‘Before I worked over at Koru, I used to be a tour guide like Griff, believe it or not,’ Kit explains. ‘So, I do know my stuff. And Queenstown has got a lot to offer – I’d feel damn awful if you’d come all this way and I didn’t help you to make the most of it.’

It’s a very generous offer, but how will Allie react? Will she be angry if she finds out that the two of us spent time together alone, without Tui? The last thing I want to do is cause friction between them – especially not when they have both been so nice to me. But then, I can’t ignore the fact that it would be nice to have a companion for the day – and surely Kit would never do anything to deliberately upset his girlfriend? He’s too decent for that.

‘I guess I could,’ I begin, still hesitant. ‘I mean, as long as you don’t mind?’

‘You’d be doing me a favour,’ he assures me. ‘If I don’t have something planned for the day, I only end up in the boozer – or worse, back down at the yard, and then I’ll get roped into working. There’s a truckload of new wood chippings waiting to go down in the indoor school, and the paddock fences aren’t going to fix themselves.’

‘Only if you’re sure?’ I check again, and this time Kit blows exasperated air into his cheeks.

‘I’m very sure, right? Now, do you have any shoes that aren’t those girly stilts?’

I look down at my wedge-heeled espadrilles.

‘These are hardly stilts,’ I protest. ‘I can walk in them fine.’

‘Along a catwalk, maybe,’ he drawls, rocking back on to the heels of his far more sensible boots. His calves above them are thick and laden with muscle, and he is dressed in simple cargo shorts and an ash-grey shirt.

‘If you’re really going to experience the best that Queenstown has to offer,’ he adds, ‘then you’re going to need something a bit sturdier.’

‘OK, in that case …’ I give in, leaving him on the doorstep while I venture back into the apartment. By the time I’ve swapped my beloved wedges for the deeply unattractive pair of chunky walking shoes that David insisted I pack and made my way back outside, Kit is standing down on the pavement, a rucksack slung over one meaty shoulder and a large bottle of water in his hand.

‘Much better,’ he says, appraising my footwear as I clomp down the steps like a Clydesdale.

‘I feel like a shire horse in these,’ I mutter, and Kit starts tapping the pockets of his tatty dark-green shorts.

‘Ah, bloody hell – I’m all out of sugar lumps.’

‘Funny,’ I retort, but I’m smiling.