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an idiot. I don’t know why you put up with me, Dave.”
    “Because I love you, Sylvie, and I always will. Which is why I want to marry you. Now let’s eat before the food gets cold.”
    I’m just forking the last piece of lasagna into my mouth when the doorbell rings. “I’ll get it,” I say, jumping to my feet. “It’s probably Dad.”
    When I swing open the door, Dad’s on the doorstep, holding baby Gracie in her little Rock-a-Tot chair with one hand.
    “Hi, Amy,” Dad says, all smiles.
    “Who is it?” Mum calls from the kitchen.
    “Dad,” I shout back.
    “Already?”
    Dad looks a bit sheepish. “Sorry, I know I’m a bit early. Shelly’s keen to get moving. She’s waiting for me in the car. She said to say hi. We’re going shopping together in the dreaded Dundrum.” Dad gives a dramatic shiver — he detests shopping.
    “Lucky you,” I say with a grin. “It’s OK. I’m all set. I’m going to take Gracie to the park with Dave, Alex, and Evie.”
    “Perfect.” Dad hands over the Rock-a-Tot and the changing bag. “Thanks again, Amy,” he says, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, Sylvie,” he calls.
    Mum sticks her head around the kitchen door — literally just her head. I don’t think she wants Dad to see her dressed like a bag lady. “Bye. Have a nice afternoon.”
    Once Dad is out the door, she joins me in the hall to help me with Gracie’s stuff. She takes the changing bag while I carry Gracie. She’s getting heavy — her Rock-a-Tot is almost pulling my arm out of its socket. Once in the living room, I crouch down and unbuckle Gracie from her little seat. Then I sit on the sofa and pop her onto my knee. Mum sits down beside me and starts to stroke Gracie’s mop of white-blond hair. It was strawberry blond when she was born, but it’s been getting lighter and lighter every month. Dad calls her his little Nordic beauty.
    “Gracie looks just like you when you were this age, Amy,” Mum says, her eyes misting up a little. “She’s good-natured like you were too. And she has hair like her step-aunt Clover’s. It’s a killer combination.” She pauses. “Amy, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say. About Clover. Now’s as good a time as any.”
    “What?” I ask, curious.
    “Clover’s been offered an internship over the summer. At
Vogue
.”
    “She hasn’t said anything to me about it,” I say, miffed that Mum knows something about Clover that I don’t. “
Vogue
? Wow, that’s really impressive.” Clover worships the
Vogue
team and has always dreamed of working on their magazine in London. “Is she going to take it?”
    “She’s not sure yet. She has to talk it over with Gramps and Brains.”
    “You mean she might actually go?” I ask. “To London, I mean.”
    “New York, in fact,” Mum says.
    I can hardly get the words out. “New York? Hang on, you’re talking about
American Vogue
?” So that’s what Clover was telling those editors at the wedding fair. I haven’t gotten around to asking her about it yet. I probably wouldn’t be having this conversation with Mum if I had.
    Mum nods. “Isn’t it incredible?”
    “Yes, amazing.” But if it’s so amazing, why am I feeling all flat inside, like Coke that’s lost its fizz? “When was she going to break it to me?” I ask. “At the airport?”
    “Don’t be like that, Amy. Nothing’s definite yet. She’s going to tell you when it’s all decided one way or the other. She asked me not to say anything, but I wanted to give you a bit of time to get your head around the idea. I know how much she means to you. And she adores you too, Amy. She thinks you’re the bee’s knees.”
    Really? My awesome, supersmart, and Arctic-cool aunt thinks I’m the bee’s knees? I’m overwhelmed and incredibly touched. A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it back. The truth is, I don’t want her to go. I know it’s selfish — but how will I cope without her? She’s my aunt and my best friend all rolled