As Mack Trotter rode the elevator down to the lobby, he glanced at himself in the mirrored walls of the six by eight box and decided he was looking distinctly tubby. He sucked in his gut and chided himself for letting a few spare pounds settle on his midriff.

“Fewer steaks, more gym,” he muttered and smoothed down an errant lock of hair. It still felt damp from his shower, but he was anxious to get to the bar, so he had not bothered drying it. It had been a long day and he needed some R and R, preferably with extra Rrrrrrrrr.

He glanced at his watch as the doors slid open to reveal the clean, functional and beige lobby. Just like all the other hotels in the chain.

It was seven o’clock, Marie would be just getting off shift at the Assistance Publique Hôpitaux de Paris, where she worked as an intensive care unit nurse.

“Give it half an hour,” he thought, “and she’ll be home”.

He strolled over to the bar, which was the usual low-lit, soft jazz place – all pastels and low tables around which sat the usual blue-suited business types. He felt a little out of place in his casual slacks and open-necked shirt, but liked the feeling of shedding the trials of the day when he removed his suit.

“Sir?” enquired the barman. Trotter placed his key card on the polished light oak surface of the bar, waited for the barman’s discrete glance at it and then ordered a beer, which he carried to a corner table and sat toying with the Facebook app on his phone.

Seven-thirty arrived and he tapped in a text message to Marie: “Fancy a drink?”

The reply took a couple of minutes and he fidgeted uncomfortably with his empty glass while waiting, then relenting, ordered another one.

The barman had changed, but he may as well not have, for they were almost clones. He briefly let his mind wander and wondered if there were a secret lab somewhere in the Midwest of the USA, where the hotel chain cloned bar-staff. He chuckled at the thought and his phone pinged.

“Love to. Where are you? Marie x,” the message said. He fumbled his phone in his excitement, almost tipping it into his glass.

“The hotel bar x,” he typed. The response was almost immediate.

“Usual hotel? X”

“Yes, I’m in the corner nearest the bar. X”

“See you in twenty minutes,” Marie replied. He imagined her sweet, French voice caressing the word “minute” as “minwee”. It thrilled in a very basic way.

Toying with his third beer, Trotter looked at his watch for the third time in ten minutes. She was late. After thirty minutes the phone rang. It was Marie.

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the bar,” he said a little testily. “Turn right at the entrance and I’m in the corner. There’s a whole load of suits on the other side of the bar.”

“There’s no-one in the bar but a group of Japanese tourists”. She answered.

“Hang on, let me see if there’s another bar.”

He turned to the barman who was polishing glasses with his back to Trotter.

“Excuse me, is there another bar in the hotel?”

“Nein,” said the barman over his shoulder, “Ziss iss the only vonn”.

The penny started to drop.

“What day is it?” Trotter demanded.

The barman looked a little taken aback, but answered anyway, “It is Wednesday, sir.”

“Damn,” he thought, “Wednesday. It must be Berlin.”

He picked up the phone.

“Hello Marie,” he said, “You’re not going to believe this…”