The Cult of Romance

By Sarah Ayoub

When your bestie is marrying a guy she barely knows, can you save her from the cult before it's too late?

Natalie is living proof that love is a scam.

She's traumatised by her parents' failed marriage and overwhelmed by her grandmother's expectations of good Lebanese girls — marriage, motherhood and exceptional tabouli-making skills.

When her best friend decides to get hitched to a guy in the motherland, Nat's not exactly thrilled by the mammoth task before her: juggling cultural traditions, extra bridesmaid dresses and super-judgemental relatives.

And to top it off there's the annoyingly good-looking best man and his constant need to mansplain all of the things.

Natalie is in for the trip of her life. But can she save her friend from the cult of romance, without falling in love herself?


PRAISE FOR THE CULT OF ROMANCE

'The Cult of Romance is a vividly realised, dazzling and charming book which made me snort with laughter as much as it compelled me to pause for thought. Ayoub tackles the agonies and joys of in-betweenness, of what, who and where we make and feel homeland and heartland. Her intimacy with the worlds she writes about is obvious in her rich and subtle descriptions. Ayoub has given Australian YA literature a fresh and uniquely cross-generational and cross-border perspective on perennial themes of identity, family, friendship, loyalty and love. A young Australian Lebanese woman grappling with these questions as she navigates her parent's homeland, Lebanon. The story invites readers to think about the many worlds-and worlds within worlds- children of migrants must navigate without losing sight of the humour, lightness and joys in the journey. Ayoub has written something truly original and special.'

- Randa Abdel-Fattah, award-winning author ofWhen Michael Met Mina

'The Cult of Romance is a fun, heartfelt and relatable read that buzzes with youthful energy. Sarah Ayoub manages to criss-cross two worlds and tenderly land in the space in between, where children of diaspora often find themselves. Her book deftly captures the angst of growing up torn between two cultures. The Cult of Romance is for those who've never seen themselves in the pages of a novel, whose old-country customs say more about who they are than who their parents or grandparents were. In this way, The Cult of Romance is a quintessentially Australian story about love, family, belonging and finding your place in the world.'
- Jan Fran, social commentator and Walkley Award-winning journalist

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: May 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781460712689

Sarah Ayoub

Sarah Ayoub is a journalist, bestselling author and academic with a PhD in migrant Australian YA literature. Her work has been published in The Guardian, The Sydney Morning Herald, Sydney Review of Books, Meanjin and more. Sarah is a Stella Schools Program ambassador, has mentored the youth curators of The Sydney Writers' Festival YA program, contributed to the anthology Arab, Australian, Other: Stories on Race and Identity and most recently been a judge for the NSW Premier's Literary Awards. Sarah was elected to the board of the Australian Society of Authors in 2021 and is currently working on her first novel for adults as the writer-in-residence of Sweatshop Literacy Movement. Sarah is an advocate for education and Australian stories, appearing at schools and festivals where she promotes her YA novels Hate is Such a Strong Word,The Yearbook Committee andThe Cult of Romance as well as her debut picture book, The Love that Grew.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Five years later

‘How was she?’ my cousin Layal asks as she walks up the hall of her townhouse, picking up a stray truck from underneath the stairs and tossing it into the large wicker toy basket.

I’ve been watching her daughter, Grace, so that she and her husband, Charlie, could go to one of his work functions. I’m spent. Three hours watching Peppa Pig on repeat, baking a dozen cupcakes and drawing has left me completely depleted, and reaffirms how much I love giving kids back to their parents at the end of a babysitting shift.

Layal drops her handbag to the floor and falls onto the couch, slipping off her shoes.

‘Good, I guess,’ I tell her. ‘Ate when she was supposed to, peed on the potty with no accidents, asked for three bedtime stories, but—’

Charlie chuckles. ‘That’s just standard Grace,’ he says. ‘Goes through a wheel of excuses before bed.’

‘That’s all children, Charlie,’ Layal says, glaring at him like he ought to know better.

He sighs before opening the fridge and staring blankly at it.

‘Hey, how’s Janet going?’ Layal asks me. ‘She put some photos up today. She’s looking really well.’

‘Photos?’ I echo, grabbing my phone. ‘Damn algorithm, I missed them.’

She laughs. ‘Relax, you’ll see them,’ she says. ‘Sheesh. You kids these days.’

‘No, it’s not me being childish,’ I say. ‘She hardly posts anymore, and I’m petrified that she’s like . . . eloped with an old rich man or something.’

