Discretion, in a hotel, means leaving no trace at the desk, in the corridor, in the room or in the paperwork; every reservation is planned around it.
Every hotel promises discretion in its brochure, usually meaning that staff will not repeat what they see. The house means something more practical: arranging a visit so that there is nothing to see in the first place. It is less a promise than a set of habits applied to each stage of the evening.
The reservation is made in a written thread, with no call to overhear. The office asks for the area, the length and the time, and does not need the hotel's name. The guest's reason for booking is never requested. Payment details appear in that thread and nowhere else, so nothing about the reservation passes through a hotel's systems. The discreet booking guide takes the steps one at a time.
The therapist is dressed as someone staying in that building on that night, carries one plain bag and crosses the lobby without pausing. No arrangement exists with reception, and the guest is asked not to create one. Where lifts are locked, the guest meets her downstairs. In the corridor, voices stay low and the door closes promptly. Curtains are worth drawing, a point the journal answers directly in can anyone see into my hotel room.
Linens, towels and everything used leave with her. Furniture is back in place. The room the cleaners find the next morning is a room one guest slept in. On the house's side, the thread holds what was needed to deliver the reservation and little else; how the site treats visitor information is set out on the privacy page.
It is not secrecy about terms. Prices, the deposit and the cancellation position are published openly, because a guest ought to know exactly what he is agreeing to before anyone sets out. Discretion concerns the evening itself: who sees it, and what it leaves behind.
Tonight
Name the room, the hour and how long you would like her there. The reply comes back in about ten minutes with who is free.