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I went down in the lift in my crumpled suit with my wheelie case and my dignity in roughly that order.
The lobby was chaos. A queue of grumpy conference delegates, a printer making death noises, and the poor girl on reception typing with two fingers. I joined the back of the line.
That’s where Rosie found me.
I didn’t know it was Rosie yet. I just knew a curvy blonde in a green satin dress had wandered over from the bar with a cocktail in each hand and was looking me up and down like I was on a menu.
“You look like a man who’s been through something,” she said.
“Somebody else is in my room. Room 714.”
She lit up. “Seven-one-four? That’s Priya’s room! Oh my God. Did she scream?”
“She threatened me.”
“That’s her.” She handed me one of the cocktails without asking. “I’m Rosie. Twenty-nine. Best friend, travel buddy, bad influence. I’m in 716, right next door to her.” She clinked her glass on mine. “Priya’s lovely, by the way. Terrible taste in men. Excellent taste in hotels.”
The queue hadn’t moved. Rosie’s dress had a slit up the side that went most of the way to the equator. She stood close enough for me to smell her perfume and the rum on her breath.
“You know,” she said, “you could wait here for an hour. Or you could come upstairs to my room and wait in comfort. I’ve got a minibar and very low standards.”