Layal rolls her eyes. ‘Paranoid much? It’s Janet. The same girl who badgered the principal about holding an International Women’s Day fundraiser at school with you.’

Charlie snorts behind us.

Layal narrows her eyes at him, but I don’t bother turning around.

‘Don’t start with me, Charlie,’ I call out. ‘I’ll give you one of my patriarchy speeches.’

‘Please don’t,’ he begs me. ‘I’m tired.’

‘Oh, sorry, I forgot I babysit children for a living because it’s so relaxing,’ I say sarcastically.

Layal chuckles. ‘Still going with those speeches, hey? I just love how you’ve done one Gender Studies subject at uni and you suddenly think you’re Simone de Beauvoir.’

‘Who?’ Charlie asks, sitting next to us as he places a six-pack on the coffee table.

Layal and I exchange an amused glance, but he doesn’t notice.

‘Want one?’ he asks, gesturing to the beers.

‘No, thanks, Charlie.’

‘How can you ask her that?’ Layal frowns at him as she takes the beer he hands to her. ‘She’s on her Ps.’

He looks exasperated. ‘We just walked in,’ he complains. ‘You can’t wait till the company leaves before picking a fight with me? I was just being polite.’

‘She’s not company, she’s Nat,’ Layal says. ‘She hears us argue all the time.’

‘And it’s not fun,’ I point out, even though they’re not listening and I might as well not be in the room.

‘It will help her adapt to marriage,’ Layal continues to Charlie, reaching for the TV remote. ‘No point sugar-coating it.’

Charlie puts his drink down and loosens his tie. ‘She’s not gonna need to adapt to it if we turn her off the thing completely.’

‘Um, guys, I already don’t believe in the institution of marriage, so really, it’s all good,’ I interject.

‘You say that now,’ Layal responds. ‘But one day you could be sitting by yourself at a bar, keeping sober so your friend, Adriana, won’t make a fool of herself like last time, only to realise that the guy sitting next to you—’

‘Who is so drunk he tells you he loves you when you give him a napkin,’ Charlie chimes in, smiling.

‘—is actually quite cute,’ she continues. ‘So, you give him your number and he drunk-dials you at three in the morning when he gets home to say he’s going to marry you.’

‘And it’s the best move he ever made,’ he says, giving her a wink.

‘You guys are awful.’ I stand up and put on my jacket. ‘I seriously liked it better when you were arguing.’

‘Oh, we argue a lot.’ Layal gives me a mischievous smile. ‘But we always make up.’

I look at them making googly eyes at each other and feel the urge to get out of there as fast as I can.

Gag.

* * *

I don’t go home after leaving Layal’s place. I ring my friend Mark, who agrees to meet me for frozen yoghurt at Dairee on Waterloo Road. He sounds keen on the phone, and I’m thankful that his Friday night is so dull that the prospect of frozen yoghurt in our home suburb (famous for falafel sandwiches and sick manicures from Vietnamese ladies who never speak to you) is considered exciting.

Because there are not many places to go out around where we live, the fro-yo place and chocolate café next door are filled with teens, spilling out onto the communal tables on the footpath.

Groups of boys in bright Nike sneakers and monogram Gucci caps are chatting to friends parked illegally across the road, or ogling girls with flawless eyeliner who are fidgeting with their hijabs and trying not to make eye contact.

I stand in the queue, trying to decide why anyone would choose a mini over a small cup when there was virtually no difference in price.

While I wait, I recognise two priests from the local Lebanese Maronite church standing with three older teens wearing the shirts of the church youth group. The teens are explaining the merits of frozen-yoghurt whip (available in a multitude of flavours) in broken Arabic.

The two priests are visiting from Lebanon, a fact that Tayta has shared with my father about fifty-two times in seventeen days, probably hoping he’d encourage her to host them for dinner.

The young man behind the counter clarifies that the whip is only available for the larger servings, and I watch one priest’s face contort with the burden of choosing the sin of gluttony or else forsake the pavlova flavour.

Finally, it’s my turn to order, and after what seems like an age, I’m sitting at a small table outside as the clock hits 10.25 and the venue, just recently bustling with people, quietens down for the night. Mark arrives a moment later with his dog, Roger, in tow, his face lined with accusation.

‘Oh, you started without me?’ he asks, unimpressed. ‘Standard Nat.’

I swallow a mouthful of yoghurt and look apologetically at him.

