He shifts into a more comfortable position on his beanbag, his eyes black pools in the darkness.

‘Tui is amazing. We all love her. But she can never be left completely alone. There are things that she just can’t seem to learn, and unfortunately, many of them are things that could land her in trouble, so we have to keep on watching her.’

He stops, looking at me for a reaction.

‘She can learn a bit,’ I say hesitantly. ‘She’s improved her riding loads recently.’

‘Perhaps you have the magic touch?’ he says, but I am already shaking my head.

‘I just made a few lucky guesses.’

‘Why do you keep doing this, woman?’ Kit implores. ‘Why do you put yourself down all the bloody time?’

‘I don’t mean to,’ I insist, taking such a fortifying glug of whisky that I almost choke again.

‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ he persists. ‘You’re a choice girl, Genie – and I’m not the only one who thinks it. Tui downright idolises you, and Allie and Griff both reckon you’re great.’

I’m about to ask him how he’s feeling about moving away to Wellington, only for the question to stall like a knackered car. It is none of my business, but there is also a part of me that doesn’t want the news confirmed.

Feeling horribly disloyal towards Allie, I force down yet more of the whisky. If only Kit wasn’t always so kind to me, if only he hadn’t kissed me that day at the stables. I know he only meant it in a platonic way, but I can’t help reliving it in my head, over and over.

‘Griff is brilliant,’ I say, settling on a safe topic. ‘He looked after us so well on that Milford Sound trip.’

‘Well, yeah, of course he did.’ Kit is smirking.

‘Why do you say it like that?’

‘No reason.’ Kit stirs the ice around in his glass with a finger. ‘Just that it’s been a while since Griff talked about a girl, and he’s been yacking about you something chronic.’

For a brief second, I try to imagine myself in the arms of Griff, with his curls of blond beard and his large broken nose.

‘That’s very flattering,’ I concede. ‘But he’s not my type.’

‘Poor old Griffster,’ Kit laments, sounding in no way sad for his friend whatsoever.

‘What is your type then?’ he asks.

‘Oh, you know, the usual,’ I say, pausing to take another sip. ‘Tall.’ I raise my eyes to his. ‘Dark.’ I take in the sweep of his hair. ‘Handsome.’ I let my gaze linger a dangerously long time on his face, before trailing my eyes deliberately down across his broad chest.

What the hell has got into me? I wonder, too light-headed to realise that the answer is, in fact, swilling around in the bottom of my glass.