I have this down to a science. Security: breezed. Coffee: acquired at a temperature befitting civilisation. I check every reflective surface to confirm I still look…tired. Concealer crosses my mind for about eighteen seconds, then I skip duty-free’s perfume gauntlet to buy Sour Patch Kids instead. Priorities.

Waiting to board, I fantasise about watching an entire film without someone narrating the obvious or asking why the sky is blue. It’s a delicate, morally complex balance: relief at being alone peppered with just enough homesickness to avoid feeling like a total sociopath. Obligatory family photo scroll, performative text home about little Billie’s spelling test. She’ll manage, or she won’t. Either way, not my problem for the next 72 hours.

And then the universe, ever the comedian, reminds me bliss is temporary. Apparently you’re joining me. Not just any colleague but the one I least want to see: young, eager, still thinking business travel is glamorous. The first-timer who’ll want to “explore the city” and “try the local cuisine” instead of hiding in your hotel room like a sensible person.

Thankfully we’re not sitting together – I’m temporarily reassured the world isn’t completely evil. We’ll share a congenial taxi to the hotel and I’ll perform small talk like an actor doing a cameo in my own life. However, once we reach our destination, the hotel lobby is where I will ghost you with the delicate precision of a trained assassin. Don’t take it personally; take note.

There will be no nightcap. No convivial bar jaunt. If you see me before the 8:30 meeting, act like you didn’t. I’m collegial, but remember, I’m not actually your friend – I’m just very good at pretending I am. I will feign warmth and then, like clockwork, become unavailable: “need to call the kids,” “must prep slides,” “so much to process.” Polite fibs. We both know they’re nonsense, but they’re useful nonsense. Don’t press. That’s gauche.

During the day I’ll banter with the best of them: efficient, charming, capable of laughing off any work blunder. After hours though, count me out. Under no circumstances will I do karaoke when I can have peace and lukewarm room service.

So when I play Fleetwood Mac as we pull up to the hotel lobby and casually mention how much I love this song, I’m not actually trying to introduce you to good music. I’m being polite and casual while desperately hoping you’ll take the hint. It’s a clue, not a gift.

Go your own way. I’ll be in room 247, tucked in bed and watching reality TV – exactly where I want to be.