Jan had failed to point out in her sales pitch that my trip of a lifetime would begin with me standing in the sweltering reception of a flea-bitten hotel, sweaty and jet-lagged, waiting for the tour guide for a meet-and-greet. My parents needn’t have worried; there was no chance of me finding love in a place like this.

At first I thought that there had been some mistake. I had stared at the catalogue long enough to memorise the glossy snapshots of smiling, tanned, carefree twenty-somethings with sunglasses and perfect white teeth having the time of their lives. Alongside these images was a picture of a quaint cobblestone street nestled in the heart of the city, indicating where our accommodation was: it said nothing about it being a hole in the wall with dodgy signage. I know I wasn’t exactly well travelled, but when a murderous scream echoes from the top floor, followed by what sounds like a brawl, causing the house clerk to scream up at the guests, one isn’t exactly filled with warm, fuzzy feelings. I half expected to find police tape and chalk outlines of bodies upstairs. For the past week I had dreamt of a concierge flanked by marble pillars floating behind the front desk welcoming me to Rome; there would be 1000-threadcount Egyptian cotton sheets, and a fluffy white robe and minibar. But there was no floating welcome; in fact, as yet I was unable to book in as a man and woman argued over the computer screen. I had no idea what they were saying, but I hoped they couldn’t find me on the system because there had been some mistake, and I was about to be accommodated at a more upmarket establishment.

No such luck.

I was instead given a welcome drink, an unexpected inclusion which was sickly sweet. Not wanting to look ungrateful, I took a second sip, and then reminded myself that accepting drinks from a winking stranger probably wasn’t a great idea, despite the official-looking, faded gold name badge.

‘Please, sit. It won’t be long.’ He gestured toward the lounge area, where a cracked brown leather wingback chair had my name on it. I smiled gratefully at Gabriello (at least, that’s what I thought I read on the man’s name badge).

Arriving in the dark of night, the city had seemed beautiful and electric. My initial excitement was subdued as soon as I entered the taxi, the fear of certain death soaking my already dampened clothes as the driver darted, weaved and honked through city streets. It had been a complete miracle that we had arrived in one piece, and I wanted to kiss the filthy stone floor of the foyer.

The hotel was a narrow, faded building that looked more like a boarding house for ex-cons than the opulence I had been promised. My desperate thoughts were interrupted by the clicking of heels as a group of English girls strode in off the street and headed for the stairs, the elevator cordoned off with crime scene tape. I watched them linking arms, laughing, seemingly uncaring that they were about to spend the night on stained, grubby mattresses. Maybe that’s why they were drunk? Loaded up to forget their regret of having booked into such a place. But then I had a thought: maybe they were part of another tour group, on an empowering girls’ night out, bonding while enjoying the city sights. Maybe there was hope yet? The tour guide would soon make him or herself known, and with a friendly smile and an enchanting accent, he/she would lead me onto an exotic balcony where all the other travellers waited, making lifelong friends whilst supping on delicious antipasti and toasting the beginning of a grand adventure.

Or maybe not.

I pulled my suitcase closer to me in the lounge, waiting for someone else who looked just as dishevelled and lost as I did. Instead I saw the back of a man’s shoulders, square and broad in a well-cut navy jacket. He wasn’t a bewildered foreigner like me—there was certainly nothing dishevelled about him. Even without seeing his face I could tell he was at ease. As I took in the tall, lean man, all the way down to his expensive Italian leather shoes, I realised he stood out for all the wrong reasons. He didn’t belong here at all. What was a man like him doing in a place like this? Again, I let fantasy get the better of me; maybe this was my travel guide? The tall, dark, gorgeous Fabrizio would soon walk over to me to confess that I was the only person who had booked the tour so I would have my own personal guide. I smiled to myself, my imagination giving respite from my squalid circumstances. Or maybe he was a spy? Bond. Gino Bond. Checking into the neighbouring room with a sniper rifle, waiting to catch out a sleazy con. Rather disturbing that the latter scenario seemed more plausible.

