€200.00

      I stare at the back of the woman in the EU passport queue in front of me and concentrate on the list of Jay-Z World Tour dates printed on her hoodie.

      Despite the fact that it’s winter in Amsterdam, I’m sweating like crazy in my fleece-lined coat. But at least it’s concealing my sweaty armpits from the eyes of all the immigration officers, cameras and highly trained security personnel dotted around the terminal. All on the lookout for the scared, the nervous and the idiots with heroin shoved up their backsides.

      Jay-Z lady nudges her bag forward with her foot and rolls a shoulder. I fix my eyes on the words on the back of her hoodie (‘Atlanta Stadium, July 25’) and steady myself. I’m close enough in the queue now to check out the impassive faces of the men in the immigration booths. This could go really well or phenomenally badly, depending on whether the immigration officer I get is having a good day or a bad day, how naturally suspicious he is, if he needs the bathroom or is in a hurry to get to a tea break, and if he’s sharp-eyed enough to notice that I’m nowhere near the mirror image of the woman in my passport photo.

      I shuffle forward again, eyes glued to ‘Yankee Stadium, NYC, June 30’, my heart spiking in my chest, waiting for the sirens to shriek, or a hand to clamp down on my shoulder.

      *

      I made it.

      I can’t believe I flippin’ made it!

      Mouth dry, heart thudding, I focus on walking like a normal person (as opposed to someone who’s just committed a felony) towards Baggage Claim. Sweat trickles down my sides under my jacket. The airline’s rubbery breakfast omelette is repeating on me, but I don’t care. I made it.

      A weird sense of elation washes over me. I love the sad empty carousel going around and around. I love my exhausted, smelly fellow passengers, jostling to be the closest to the front, despite the fact that their suitcases will come when they come. I love the cleaner with the veined nose, sweeping up invisible dust bunnies. I move in beside Jay-Z lady and grin at her widely. She half-smiles back, returns to her phone, then glances at me again.

      I start to relax a little, but I’m not free yet, there’s still customs to go through. They could just as easily catch me there. I picture the whole scene unfolding in vicious clarity: the hand on my shoulder, the ‘come with me, please, ma’am’, the bite of the handcuffs, the click of the camera phone as Jay-Z lady takes a shot for her Instagram. Then the cold room, the even colder strip search, complete with the snap of latex gloves. The single tearful telephone call I’ll get, which I’ll use to call Lucas, who won’t understand anything I’m saying. And when I explain, he’ll dump me on the spot and leave me to rot in a Dutch prison forever. I’ll have to swap sexual favours and cigarettes for loo paper and wear sanitary towels as shoes in the shower, because I don’t have money in my commissary for flip-flops. I wonder if Dutch women’s prisons are anything like Orange Is the New Black.

      Natalie’s black and white wheelie suitcase, with the striped ribbon we bought at Kwaai Lappies in Woodstock (so I’d recognise the suitcase more easily in a crowd like this one – Lucas’s idea, he’s got such a practical mind), slides out of the carousel’s mouth. My relief at seeing something familiar is overwhelming and ties a knot in my throat. Which is ironic, since it’s not really my suitcase, and it’s full of someone else’s clothes. Jay-Z lady is still staring at me as I drag the case past her. ‘Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look just like—’ she starts.

      ‘All the time,’ I say, cutting her off. ‘Thanks.’

      I keep moving and head for the exit.

      *

      ‘Nothing To Declare’ is the last of this set of hurdles. I avoid eye contact with anyone and stride towards the exit, concentrating on looking innocent, yet purposeful. They probably aren’t looking for the kinds of things I have to declare, but who wants to chance it?

      At last, hallelujah, sliding doors exhale me into the Schiphol airport arrivals terminal. I drag the suitcase behind me and glance back over my shoulder, still paranoid, amazed nobody has chased me down yet.

      The route out is lined with bobbing meerkat heads. Dozens of people waiting for friends and family. There are also a few people in chauffeur outfits, holding up boards with names on them. There’s nobody waiting for me, Grace. They’re waiting for the person in the passport I’m travelling on: Natalie Hendricks.

      I pause and stare at the crowd, not sure what I’m looking for. I’m the only static in the terminal; people pass by me in flashes. The new paranoia replacing my immigration angst, is getting stranded at the airport with only two hundred euros to my name. It