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There's a woman standing in front of me on the escalator, holding her little girl's hand. They're on their way up to departures, and the woman's wearing a backpack that she hasn't closed since showing her ticket.

I can see her purse, just hanging out.

My stomach growls so loudly that the little girl turns to look, catching me staring at her mother's purse. I dig out my stolen apple and take a bite.

When I glance down, the girl's still staring.

"Excuse me," I say to her mother. She turns with a blank expression. "I can see your purse."

"Oh." She zips the bag shut, looking relieved. "That's really kind of you, thanks."

"Can't be too careful," I say, smiling and looking down to include the kid. As I do, we get the top of the escalator, and I widen my smile for the three cops I see standing there, all holding semiautomatics. I become suddenly uncomfortably aware of the object in my jacket pocket. Then I walk in pace with the mother and daughter, my shoulders slumped, looking like a family man to the casual observer. Once I'm safe, when we've passed through the entrance into a neon-lit walkway, I straighten up and let them drift on ahead. I can only seem to manage these short-term relationships lately anyway.

Once I'm inside the terminal, I go to the elevators, avoiding my face in the reflective steel. The doors open, and I see the old girl whose bags I just carried through the barrier. Meekly, I take her purse from my jacket pocket.

"I think this must have fallen out of your case," I say, handing it back to her, unopened.

She smiles and puts her hand on her heart again. "Oh," she says. "What a nice young—"

* * *

If taking the purse was stupid, then giving it back was even worse. And I know now I can't trust my instincts until I've had some real sleep. I've got to at least try and find a room for the night. Somewhere I can shut down and reset. But with no bank card and no one to call, the only way I can imagine making that happen is by meeting someone at a hotel bar, convincing a stranger to let me crash.

Somehow, I don't like my chances.

It's not just that I can't afford the price of a drink. I look all wrong for it too. If charming people was about being a good guy, I'd be fine. If that's all it came down to, I could lie. But this new suit feels like a lot to overcome. I'd pieced it together from one of the sad, street-side vendors on my slow approach into Gare du Nord this morning, haggling the mournful French salesman down to almost nothing. In the hazy predawn light, the material had seemed dark enough. Under the industrial neons at Heathrow, the suit looks cheap and dishonest. So shiny you can almost see your face in it.

So when I get to the Sofitel, a luxury chain attached to the terminal, I'm smiling for my life. Because all these loose threads and wrinkles are dropping dark hints about the kind of man I might be, and some of them are too close for comfort. I stand in the doorway, watching the careless, first-class people passing through the lobby. The lipstick widows and sloppy drunks, the single travelers and smashed execs. Sizing them up, seeing dollar signs...

But for some reason, I can't make myself go through with it. For some reason, I start thinking about Clare. I stare into the lobby another second, then shake my head, trying to rid myself of her. I'm turning to leave, just wanting to disappear, when I collide with a haunted-looking woman who's standing right behind me. I'm not a big guy, and it feels like I barely touch her, but she lands hard and skids back across the floor.

"What the actual fuck?" she shouts out. 

Everyone in the lobby looks over.

They see a young woman, wearing all black and a large pair of sunglasses, collapsed on the floor. Then they see the burnout in a secondhand suit standing over her, trying to keep his face turned away from them.

"Christ," I say, taking a step forward, holding out a hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

That's when she looks up at me properly for the first time and shrinks back, surprised by something.