‘Sorry,’ I say, shrugging. ‘But also, not. I eat so much slower than you. I need a head start.’

‘Yeah, that’s the reason,’ he says sarcastically, peering down at my bowl. ‘Ohhh, no gummi bears today. Diet?’

‘As if,’ I say, my mouth full. ‘They ran out.’

‘Of course,’ he says knowingly.

He peers through the window at the board advertising this week’s four flavours. ‘Ooh, Nutella and knafeh in the same week,’ he says. ‘How am I gonna choose?’

‘Just get both,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not like there’s a choice between the two.’

‘Don’t get me started.’ He hands me the leash. ‘Here, look after this guy, will you?’

I take the leash in my left hand and tell Roger to sit, which he does dutifully, although his eyes are fixed on Mark, who is ordering inside. When Mark emerges, Roger’s tail begins wagging and the dog quickly adjusts his seating position to face Mark when he takes a seat opposite me.

‘So, what’s with the late-night meet-up?’ Mark asks, spooning some yoghurt into his mouth.

‘Nothing.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I just don’t feel like going home yet. Maybe by the time I get there, Tayta will be asleep and I won’t cop a lecture about how no Lebanese boy will marry me if I go out too much. Even though I was babysitting a cousin’s kid. What’d you do tonight?’

‘Date,’ he says, swallowing. ‘Bad date.’

‘That girl from uni?’ I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘Nah, Tinder.’

‘I told you, bro, you’re wasting your time,’ I say. ‘You’re too young for Tinder. Tinder is for older people who can’t meet anyone in real life.’

‘I can’t meet anyone in real life.’

‘You’re nineteen,’ I point out. ‘Don’t be so desperate.’

‘Not for much longer.’

I roll my eyes. ‘You’re being so ridiculous. Can’t you just be normal and meet someone at a function or something?’

‘What function? And what’s normal?’ he asks, giving me a look. ‘A wedding? We still have a few years before any of our friends get married.’

‘Yeah, or like, I don’t know . . . a night out with your friends?’

‘Like who, you and Janet?’ he asks. ‘You spend your weekends baking cakes for your grandmother’s prayer circle, and Janet’s either always studying or on a holiday in Lebanon.’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘That’s way too slack-urate! You need a better life.’

‘No, I need better friends,’ he says, not missing a beat.

We laugh and discuss his Tinder matches.

‘You need to do it like they did in the old days,’ I tell him, handing him back his phone.

‘What, you think our parents did it better?’ He smirks.

‘Well, not my parents, obviously,’ I say. ‘With their practically arranged marriage and my grandfather’s desperation to see his spinster daughter wed before she turned thirty. Even though it was 1998 by then, and the word spinster was another thing dying with the twentieth century.’

He laughs. ‘I’m pretty sure the girl from tonight actually used the word spinster in our conversation,’ he says, as he stirs his fro-yo. ‘You know, in that I-don’t-want-a-guy-to-waste-my-time kind of way.’

I slap my palms onto the table. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’

He chuckles, pointing a spoon in my direction. ‘Yeah, I’m kidding, because I knew it would piss you off. You thrive on this shit, always ready to judge.’

‘We all judge,’ I point out. ‘I’m just, like . . . a bit more obvious about it.’

‘I know,’ he says, nodding with enthusiasm. ‘You’re like one of those people who has a problem with everything. I can’t decide if that’s annoying or exciting.’

I fold my arms and look pointedly at him.

‘Relax,’ he says. ‘God, I can’t wait for Janet to get back. Being your only friend is tough.’

‘You and me both,’ I say. ‘You know she hasn’t spoken to me in ages?’

He shrugs. ‘She’s on a holiday, what do you expect?’

‘No, I mean at all,’ I sigh. ‘Not just about the business. I don’t know what she’s doing, she’s hardly posting on Instagram, she’s never on Snapchat anymore . . .’

‘Um, maybe she’s out there, just enjoying her holiday,’ he says. ‘Socials are hard work.’

‘I hope so,’ I say sullenly.

‘But also . . . it’s Lebanon, so it’s probably a Wi-Fi thing,’ he says. ‘Or an electricity thing.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I concede. ‘Good ol’ Lebanon and its daily blackouts.’

He slides his empty cup over to me. ‘Still beat you.’

I smile at him in defeat. ‘And you made me feel so guilty for starting without you,’ I say, finishing my last spoonful and standing up.

