Roland Hume is the sort of man you notice twice: once because he wants you to, and once again because you realise he’s already gone.

There’s something fleeting about him, not just his tendency to vanish from parties before dessert, or to slip out of conversations like mist from a bottle, but something in his eyes too. A flicker of distance behind the charm, like he’s always listening to a clock no one else can hear. Like he isn't entirely 'in the room'.

A natural performer, Roland wears personas like other men wear coats: casually, expensively, and never the same one twice. In a past life (and perhaps still, depending who’s asking), he was a stage magician, a provocateur, a talk-show guest, a scandal. His wit is sharp, his smile sharper, and his ability to twist a room around his little finger is a kind of theatre in itself.

Yet beneath the clever one-liners and rumpled elegance, there’s an unexpected understanding, a quiet, genuine attentiveness that surfaces when no one’s watching. He remembers your dog’s name, your mother’s operation, the novel you never finished writing. And he never mentions these things. He just remembers them.

Roland gives the impression of having been everywhere, seen everything, and taken careful notes. But ask him who he really is, and you’ll get a joke, a wink, and then, most likely, silence.

Or perhaps not even that. By the time you think to ask, Roland Hume is already halfway to somewhere else.