The man at the next bar points to one of the pumps and the man behind the bar nods and starts pouring the beer. Dark liquid and a thick foamy head that spills over the sides. He slices the foam off the top with a long, flat knife and places it on the bar. The man with the sandy hair hands over a note and he must sense me staring, because he turns around to face me, and I feel a whoosh of relief. Of disappointment.

‘All right?’ he asks. Australian. Quite a bit younger than I’d thought. He lifts his pint up and says, ‘Cheers, then,’ and gives me a look that says he’s not really sure what I am staring at him for. Then he walks away, and I watch out of the corner of my eye as he joins a table of similarly young travellers, all shorts and sunglasses and empty glasses all over the table.

It’s not him. Of course it’s not him. I checked his Facebook a few hours ago, and he was still in Thailand, so he’s not likely to be here in Siberia now, unless someone has stolen his phone and is continuing his trip updates for him.

I start laughing. I can’t help it. Then I have to pretend to look at my phone so that I don’t look insane, and I go back to my little bar and point to the pump and drop a note on the bar, and smile … and take a huge drink of the beer, barely tasting it – enjoying the fizz as it burns down my throat.

‘I’ll have another,’ I say, pointing at the pump again. The man behind the bar says something I don’t understand, and then he grins, and hands me my drink.

I’m shaking slightly, as the adrenaline leaves my body, and I walk over to a high table where two men are drinking and chatting expressively with loud voices and gesturing arms, and I say ‘Hi.’ Then, ‘Dobryj den’ – which I memorised from the guidebook and I hope means ‘good afternoon’. They glance at me, and then back at each other, and then back to me again.

‘Hello, lady,’ the first one says. They look practically the same – dark hair, cut in the same, blocky style. They are both wearing tracksuits, which is what most of the younger men seem to wear.

‘Another beer?’ the other one says.

‘Da, spasibo,’ I say. Yes, thanks.

They both laugh at this. ‘Your Russian is very good,’ the first one says.

I giggle at this, because it’s what I think they expect. ‘That’s about it,’ I say. The second one goes off to one of the little bars to get more beers, and I smile and try not to look like I feel – which is utterly out of my depth.