Sloane Square at a quarter to eight is Lea's favourite stage set. The Royal Court's doors are open, the plane trees are lit from below, and she is waiting by the entrance in a dark green coat, tickets already in hand, having decided on the way over that supper afterwards should be somewhere with candles. The Royal Court stages new writing, which suits her perfectly: she likes not knowing how a story ends.
She is twenty-three and petite at 161 cm. Her eyes are hazel; her auburn hair falls long in loose waves and turns copper under theatre lights. Lea lives in Belgravia and dresses with a decorator's instinct for colour: one deep shade, one soft one, never a third.
Sweet is accurate but incomplete. She is spontaneous too, the kind of person who will suggest a detour past the antique shops of Pimlico Road at five o'clock simply because a lamp in a window caught her eye. She is not impulsive about the things that matter, though: the tickets are always booked, the table always confirmed. On Sundays she works at a potter's wheel and brings the same patience to people that she brings to clay: gentle pressure, no hurry, a lovely result. She speaks English with an easy charm and asks about the rooms you live in, because interiors tell her more than job titles ever could.
Theatre nights around Sloane Square are her natural habitat, and quiet suppers in Chelsea or SW7 run a close second. Send one message through the booking page to hold the date; the desk replies with her arrival time and, if you wish, a suggestion for the play.
