Discretion is the most overused word in this business and the least often defined. It is usually offered as a mood — a dark website, a hushed sentence, an assurance that nothing is ever recorded.
That assurance is almost always untrue, and a member who thinks about it for ten seconds knows it is untrue. Something has to be written down. An arrangement has a date, a place and two people, and none of that survives on goodwill alone.
It is also, oddly, the wrong thing to want. An agency that genuinely held no record of anything would have no way of knowing which companion was expecting which evening, no way to confirm a table, and no way to answer you next month when you wrote again. What is being promised in that sentence is not care. It is the absence of a system, and a system is most of what a member is actually paying for.
So the honest version is narrower and more useful. We record what an arrangement requires and nothing beyond it. It is readable by the small number of people who need it to do their part, and by nobody else. It is kept for as long as it is needed and then it is not kept. A companion is told what she needs to know about an evening and not the contents of a member's life.
Put plainly, discretion is the answer to four questions, and any of them can be asked out loud. What is written down. Who can read it. How long it stays. And what is said when somebody outside asks — which, short of a legal obligation we cannot refuse, is nothing, including whether there would be anything to say.
The third of those is where most of the real difference lies, and it is the one nobody advertises. Records kept for as long as they might one day be convenient are kept for ever. Ours are reviewed and removed by hand rather than on an automatic schedule, which is slower and less impressive-sounding than an automatic rule, and a good deal more honest than a rule nobody checks. If you would like an enquiry removed, ask, and it is removed.
There is a part of this we do not control, and we would rather say so than be caught not saying it. A restaurant keeps its own booking. A driver has an address in an application. A building has whatever a building has. We hand those places as little as the evening requires — a full name is not always needed, and where it is not needed it is not given — but we cannot undertake that an evening will go unrecorded anywhere in the world, and anyone who tells you otherwise has either not thought about it or is hoping that you will not.
Nor is discretion the same thing as anonymity, and it is no protection at all from the telephone in your own pocket. The most common way a private evening stops being private has nothing to do with us. It is a photograph taken for no particular reason, by somebody who meant nothing by it, and then kept where photographs are kept.
None of that is glamorous, and it does not photograph well. But it is the actual shape of the thing, and a member is better served by knowing it than by being told a comfortable sentence that will not survive contact with reality.
The test we would offer works on us as well as on anybody else, and it takes one question. Ask what is recorded, and notice whether the answer is a list or an adjective. A list can be checked. An adjective is a mood, and a mood has never protected anyone.
If you would like the longer version, it is written out plainly in our privacy notice.
Updated 23 September 2026