Nobody in this ballroom knows that I cry at hardware shops or that I have a plant at home I have named and then neglected. That is the drug of a conference. I am Priya. I am thirty-five. I flew up from Melbourne to Singapore with a lanyard and a talk I had already given in my kitchen to the plant, and by the second night the carpet and the cold air and the men saying circle back had made me want to be a braver stranger than the woman who waters things late.

His name, for the three hours I allowed it, was Henrik. Thirty-nine. Danish, which he offered and I didn't write down. Tall in a way that made the banquet chairs look like a mistake. He sat beside me at a dinner I had tried to skip, and he didn't talk about synergy. He talked about the harbour at night and asked what…