‘Bottom down, bouncy pants,’ he instructs. Tui sits, landing not on the bench but on my lap, causing her to lurch sideways, blocking the view yet again. There is another snort of annoyance from the row behind, and I scoot quickly out of Tui’s way, my thigh ending up rammed against Kit’s. I assume that he will move, but he doesn’t, and I can’t, squashed in as I am by a grumbling Tui. The longer I sit here, the more I become aware of Kit, and how being this close to him is making the murmur of something close to pleasure creep through me. It has been so long now since I have experienced even an inkling of desire. I thought that feeling had been cauterised by Anna’s death, and until this moment, I hadn’t dwelled on it very much. It didn’t seem important enough. Trust me to have my desire reawakened by a man who not only lives on the opposite side of the world to me, but is also very much involved with another girl. I shouldn’t even be thinking these things – it’s not fair on Allie.

More penguins arrive, and my nose begins to tickle from the cloying aroma of fish.

‘Yuck!’ declares Tui loudly, as yet again she makes a big show of holding her nose. Next to me, I feel Kit’s shoulders beginning to shake with suppressed laughter.

‘I think we had better get going before someone gets us booted out,’ he murmurs, and I nod in agreement, reaching for Tui’s hand.

‘Come on,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll be able to see the penguins going into their nests from the walkway.’

In the end, we get a better view than we could ever have hoped for, because halfway back along the coastal path towards town, a single rogue penguin appears without warning from the long grass beside the shoreline and flatfoots it across the road less than a metre from our feet.

‘PENGUIN!’ screams Tui, hurling herself towards it at speed, both her arms outstretched.

It is only Kit’s rapid-action reflexes that prevent her from scooping the little thing up into her arms and bringing it back to the B&B with us.

‘I still can’t believe she tried to pick up a bloody penguin.’

I have just returned from helping an exhausted Tui into bed in our shared room, and find Kit sitting at the kitchen table. The bottle of whisky he bought earlier is open and partially decanted, and there is an empty glass beside his own, which he lifts as I approach.

‘You mean p-p-p-pick up a penguin,’ I correct, nodding to accept his offer of a drink.

‘What was that?’ Kit looks confused.

‘It’s from an advert that used to be on for Penguin chocolate biscuits,’ I say, pulling out the chair next to his. ‘I keep forgetting you’re not British.’