She’d kissed Alain last night.
Fuck no. She was not being that person. Not after psyching herself up to go full Palmer on the competition. Never mind whatever Alain had done with his lips in the moonlight; she’d bumbled through week one and she was damned if she was going to bumble again. It was time to stand out from the crowd. Show the judges what she was made of. Rip baking a new arsehole.
Okay. That felt over the line.
Maybe she should stick to making a nice pie.
She smashed the biscuits.
“Do you think,” Anvita asked at lunch through a mouthful of slightly stale wrap, “that Harry’s okay?”
Rosaline already had no idea where this was going. “Okay in what way?”
“He just doesn’t seem to talk to anyone. I mean, I like the strong, silent type, but he’s close to being too strong and too silent.”
“Nah, he’s sound,” offered Ricky. “He’s a Spurs fan, but you can’t hold that against him.”
“You know”—Anvita gave him a disappointed look—“I thought that thing about men only communicating in terms of football was a myth.”
“I’ve met him twice. What else was I going to talk about? My feelings?”
“Baking?” suggested Rosaline. “You’re both on a baking show.”
Ricky shrugged. “And we’re sick to the back teeth of talking about it.”
“Anyway.” Anvita pivoted towards Rosaline like a cannon on a warship. “You should go ask him to join us.”
Her eyes widened. “Why me? I don’t even know what the offside rule is.”
“He spoke to you, though, last week. Voluntarily. And for more than ten seconds.”
Yes, but most of that had been trying to stem a seemingly infinite tide of tea. “Is this because you’re actually worried about him? Or because you fancy him?”
“Can you blame me?” With a distinct lack of subtlety, Anvita cast a forlorn glance over her shoulder to where Harry was sitting. “He’s so sad and . . . and . . . fit.”
“I don’t think he’s sad. I think he’s just eating a wrap.”
“To be fair,” Ricky put in, “I had one of those wraps and it made me pretty sad.”
“For the record”—it was Rosaline’s firmest voice, which, admittedly, wasn’t especially firm—“I’m not entirely comfortable asking a man to come and join us so you can ogle him from a more convenient distance.”
Anvita looked aghast. “That’s not fair. I want you to ask him to come and join us so that we can both ogle him from a more convenient distance.”
“I have no interest in ogling Harry,” insisted Rosaline. It wasn’t totally a lie.
“If this was me and him talking about one of you”—Ricky had that “I’m not sure if I’m being sexist” expression men sometimes got when they had to talk about gender—“it would not be okay.”
Pushing her shoulders back, Anvita resettled her glasses—pink cat-eyes this week. “Hey, you can ogle me anytime. In fact, I demand it. Ogle me.”
“My mum would have my knackers.”
“Well, my mum,” Anvita retorted, “would say I’m making an important postfeminist statement and owning my sexuality. So it’s important that Rosaline and I be able to talk about what a juicy studbucket Harry is.”
The low-key bickering had been gently washing over Rosaline, but that got her attention. “Okay, two things. One, ‘juicy studbucket’ sounds actively gross. Like it’s a sponge a vet would use to artificially inseminate horses. And two, I don’t think Harry’s the sort of man it’s a good idea to encourage. Because I’m pretty sure his mum would not have his knackers for ogling you.”
There was a pause. “Was he that bad when you talked to him?” asked Anvita.
“Not . . . not exactly. But when half the words out of a guy’s mouth are ‘love,’ ‘bird,’ and ‘girl’ you have a good idea what you’re getting.”
“Why are the hot ones always such a problem?” Anvita gave a heavy sigh.
“Because they’re hot, they don’t have to try.”
“Hey,” protested Ricky. “I’m hot and I try.”
Rosaline was, by this point, feeling slightly guilty. She hadn’t meant to paint Harry as a complete monster. Just as . . . well . . . someone from a certain background with a certain set of values. And given how gossipy the set was, there was a good chance she’d accidentally started a rumour that he was some kind of sexual predator and nobody would talk to him for the rest of the series. “I’ve . . . I’ve probably been unfair. I’m sure Harry’s a perfectly nice guy. And I’ll go see if he wants to sit with us.”
In the short walk across the lawn, Rosaline took the opportunity to scope out the other contestants in—if she was being honest with herself—a slightly Alain-focused way. She spotted him on a bench next to Josie, in the middle of what seemed to be an animated conversation. Which was fine. It was definitely fine. She had no claim on his time or attention, and it wasn’t like she’d gone out of her way to speak to him either.
But why hadn’t he? Come over. Said hello. Done something.
Yes, she was slightly out of practice. Still, it had been . . . nice? It had been nice, right?
And also, outside the moment, a bad idea. They were competitors in a TV baking show with a bunch of other people who’d probably be really annoyed if they found out they had a thing. If they did have a thing.
Maybe all they had was a kiss.
Or Alain was being considerate and trying not to start gossip.
Or Rosaline’s lips had accidentally communicated the idea that she wanted him to fuck off and never speak to her again.
“You all right, mate?” said Harry, making Rosaline realise that she’d been standing over him for longer than she’d intended.
“What? Yes. I mean . . . ” She felt suddenly like she was in secondary school again, telling a boy she had a friend who liked him and hoping he wouldn’t think that “friend” meant “her.” “Um . . .”
He visibly winced. As well he might. “Look, I’ve been meaning to ask, I didn’t upset you the other day, did I?”
“Upset me?” she repeated, slightly taken aback.
“Yeah. About the name thing. And the love thing. And the girl thing. And the pretty thing.” She thought he might actually have been blushing. “I just didn’t want you to think I was a dick.”
If she was being honest, she wasn’t used to thinking about guys like Harry at all. “No? Not really.”
“Great. Just, you know, checking.” He let out a breath that, to Rosaline’s surprise, said I am relieved, not That’ll cost you. “Because,” he went on, “sometimes I’ll say something and then I’ll think Christ, Harry, you utter ballsack, and it’ll be buzzing around my head forever.”
She gave him a slightly curious look. It felt natural for her to be constantly paralysed by the possibility of other people’s disapproval. But what did Harry have to worry about? He was a good-looking bloke who lived in a world of mates and pubs and women who didn’t mind being called “love.” “I think maybe everyone gets that. Although possibly with less ballsack.”