I groaned, rubbing my eyes, never knowing such tiredness. I was hot, gritty, exhausted, hungry: was this what jet lag felt like? I had never travelled further than interstate before, so I’d never experienced it. I was way out of my comfort zone for so many reasons and I could feel the panic rise up in me.

What have I done? What was I thinking?

I had checked the itinerary a thousand times. Right date, right hotel, right time: where was everybody? Why was I stuck here in this hotel jail all alone? I dragged my hands through the darkened, messy curls of my wayward hair, fighting back tears of fatigue and hopelessness. It was then that I realised I wasn’t exactly alone. Lifting my face up from my hands, I took in a deep, steadying breath as I glanced upwards and stilled. For a long moment that was more than just deliriousness or fantasy I locked eyes with the tour guide/spy. He was no longer turned away from me, but looking—no, make that staring—at me. I turned around, thinking maybe there was some mistake, that there was a beautiful, leggy blonde woman in a mink coat and diamonds standing right behind me, but after a quick glance over my shoulder, I realised this was not the case and once more my eyes locked with the man’s.

In my fantasies, the spy guide would summon a waiter from nowhere and, before our eye contact broke, an exotic cocktail would arrive ‘with compliments from the man at the front desk’, as he acknowledged me with a cheeky little wink. I, of course, would clutch my pearls (that I didn’t own) and send back a coy message of thanks and a request to join me.

But this was reality, and there was no drink, no invitation, there was just a long, lingering stare from both of us that bordered on the ridiculous, as if neither one of us wished to break the contact out of fear of defeat. The strangeness of the situation was apparent to us both; the man’s mouth tugged a little, and my brows furrowed with a ‘What are you looking at?’ scowl. I decided to be the bigger person, lifting my chin and turning away as I nestled back into my wingback chair, feeling vaguely superior as I imagined him looking on with an amused and impressed expression. The exchange with the sexy stranger had been the highlight of my day so far. I breathed out a laugh, crossing my feet at my ankles and feeling so utterly smug—until I looked up.

‘Oh, Christ.’

There before me, a full-length reflection near the fireplace mirrored my gaping face. My eyes stared wide at my mussed halo of hair, a knotted-up curl protruding from the top of my head like the crest of a cockatoo.

Oh, my God—how long had I been walking around like this? From the plane? In the taxi? Sitting here for how many hours? I clawed at the mess, fighting against the frizz in an effort to tame the horror, thinking back to how the beautiful stranger had stared at me. He wasn’t going to send me a drink: he was going to send me some hair product. I wanted to die. I pushed myself way back into my chair, my hands on my head with my eyes closed, hoping against hope that he wasn’t watching me now. Oh, dear Lord, please make him be gone, let my humiliation die. I slowly peeled my eyes open thinking I could spy his reflection in the mirror, but the angle was all wrong and I couldn’t see the reception desk.

No big deal—he was there or he wasn’t; what did it matter what some stranger thought, some sexy-sexy, tall, dark stranger. I would never see him again. We were just two people in a shitty hotel, never to be known to each other. There was an upside to being in Rome: no one knew me, or my story; I was a complete enigma. I could be whoever I wanted to be and no one would be any the wiser. I could simply float under the radar and lose myself in this city. At this point in time, losing myself sounded like a bloody lovely idea.

I inhaled a deep breath, calming myself. Yes, that’s what I would do: I would simply lose myself. I felt better already, calmed by my own logic. Wow, I am so grown up, I thought to myself with a nod. This trip has matured me already.

‘Samantha Shorten?’

I stiffened in my seat, as if someone had poured ice water down the back of my shirt.

‘Is there a Samantha Shorten here?’

I slowly peered around the corner of my chair towards the voice, dread heavy in my stomach.

I was no longer anonymous.