I check Sam’s FB one more time while I wait for the doorman to hail me a cab. His last check-in was the Roofer Club in Mitte, several hours ago, and since then there have been several photographs posted – fancy, multi-coloured drinks in expensive glassware, adorned with exotic fruits. Delicious, bite-sized canapés on giltedged trays. A plethora of greenery and luscious-looking plants with an array of pretty blooms. And then there’s Sam, looking tanned and oh-so handsome, lounging on leather sofas with a selection of beautiful people. His friends? Or just others sitting nearby? The women are gorgeous, with just the right level of potential sluttiness, and I wonder if one of them is his girlfriend. Not that it matters, because when he sees me he will surely disregard these vacant imposters. It has been a few weeks since he last saw me, and I’ve lost some weight, making my collar and cheekbones more prominent. My hair, my clothes, my make-up – all expertly styled. Quite different from the sweaty, slovenly beach look that he last saw me in. I scroll through the photos; some are not his, he is tagged by someone – Bethany – and I wonder if she is the one who has stolen him from me.

Not for long, Bethany. Your fun is over now.

I don’t want to make a scene. I want to glide in there and watch his jaw drop. I want him to see me. I want him to want me.

The doorman opens the door of the yellow cab and I climb in, depositing a euro into his palm and smiling at him. A few people outside the hotel peer over at me, wondering if I am someone special. My attire and my elegance giving the impression that I’d hoped.

I am no one, of course. But as long as I act like I am a princess, then they will believe it. Like Cinderella, I might only be a princess for one night, but I shall go to the ball.

The driver asks me where I want to go, and I tell him the address in perfect German. He glances in his rear-view mirror, smiles.

‘Where are you from?’ he asks, in German.

I pretend not to understand, give him a small shrug, then I stare out of the window. He gets the message, and doesn’t try to engage with me again.