‘Perfect.’ I beam at her. The prospect of a cold beer genuinely is thrilling.

We both watch with affection as Tui gallops off trailing tinsel, then Simon turns his attention to me. He is older than I originally thought – or perhaps his weathered complexion is more to do with New Zealand’s UV rays than the toll of time passing. Tui has inherited his wiry hair, smudgy-hazel eyes and rounded nose, but the rest of her must be pure Bonnie. That determined, heel-shaped chin is something we both share, and seeing it on Tui has made me like my own more. I have to accept that if I like all of Tui’s features – which I do, very much – then it only stands to reason that I allow my own the same courtesy.

‘So, Kit tells me you’re an old mate of Bonnie’s?’ Simon says now, and I hesitate before replying – impossible not to when you’re trying your best not to trip over the lie.

‘My parents knew her,’ I reply. ‘A long time ago.’

‘In England, right?’

‘Right.’

Tui bounds back with a beer for me, half of which she must have spilled on her clumsy canter across from the table. I take it gratefully from her and swallow such a huge mouthful that most of it spills down my chin. Glancing unthinkingly over at Kit, I grin as I see him sneaking a burnt-looking sausage into Beavis’s eager mouth.

‘You know,’ Simon adds, as Tui hurtles off yet again, ‘I was shocked when Bon told me she was going back there – to England. She never had many nice things to say about it when we were together.’

‘How long did she live there?’ I ask idly, my skin prickling.

‘Quite a while – at least a year, I’d say,’ Simon replies. ‘She went from there to Australia for a month or two, and that was it. She told me that she had set out thinking she’d explore the whole world, but that England had put her off. Made her realise that she had everything she wanted or needed right here at home.’

‘England isn’t all that bad,’ I protest, ignoring the tightening fist of resentment in my stomach. The implication is clear: Bonnie hates the UK because of what happened to her while she was there – namely me. But that’s not the only reason I’m rankled – like most Brits, I am very happy to moan about my home country, but I’m not all that keen on anyone else doing so. It’s basically an English law, like drinking tea in a crisis and apologising to people that walk into you.

‘I’m sure it’s very nice,’ Simon allows, about as convincingly as an art critic would be if faced with a stickman. ‘But whatever happened to Bon over there, it changed her. She admitted as much to me herself.’