Wayve? That sobered me up. How young was this guy? Was it even legal to be rubbing nether regions with him? Was I about to be carted off in handcuffs by the water police? I suddenly imagined myself cutting up his food, tying his shoelaces and carrying him on my shoulders to see The Wiggles in concert. I had a precipitous dread of the fluorescent lights coming on, enabling him to discover my real age, then watching him fleeing from the dance floor wearing an expression reminiscent of Munch’s The Scream.

I immediately broke free and fought my way back to Emerald’s side. My big sister was holding court with some young men on a leather banquette, her mouth lipsticked bright red with bravado – the very shade favoured by our mother.

‘How much have I d . . . d . . . drunk?’ I slurred. ‘If I gave a urine sample right now, would it have an olive in it?’

‘Hope so. Speaking of which . . .’ Emerald turned to address the nearest cubs in her coterie. One was a dome-headed hunk who looked as though he lubed up monster trucks for a living. The other was extravagantly tattooed in ill-conceived reptilian motifs. ‘Boys, you need to do something to improve your personalities – go get me a cocktail, will you?’

When the bite of her remark passed them by, she simply handed over her lanyard for payment. ‘Buy yourselves a beer too. And some more lady petrol for my sister here.’ Once more the boys stared at her blankly. ‘A martini on the rocks,’ she decoded, and when they departed in the direction of the bar she turned to me. ‘So, did you nab a dance partner?’

‘Well, yes, actually. English doesn’t seem to be his native tongue, but I think he’s just invited himself back to my cabin.’

‘Who?’

I hitched a brow in Wayve’s desirable direction.

Emerald’s eyeballs jumped out of their sockets, rushed across the dance floor, gave the young bloke in question a full-body once over, then snapped back into place. ‘Well pulled,’ was her verdict. ‘What’s stopping you, then?’

‘His name’s Wayve – W-A-Y-V-E – but I don’t think he’s quite breaking on the rocks.’

‘So? Low IQ’s not sexually transmittable.’

‘Okay, but . . . but . . . then there’s the fact that I can’t get naked in front of a stranger! I haven’t even gone sleeveless in five years! And what about the stretch marks on my belly?’