start of the evening, and we can simply say hello.

Every companion has their own preferences around payment. Always ask before the date, and follow their lead. What feels seamless to one of us may not work at all for someone else.

How to Be a Person Someone Wants to See Again

The clients I most look forward to aren’t the ones with the nicest watches or the best reservations. They’re the ones who:

• Treat me like a person, not a service. The difference is felt within the first five minutes, and remembered well past the last.

• Show up well groomed, in clothes they’ve thought about, smelling like a person who likes themselves.

• Are thoughtful in small ordinary ways. Ask what I’d like to drink, whether I’d like to share something to eat, that sort of thing.

• Treat the the doorman, the waitstaff, and the driver like people. I’m always watching.

• Talk to me. About anything. The trip you took, the book you’re a third of the way through, the pet you miss when you travel.

• Let the evening unfold instead of running it like an itinerary. 

You needn’t be charming, witty, or extraordinary. Present, kind, and considerate is more than enough.

Things You Need Not Worry About

• Whether you’re “her type.” I don’t have one in any useful sense; I’m interested in you, not a checklist.

• Whether you’re a good conversationalist. A good listener will do nicely.

• Whether you’ll know what to do. I will. Follow my lead.

• Whether this makes you a bad person. It doesn’t.

Things You Probably Should Worry About

• Negotiating the rate. Don’t.

• Asking what’s “included.” It isn’t a menu.

• Treating me like a secret you’re ashamed of. I’m not, and you needn’t be either.

The Improbability of It All

Here’s the bit the guidebooks tend to leave out.

Real connection does happen. Sometimes it’s the laugh that catches you off guard halfway through dinner. Sometimes it’s the kind of long, meandering conversation you didn’t realize you were missing. Sometimes it’s the slightly improbable feeling of being completely yourself with someone you only met three hours ago.

This is the bit first-timers don’t expect, and it’s why most of them come back. Not for a fantasy. For the rare, lovely thing of being seen, at the end of a long week, by someone with nowhere else to be.

The Answer

The Hitchhiker’s Guide concludes that the answer to life, the universe, and everything is 42. For our purposes, the answer is closer to: show up, be kind, and let the date be what it wants to be.

With love,

Bella