What I need now is a new friend. A replacement for Sam. I pause. Thinking again about the barman. No. What I need more than anything else is a ticket out of this place, and I just have to hope that my bag turns up before I move on. I look down at my skirt, wondering why I’d chosen this particular look for the flight. I bought a load of things in Bangkok, thinking I might head to the beach before moving on, but that never happened, and now I look like a goddamn hippy. I don’t fit in here, in this hotel. But without the rest of my clothes and my hair stuff and everything else I need, I’m just going to have to style it out. I suppose I will just have to be who this outfit suggests.

The hotel travel centre is a small room filled with too many rubber plants. There’s a small leather sofa, and one desk where someone is being served by a beautiful Chinese woman with her hair pinned up with chopsticks. I’ve seen this before, but not on someone wearing a navy business suit. I like the contrast.

The air conditioning is on full, and I’m relieved to be out of the thick, sticky heat, but after a few moments I’m already feeling a chill on my legs. I watch the woman with the chopsticks, smiling and nodding at the customer. Blonde, hair in a messy ponytail. Shorts. Backpack on the floor. Another traveller. Another me?

I hope so.

‘So you’re saying I can’t get any sort of refund on this, even though I booked it six months in advance?’

Chopsticks nods again. ‘So sorry. We cannot do it.’

The blonde sighs in frustration. ‘It’s an expensive ticket. I did call before I left the UK and was told you could deal with it here…’

Chopsticks shakes her head gently. She’s still smiling.

The blonde stands up. ‘Fine,’ she says. ‘I assume the ticket is transferable? If I can find someone else to take it…’

‘You can do that, yes.’ Chopsticks is beaming now. All sorted, and she didn’t have to do a thing.

The blonde hitches her backpack onto her shoulders, giving me a wry smile and a massive eye-roll as she leaves the room.

Chopsticks is heading towards a door at the back. I glance up at the clock. The minute-hand ticks and the hour-hand clicks into place at the top. Five o’clock.

I jump up off the sofa. ‘Wait … I need to buy a ticket.’

‘Sorry, we closed now,’ Chopsticks says, her smile dipping just a little. ‘We open nine am.’

‘No … I need to get the ticket now. The train is at seven-thirty tomorrow.’

She frowns. ‘You want Trans-Siberian?’

‘Yes. Yes, please.’

‘No ticket left. Come back tomorrow, and you can get ticket for another day, OK?’