It’s just south of Rome. By the lake. Near the Pope’s summer palace. You’ll love it.’ That’s what Roland had told me. ‘Truly, Janie,’ he’d said in that rich, fruity BBC voice of his (despite being fourth generation Australian, Roland is a thorough Anglophile) ‘it’s heaven.’ Then he stretched out his legs and leaned back in the sofa, his hands clasped behind his head of impressive silver-grey hair. ‘Oh how I envy you the magic of your first European encounter – the enchantment of Tuscany seen for the very first time through youthful eyes!’ Roland is so theatrical I’ve always thought that it was he who should have been the actor, not me. Ours is a bizarre friendship. Not only is Roland twice my age, he is a romantic. He is flamboyant in every sense of the word, and a confirmed monarchist. I am efficient. I am practical to a fault, and an ardent republican. On occasions we find ourselves in fiery debate, but there’s never any real harm done; we always end up laughing.
