‘This’ll be Bon again,’ he says, only for his brows to knit together as he swipes a finger across the screen.

‘What now?’ he mutters under his breath, and my paranoid heart starts to beat a little harder.

‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yeah.’ Kit looks up. ‘I think so. I mean, I hope so.’

‘Oh.’

Kit grimaces.

‘Yeah.’

For a moment he appears to deliberate, then in one fluid movement, he is up on his feet and strolling slowly away, his phone now pressed to his ear. I gaze at his back view as he talks into the handset, noticing how the material of his shirt strains across his shoulders, and how tanned his bare calves are below the baggy shorts. Perhaps because I have grown up with him, or maybe because of his slim build and lack of stubble, I always think of Billy as a boy. Kit, in contrast, is very much a man, and way more of an unknown entity. And while he is most definitely – and undeniably – attractive, I’m also slightly in awe of his size and obvious power. It is borderline intimidating – or would be, if he wasn’t such a softie.

A steam boat with a large Christmas tree on its upper deck is chugging into shore beyond where Kit is still standing, and I can see couples lined up by the harbour wall waiting to board. How nice it would be to have dinner out on the lake. Even before my ‘date’ with Billy a few weeks ago, I hadn’t been wined and dined by anyone for years. Any boyfriends I have had are men I happened to meet on nights out with Hayley – drunken snogs that became short-lived flings. In my experience, most men don’t appreciate coming way below a horse on their girlfriend’s priority list – but that is always where they have ended up. Well, it was until the accident. Since Anna died, I have barely even thought about my love life, let alone actively gone out and sought one. Why I thought Billy was the solution to my sexual stalemate, I really don’t know.

Still lost in thought, I start as Kit flops back down beside me.

‘That was Allie,’ he explains, looking forlornly at his bottle of almost-full beer on the grass. I go to ask him what she said, then think better of it, settling on an encouraging smile instead. If he wants to open up to me, then he can, but I’m not going to force the issue.

‘She wants us to leave,’ he says gloomily.

‘Leave?’ I reply. ‘Leave where?’

‘Here.’ He sweeps a big arm around. ‘Queenstown.’

‘She just told you that on the phone?’

For a moment he looks confused.

‘Eh? Nah. She just said we needed to talk, and I know what that means. She’s been trying to bring it up with me for weeks and I keep making excuses.’