Every booking bar one confirms with half the fee, paid ahead, kept if you cancel. A first booking is inside that rule. The single exception: a same-day hour or two for a client the house already knows, settled at the door.
Start at the end. A deposit paid to this house is not returned when the client cancels. Not with a week in hand. Not with a month. No sliding scale, no grace window, no percentage for good notice. The rule is one line long, and that was it.
The reason is timing. A booking costs the house money the moment the office says yes, not the moment the hour arrives. By then a therapist has shut her evening, or her whole night, to anyone else. Other requests for that window were declined and went across town. Someone confirmed the address, fixed the clock, and for a night or an airport run arranged the car. All of that is done before you have opened a door. A cancellation cannot unspend it.
So the half is not a fine. It is the price of what was already committed on your behalf. That is why notice changes nothing: a message sent on Friday cannot reach a cost incurred on Monday.
A booking that moves is another matter from one that dies. Say it early, on the thread, before she has put her coat on. Whether the hour can shift is the office's call, and it will give you a straight answer either way.
Two things can move a deposit, and only two. A government order that stops the house from operating. An illness serious enough that the session cannot go ahead. Either may be accepted as force majeure, one case at a time, on its own facts. Where it is, the half becomes credit against a later booking. It does not become cash. Not to a card, not to a wallet, not by any route. A diary clash is not force majeure. Neither is a meeting that ran over, a cold, a flight the airline moved, or a change of heart at eleven. Those are cancellations. The half stays put.
Half of the listed fee, before she sets out. Fixed at fifty percent. Not a range. Not a negotiation. The office writes the figure into the thread when it accepts the booking, and she leaves once it has cleared. These are the bookings that carry it:
The last line is the one new clients miss. A first booking is a deposit booking. An hour tonight from a name the office has never read carries EUR 90 of the EUR 180 before she moves. The house has no face to put to you yet; the half is how it carries that risk. Once that first evening has gone as booked, your same-day hour or two goes to the door like anyone else's.
The sums, four ways. Eight hours overnight, EUR 1,250: the house takes EUR 625 first and she takes EUR 625 at the door. A pair for three hours, EUR 1,080 on the ladder: EUR 540 clears first, EUR 540 on arrival. Two hours, reserved tonight for tomorrow, EUR 360: EUR 180 now, EUR 180 when she knocks. Ninety minutes on a first booking, EUR 270: EUR 135 before she leaves, EUR 135 in her hand. A late hour, a Saturday, the length of the ride: none of it adds a cent inside the ring. Halve the ladder and you have the deposit.
One booking pays nothing ahead. One. Someone the office already knows from an earlier evening, asking today, for one therapist, for an hour or two. The thread confirms it in about ten minutes, she reaches a central address forty to sixty minutes later, and the full fee is handed over when she knocks. Cash in any major currency, converted at that day's rate. Card. Crypto. That is the entire transaction.
Read it as the exception, because that is what it is. Widen any part of it and the half comes back. Three hours instead of two. Tomorrow instead of tonight. A pair instead of one. A hotel by the runway instead of a room by the canal. A first message instead of a second. Each of those is a deposit booking, and a long history with the house does not change it.
A deposit travels four ways: card, Revolut, Wise, cryptocurrency. They settle electronically, in advance, before anyone has left home. That is the whole point of them.
It does not travel by bank transfer. It does not travel by PayPal. It does not travel as cash, because cash arrives with her, and a deposit has to exist before she does. Cash is for the balance, alongside card and crypto, at the door.
The details for sending it come from one place: the thread on WhatsApp, and only after the office has said yes inside it. Never before acceptance. Never from another number, another name, another app. A request for money that lands ahead of the confirmation did not come from this house. Telegram carries the same conversation for those who prefer it; the payment details still arrive only once the booking is accepted, and only from the office. The sequence is on the booking page.
Some bookings go ahead with nothing in front of them. The returning client's hour or two for today. A late request taken while she was already in the taxi. Credit is a matter of when, not whether. Cancel one of those and the same costs were committed: the same journey, the same closed window, the same requests turned away. The office then asks, after the fact, for a cancellation payment sized to the deposit that never went ahead. One rule. Collected later.
A session you cut short is charged at the full length booked. In whole, not in part. That block was yours; she made the trip for it; what you walk away from cannot be resold at that hour.
She may end a session at once, without refund, the moment her consent or her safety is compromised. Written once. It covers every booking on this site.
A booking under a name that is not yours. A number that belongs to somebody else. A reservation placed for a laugh. A door that was never going to open. None of that is a cancellation in the house's book. They are false bookings, and they are handled as such: the record is kept; the identifiers are passed to the other reputable houses in Amsterdam, so the name is already known at the next door it tries; and where it is appropriate, the matter goes to the relevant authorities.
The honest client never meets this page in practice. Your own name, your own number, a door that opens at the agreed hour: that is all that is asked. The rule exists for forty-five women who walk into hotels they have never seen, alone, after midnight, on the strength of a few typed lines. It is kept for them and for no one else.
A cancelled client sometimes brings up the fourteen days. The office does not argue. It reads the file.
The statute. Dutch distance-selling law, the Wet Koop op Afstand, is the local form of the EU Consumer Rights Directive. Under it, a consumer who buys a service without meeting the seller ordinarily has fourteen days to withdraw. A booking typed into a phone is a distance sale. On its face, the window looks open.
The exemption. The same law carves certain services out of that right. Article 6:230p, Dutch Civil Code: a service to be performed on a specific date, or within a specific period, is not one the consumer can withdraw from. The date is not the packaging. The date is the product.
The booking. Every booking here is pinned to an hour and a date, or to one night. It sits inside the date-specific-service exemption. So the fourteen-day right does not arise for it; there is nothing to sign away, because nothing came into being. What governs a cancellation is this page, and behind it the house terms.
One booking, one question: the booking line, at any hour. The general ones sit in the FAQ.