‘Pfft,’ he says. ‘You didn’t feel a thing.’

I grab the empty yoghurt cups and toss them in the garbage bin near the door, waving a thank you to the guy behind the counter.

A couple of guys walk past and shuffle closer to the road when they see Roger.

I gesture to them and smile at Mark. ‘Don’t you love it that the boys around here act like the biggest heroes, but they’re scared of a little dog?’ I ask.

Mark frowns at the boys and then turns back to me with a funny look on his face. ‘Roger’s not that small,’ he says, like it’s the most devastating thing he’s ever heard and I’ve just insulted his manhood.

‘OK, he’s not,’ I admit. ‘But he is the cutest dog.’ I bend down and give Roger a pat then straighten up again.

‘Your grandma will kill you for touching that dog and not washing your hands with bleach after,’ Mark says, smirking.

I nod in agreement and pull my keys out of my bag, sandwiching them between my fingers – the tip emerging like a makeshift weapon between my knuckles. Because, you know, #girllife.

‘My car’s this way,’ I tell him, pointing.

‘I’ll walk you,’ he says.

‘Nah, relax, I’ll be fine.’

He raises his eyebrows at me, and I smile.

‘OK,’ I concede. ‘You can tell me more about your bad date.’

He chuckles. ‘Ha, where do I start?’

‘That bad?’

‘That bad. When do you think I should stop trying to date only girls and finally admit that I might be bi?’

‘Dude, there’s no way I’m telling you when to come out,’ I say. ‘I’m not that dumb.’

‘Jokes, I wouldn’t ask you for any relationship advice, anyway,’ he says. ‘You’re the coldest-hearted person I know.’

‘That’s a bit mean,’ I say indignantly. ‘Just because I don’t believe in the fairy tale.’

‘You don’t believe in any of it.’ He stops to look over at me. ‘Crushes, romance, love, marriage . . . You don’t even believe in Valentine’s Day, and that’s the kind of commercial crap literally created for women.’

‘Yeah, well it all leads to heartache,’ I say. ‘I’m living proof.’

He rolls his eyes. ‘You’re so dramatic. And you’re going to die old and alone because of it.’

‘That’s even meaner!’ I say, half laughing with pretend outrage. ‘I never said I didn’t believe in love. I just don’t think it lasts. Well, not the way people think it will.’

‘You’re so tragic, bro,’ he says, making a face at me. ‘I keep hoping you’ll grow out of it.’

‘I’m not tragic, I’m realistic,’ I point out. ‘Great love was invented to get us to buy shit we don’t need and to make us feel insecure about our lives. It makes women intense and jealous, and it makes men feel pressured and indifferent, and—’

‘Stop,’ he says, putting a palm up in front of my face. If he wasn’t my best friend, I would have found it totally offensive. ‘I’ve heard this a hundred times. But seriously, you’ve gotta stop letting your parents’ marriage define your view of the world. It didn’t work out, shit happens. Heaps of people get divorced.’

‘Not heaps of Lebs,’ I tell him. ‘In this area, at least. And anyway, it’s not just about marriage. Remember when I was in love with Sam Zakhia at the start of Year Twelve? God, he turned out to be such a disappointment. I wonder if he still thinks being a feminist is an insult . . .’

A car drives past, and Roger lets out a small wail. ‘Look, you’re even making Roger depressed,’ Mark says. ‘Stop being slack.’

I smile half-heartedly. ‘I just don’t understand how a woman who was totally fine on her own – living, working, partying, socialising – wasn’t enough,’ I explain. ‘Even for her own family. She had to get herself a man, and she had to make herself a kid, and after that it all fell apart. And so did she.’

‘Natalie, she was sick, it’s not like she—’

‘A sickness that was brought on by having a kid, Mark. And a lack of support from the man who was supposed to be her partner in life. And the social expectations to be a wife and a mother before being herself . . . Have you heard of the mental load, Mark? The kind of shit that women—’

‘You do realise that if she didn’t get married, you wouldn’t be around being a pest?’ he interjects.

‘Maybe that would have been better than being motherless,’ I mumble, looking everywhere but at him.

‘Motherless? Sheesh, Nat,’ he mutters to himself, but I ignore him. I have to make my point.

