The Französische Straße U-bahn stop is right next to the hotel, and I’m pleased with myself for getting here without any bother. There were no guards, as I suspected, and no one really paid me any attention. I’d like to go straight into the hotel – the glass frontage and the properly attired doorman are much better than that Soviet fleapit I had to blag my way into in Moscow. That was a blip, and I’m over it now. Back in charge of things. Or at least I will be, when I get my money. I quickly Google the bank where Daddy has arranged my new card, and I’m pleased to see it’s only a couple of streets away. It’s almost like he knew I would come to stay here. It’s the last place we visited as a family, and despite it being many years ago, I do remember it fondly. I imagine my mother would have a different view. If I remember rightly, there’s a Ritter Sport chocolate shop not far from here. It’s been too long since I had any decent chocolate. I’m walking up the street when I have a flashback to the very first night on the train – when we left Beijing for UB and everything was still fun. I’d been dozing on the bunk, enjoying the rhythm of the train sending me to sleep, but then I’d realised that Carrie was meant to be coming back with cups of tea for us.

I found her in the dining car, squeezed into a booth seat with a bunch of people wearing beige and brown tour company T-shirts, all with little shot glasses of vodka in front of them. Carrie was in her element, hands waving in front of her as she regaled them with something hilarious that made them all laugh. One of them sensed me staring, and there was silence for a moment, and Carrie turned and saw me, her smile lighting up her face.

‘Violet! There you are. Come and join us … We’re discussing the best chocolate in the world. This is Steve, and his wife Marion … and this is George, and his friend Sandra, and her sister Maude…’ She’s babbling away, and the others are muttering hellos, and giving me little waves – and I remember feeling that stab of annoyance, right there and then.

No, I’d thought. Carrie is my friend. This is our trip.

They’re all talking over each other, saying Cadbury’s, or Swiss or Belgian, and it’s unanimous that they all think that American chocolate tastes like sick – except for Peanut Butter Cups.