You could spot the Brits a mile off – we were the only ones sweating. Me and Caro couldn’t get close to the Colosseum so after a brief ice cream, we walked to the Forum, onwards to the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps where the car picked us up and took us nearer to the Pantheon, as near as he could get due to several closed roads. Angela Merkel was in town for a conference, apparently. It was opposite the Pantheon in a little café that Beatrice had wanted to meet us with Enzo.

Caro took a deep, rattling breath as we got out of the car.

‘You OK?’ I said.

‘I’m OK,’ she breathed out. ‘Now we’re here, it doesn’t seem so fearful.’

There were more newsstands, dotted all around the Pantheon, all in different languages that I couldn’t translate but I could guess:

SERIAL KILLER BRITANNICO IN FUGA NEL MEDITERRÁNEO

‘You’re quiet,’ said Caro and I pushed her in her chair across the piazza.

‘Hot and bothered,’ I said.

‘Yes, let’s find this café and get some drinks.’

The closer to the Pantheon we got, the more I didn’t want to stand still in case somebody recognised me. The city was small and stifling and every direction I turned there were British accents and newsstands.

EL ASESINO EN SÉRIE BRITÁNICO PODRÍA HABER MATADO A 20 PERSONAS

All eyes were on me and, unlike the evening before at dinner, I didn’t like it. The hair extensions and the lenses and sunglasses and floppy hat were not enough to make me invisible anymore. My head itched, my eyes stung where I’d rubbed sun cream into them and the sunglasses pinched my bridge. I was Top Story. People would be actively seeking me out, especially the Brits.

CONFESSION DE RHIANNON LEWIS: JE SUIS UN TUEUR EN SÉRIE

I mean, yeah, I was famous, something I’d always wanted, but I couldn’t enjoy it at all. I was a sitting duck. A fish in a barrel. A babe in the woods. All it would take was for one person to notice me and the long arm of the law would swoop down and embrace me in its chokehold forever.

At 1.30 p.m., we reached the café – La Piccola Casa Della Tortain. We had to queue and wait for a table for four on the terrace. A TV flickered inside, showing round-the-clock news. My picture again, a photo booth shot taken at Lucille’s birthday party three years ago. Footage of me being interviewed on Up at the Crack, trying not to look at the presenter’s schlong. More pictures from my Facebook page. Drone footage of police at the farm shop. Sandra’s bits and pieces taken out in covered boxes. A bloody axe in a see-through bag.