‘So yes, you had a couple of bad dates,’ I continue. ‘But you know what – every bad date means you’re still at least one step away from joining the worst cult in the history of human events. At least this way you’re afforded some protections. Although you’re a man, which I guess is enough protection, but—’

He clears his throat and looks at me, bemused and concerned at the same time. ‘Um, cult, really?’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Yes, Mark,’ I say, opening my car door. ‘The kind that will ruin your life. The cult of romance.’

CHAPTER 2

I drive home thinking about how I wasn’t always down on love. Princesses and fairy tales featured prominently in my childhood, and I dreamed of the day when I would meet my prince and live happily ever after.

But then I grew up and became more aware of how my parents’ disastrous marriage was intensifying the expectations my family had for my own future, and I started to see love and marriage as less of a happy-ever-after and more of a trap for women.

My grandmother, who has lived with us for as long as I can remember, didn’t do anything to dispel my concerns. As a widow living alone, she was available to step in when my mum got sick, and given that my father was her only son, it made sense to have her move in and raise me. For a long time, I really loved that. I went to the local Catholic school, and I always had these epic packed lunches (handmade falafel! Left-over mujadra! Easter maamoul!), while some kids just had Vegemite or cheese sandwiches and Iced VoVos.

But then I got older and those other kids got to have a life, while I had to fight with her about everything: the length of my school skirt, whether I was allowed to go to parties, what was appropriate for good Lebanese girls, and even what subjects I should be choosing – which was ironic considering her complete lack of an education.

No matter how many times I told her that she wasn’t my mother, she didn’t listen, and Dad never took my side. I guess he felt that he owed her a lot. The woman raised him and his sister alone after her husband died very soon after they migrated to Australia; and given the fact that Lebanese boys are already spoiled rotten by their mothers, you can’t even imagine what it’s like when they’re the only son.

So obviously, Dad was a total mumma’s boy, and I swear it would gross you out if you saw the way she still treats him, even if he is practically fifty. In return, he takes every word she says as if it’s gospel, which sucks because she is the queen of exaggeration.

I mean, it’s not like Tayta hated me back then, I just think she was so hellbent on how I should be raised that she failed to look at the calendar and realise we were almost twenty years into a new millennium and her 1970s parenting experience was almost half a century old.

To top it off, she was a professional meddler, and I often wonder if her meddling was what contributed to my mother’s ‘illness’. That’s the code word my family uses for her post-natal depression. They generally don’t say anything about it because it’s taboo, and given that they’ve lived through a million wars, I’m pretty sure that most Lebs think mental illness is not a real thing.

As far as I know, there’s no well-known word for post-natal depression in Arabic, which makes it easier to pretend it doesn’t exist. That would have been hard for my mother, who had no one else to support her when she had me because her own family was overseas. My high-expectations grandmother telling her to just snap out of it would have made it ten times worse.

I don’t know all of this for certain, of course. It’s all stuff I have picked up over the years, when I’d hear extended family talking about it in hushed tones and hurried whispers. They’d try to keep me out of the loop, but I guess I just became so super sensitive to all of it that my ears would prick up at any mention of family gossip.

Janet told me once that her mother heard that my mum’s condition was so bad, she went to stay at a mental health clinic twice. I also remember hearing some aunties, at the first village fundraiser I went to, telling a friend that at the height of my mum’s condition, she had tried to get rid of me by adopting me out and my dad only found out when they called to ask if he forgot his signature on the form.

Suffice it to say, we never spoke about my mother. All I know is that Dad was on holiday in Lebanon when they got married. I wish I could say it was some epic love story, but it was doomed from the start: they’d only known each other for four weeks. My mum wasn’t over some unsuitable divorced guy her mother hated, and her dad just wanted her to tie the knot before he died, even if it meant schlepping her off to the other side of the world.

People always tell me how awesome it is that Arabs have such close-knit families, but I doubt they realise that they’re so close that parents are literally involved in the coupling and uncoupling of their children.

The fact that this stuff happened with my parents in the 1990s still concerns the crap out of me. Although, if I’m being really honest, we still place so much emphasis on marriage and motherhood in my culture that even if a woman won a Nobel Prize for curing AIDS on the same day that she was announced by NASA as a contender for a VIP mission to Mars, people would still be saying, ‘farehtik’ to her at the celebration and asking pointedly about her marriage prospects.

I park my car and let myself into the house with the dexterity of a spy – not letting even my keys jingle for fear of waking up Tayta, who would no doubt berate me for arriving home at what she would deem a disrespectable hour. I tiptoe to my bedroom and close the door before turning on the light, only to find her sleeping upright on my bed.

