Patricia, aromantic companionin the Jordaan

Jordaan on a wet night. Cobbles shining. Bikes chained three deep against a railing. A single bookshop light still burning on the Rozengracht. Patricia is the woman inside, turning pages she has no plan to buy yet. This is her neighbourhood and she wears it well: narrow streets, small doors, a story behind every window box. Rain sounds softer in these streets, and she will tell you it is the best weather there is for a long talk.

She is twenty-eight, slim and 172 cm, with long auburn brown hair, brown eyes to match. Gentle in her voice. Romantic in her instincts. Attentive in the way that makes a long dinner feel short. She remembers the small things, how you take your coffee, the name of a town you mentioned once in passing, and she brings them back at exactly the right moment. Nothing she does is rushed, and the evening slows down to match her.

Watercolour painting is her private hour. Canal views, soft washes, pictures that are never quite finished because she likes them that way. Film noir is her late-night weakness: shadows, trench coats, clever dialogue, a detective always one step behind. Danielle shares her love of old cinema. And bookshops, of course. Secondhand ones, the dustier the better, the kind where the owner knows every shelf. Violetta could lose an afternoon in them too. Hand her a rainy afternoon and a paintbox and she is perfectly content. Ask her to choose a film for later and it will be black and white.

Her style is soft romantic bohemian. Floral dresses, linen, loose hair, a look that belongs on a canal bench at sunset and still feels right in a candlelit brown café two hours later. Conversation with her happens in English, unhurried, full of questions. Book Patricia for a slow, romantic evening with plenty of talking in it. Her time starts from €180 an hour. Longer dinners and evenings can be arranged on request.

Sunset on the Bloemgracht, a canal bench, and a pocket paintbox open on Patricia's knee. She paints the reflections for twenty minutes while you talk, and the little picture is yours to keep, unfinished edges and all. When the light is gone, a secondhand bookshop still open for one more shelf, where she hunts for the crime paperback with the most dramatic cover. Dinner is candlelit and slow in a brown café with tables worn smooth, and she asks about the smallest details of your day, then remembers every one. The finale is film noir. A late screening at a small cinema if one is showing, or else a black and white classic on a laptop at your hotel, trench coats and rain on the screen, lamps turned low.