It’s a relief to be off my feet. The climb up Bob’s Peak today was as tough as Kit had warned it would be, but I do feel good for it. Tomorrow, I will no doubt wake up to delayed onset muscle soreness and be forced to limp around clutching the furniture for support, but for now, I’m perfectly content. It is just after six p.m., and the fierce heat of the day is beginning to mellow. The wide Queenstown pavements are busy with the usual groups of backpackers – many of them sporting Santa hats – as well as families and older couples heading out for an early supper. Christmas songs filter out from the open doors of bars and restaurants, and the surrounding trees have been strung with hundreds of fairy lights.

Kit has finished his first beer and is now lying down flat on his back, his hands laced behind his head and his eyes shut. He is so comfortable in his own skin, this man. I have never met anyone so utterly at ease with the world and their place within it.

‘So,’ I say, watching a gull swoop down and pinch an abandoned chip from one of the outdoor tables of a nearby pub, ‘what does everyone do for Christmas in New Zealand?’

Kit opens one eye.

‘Goes to the beach,’ he replies. ‘There’s always a right big party down here. Some folk go out to Lake Wanaka for the day, and everyone has a barbie, no matter where they end up.’

‘Sounds fun,’ I comment, and Kit props himself up on one elbow. There’s a fine layer of dust all down one side of his shirt.

‘I’m spending the day itself with Allie, Griff and their olds,’ he explains. ‘But I was chewing over the idea of a barbie at the yard the day before. We always close up around lunchtime on Christmas Eve, and I reckon Tui’s dad will be cool with her coming along. Would you be up for it?’

‘Me?’ I exclaim.

Kit gives me the same look he always seems to give me, the one that says, ‘Of course I mean you, you flaming goof.’

‘It’ll be a right hoot, I reckon,’ he adds, reaching into the bag and extracting another bottle. After giving the top a cursory bite, he shakes his head and uses his keys to get it off instead.

Christmas Eve, the anniversary of Anna’s death – a day I should by rights be spending alone, thinking about what I’ve lost, and the part I played in it. But the thought of being alone in my rented apartment, in a different time zone to my friends back home, is unbearably bleak. I can dwell after the barbecue – I will have the entire night to dwell.