‘Ah, you back at last,’ she says in that you’re-in-trouble tone. ‘You dad got so tired waiting for you.’

I take a deep belly breath before responding. ‘Tayta, I really don’t think Dad cares what time I come home.’

‘Aye, you think,’ she says, mocking me. ‘Why don’t we just throw you on the street for any man to come take you. Yalla, to bed.’

I don’t bother answering as she stands up slowly, exaggerating her movements. She pauses at the door then turns around to face me.

‘You look after Grace tonight, yeah?’ she asks.

I nod, not wanting to tell her I went out with Mark after, even if we stayed local.

‘Layal, she good?’ she asks. ‘And Charlie?’

‘Yeah, as good as they always are,’ I reply, not sure what she wants to know.

‘Aye, good,’ she says, eyeing me. ‘Layal a good girl.’

She leaves the room having made her point, and I collapse onto my bed, mentally exhausted from hearing some variation on ‘good girls’ on repeat for the last six years. Lebanese girls could be committing fraud or selling drugs from the children’s playground and she would still see them as ‘good’ if they were married with kids.

But me? Let’s just say that there was something about romance that just rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was the number of times I’d seen friends cry over boys, or how turned off I felt when I heard them judge other girls because of boys.

In the fairy tales I saw as a kid, romance always led to marriage, which was also the point in the narrative where the woman’s story ended. It made me pretty adamant about not letting a relationship dictate my own storyline.

Besides, even as a kid, I couldn’t help but wonder about the prince. He was supposed to be swoon-worthy and romantic, but I was pretty sure he was in on the indoctrination, so I wasn’t having a bar of him.

* * *

I brush my teeth, dab on some pimple cream, and hop into bed for a scroll through Insta, where I see that a friend of Layal’s who I follow has uploaded some seriously OTT engagement shots, once again reminding me that I’m in the minority where attitudes to marriage are concerned. I mean, most girls my age follow dreamy wedding social accounts and put their boyfriend’s initials next to an emoji ring in their Instagram bio, like their relationship is the ONLY thing that defines them. It’s totally yuck and I seriously question why the women’s movement isn’t part of our school curriculum. It’s like everyone has gone back in time to 1952, while I’m stranded in the future. Haven’t any of them watched Mona Lisa Smile to know how far we’ve come?

Let’s just say that I find it incredibly depressing. I mean, Muslim women were like, the first people to establish universities or something. But there’s a phenomenon going on in the Arab diaspora lately, and girls who have the education and freedoms their mothers never had just want to get married and go shopping with prams and purses that cost more than my car. Is it a generational thing? A capitalistic thing? Or are those ‘good girls’ still toeing a line I find incredibly outdated?

I kick off the covers in frustration and knock gently on Tayta’s bedroom door, even though I can hear the TV in her room blaring.

‘Tayta, did you ever want to go to uni?’ I ask when I let myself in.

She shifts her gaze from her Egyptian soap opera and looks me up and down. I have a tomato-sauce stain on my pyjama shirt, and my pants have a sizeable hole in the knee.

‘You look like a bahedli,’ she says, scowling. ‘Your hair like zat very, very bad. Come, I fix for you.’

‘What? Tayta, I’m going to bed, it doesn’t matter. Could

Reviews for The Cult of Romance

[herenya_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was delighted to discover that it’s Australian (!) YA about a university student (!!). Natalie’s sceptical about the “cult of romance” and critical of the demands marriage places on women, so she’s horrified when her best friend returns from a trip to Lebanon and announces she’s getting married. It’s not like I have anything against the motherland, but when you live in a suburb that houses Lebanese people, their food and their own interpretation of road rules, you don’t really need to go there [...] I’ve got no desire to interact with people who have Tayta’s opinions about boys, girls and what’s expected of them in life.But it’s either go to Lebanon or lose my friend.This is an engaging exploration of identity, belonging and the experience of being Lebanese-Australian. Natalie has grown up shaped by, and often chafing against, her grandmother’s ideas of what a good Lebanese girl should be -- but she discovers her grandmother’s standards are based on memories of Lebanon, not on what things are like there today.It’s also an interesting portrayal of best-friendship. Things are not perfect between Naomi and Janet -- Janet’s caught up in the excitement of getting married, and Natalie’s struggling to adjust to the way her friend’s priorities have changed; there are times when they disagree, or disappoint each other. And yet, their friendship's able to weather this, and they still support each other.