So much about this was wrong. Wrong because Amy Lowery’s date to her dad’s upcoming wedding was her mum. Wrong because Amy’s black-on-black-on-black Melbourne wardrobe was perfectly unsuited to her grandmother’s Whitsundays resort—even now, at eight in the evening, she could swear steam was rising from her jeans. But mostly wrong because she and her mum were perched at the bar swooning over the man her dad was about to marry.
‘Mum, as unlikely as this sounds,’ Amy said, as the lovely Sanjay’s laugh rumbled all the way from the dance floor like a seismic event, ‘this time in six days, you will no longer be my hottest parent.’
‘It wasn’t my plan,’ Rosa replied. ‘When you got a gorgeous new stepfather, he was supposed to be my husband. There’s one!’ she added suddenly, pointing a baby-pink fingernail across the busy pavilion to the dimly lit deck, as if they were engaged in a game of spot-the-dolphin rather than spot-the-eligible-hetero-man. ‘That guy outside, on his phone. Blue T-shirt. He’s straight.’