The journey wasn’t so bad in the end. The three-and-a-half days flew by. After the charming hospitality of the gin-and-tonic ladies of the standard-class carriage, and their insistence on pushing 100 dollars each on me ‘to get me through’, I’d almost felt a little guilty when I saw them lifting that red wheelie case off the train, waving at me as I calmly walked away from them along the platform. They had no idea what they’d given me, and neither did I, until I opened it, sitting on a bench outside the railway station. Fifty thousand rubles. That will certainly ‘get me through’ – thank you very much, ladies. It’s their own fault for being so stupid.
I’d spent that first night in the dining car, playing cards and drinking with the other night owls, then moved elsewhere in the morning. It was just as easy to find new companions for the other two days. Befriending the French students and finding out about the spare room in their four-berth had been another stroke of luck. I got off the train with a spring in my step, the events of Irkutsk and all that went before erased from my mind – for a while, at least.
I asked the taxi driver – another ubiquitous track-suited, chain-smoking oaf – to take me to the best hotel he knew. Quite the opposite to the arrival in Irkutsk, when Carrie had insisted on being taken to the dump that she’d pre-booked – which was a blessing, in the end. It’s much easier to get away with things in places like that, where the staff don’t really give two fucks about what their clients are up to.
That’s not what I’m after now, though. What I’d like now, is a little luxury for a while. A decent base for a few days, while I work out what to do next. I barely notice the car speeding down the wide boulevards, swinging hard around the corners. I’m already thinking about a long soak in a scalding, scented bath – taking some time to cleanse my soul. I think it’s about time. I laugh a little, remembering something that Carrie said – her fearful flashback to the nomadic festival, and what the shaman said about me. I’d brushed it off as nonsense, but what he’d said was true. I am not a nice person. There is something fundamentally wrong with me.
My parents tried to fix me when I was young – they could tell early on that I wasn’t following a normal developmental path. But when the counsellors failed, my mother gave up on me. I tried to change then, realising my mistake – realising I was invisible to her, and that I’d taken things too far – but I found out it’s not that easy to change, and maybe it’s right to say I was born, not made.
We pull up outside a glittering façade, but when I climb out of the car, I see that the gold is flaking in parts and the stairs are scuffed – and the doorman, when he arrives, is wearing a suit that is shiny at the knees and elbows, frayed at the cuffs. Perhaps this is not the right place after all.
‘Two thousand rubles,’ says the bored-looking driver. I hand over the money, even though I know it’s too much, and head up the steps. Inside, the lobby is as I expected – it was once opulent, but now it is faded and tired, but at least the receptionist is a little livelier than the one in the last place.
‘Privet,’ I greet him, my accent as perfect as I can make it. ‘Do you have a room, please?’
He smiles at my Anglo-Russian attempts and taps on his keyboard. ‘We have only the Lenin Suite available, I am afraid. It is very expensive.’ He cocks his head to the side in a slightly pitying, slightly patronising manner. I get it now. I’d forgotten about the state that I’m in. My filthy hair and clothes, and the battered rucksack.
Then I remember an article I read, about Anna Delvey the fake, possibly Eastern European socialite, who managed to trick the best hotels in New York into letting her stay for as long as she wanted, charging everything to her room, telling them she was waiting for a business deal to go through. ‘Fake it until you make it’, that’s what they say, isn’t it?
I pull the wad of rubles out of my pocket and lay them flat on the counter, locking his gaze as I say, ‘ideal’no.’ Perfect. ‘That would be just fine.’ I pause, then I cock my head, too, mirroring him, and say in a low voice, in English this time, ‘This will more than cover my stay … and don’t try and rip me off, you little weasel. My father is a British diplomat and he will have you out of this job and in the gutter faster than you can say trakhni svoyu babushku.’ I take a step closer, pushing the money forwards as I do, and his hand appears from behind the counter to grab the notes, like one of those grabber machines with the crappy toys at the fair. He’s not too concerned with the threat against his grandmother I’ve made.
He blinks, once, and the smile slips, just for a moment, and then he says, ‘We’re delighted to have you here with us, Miss—’
‘Osborne,’ I say. ‘Carrie Osborne. I’m afraid I’m waiting for new documents to arrive, but I have this.’ I slide Carrie’s driving licence across the counter. Another useful nugget that was left behind amid her rapid departure.
He pushes it back, and gives me a small nod. Then he hands over a brass key on a huge metal fob. ‘Your suite is on the twelfth floor, Miss Osborne. Please let us know if we can do anything else to assist.’