“No, no, we understand.” Grace Forsythe threw her hands in the air. “Marianne, Wilfred, we have been given our marching orders. Thus must we march.”
They didn’t so much march as stop to get a couple more establishing shots and do a short to-camera bit about what a big risk she was taking well within earshot. But eventually, they were gone and Rosaline could confront the fact that her dulce was probably writing cheques that her leche wouldn’t be able to cash.
Within an hour, she was forced to conclude that her leche not only wasn’t cashing cheques but was having the bailiffs come round for the furniture.
In theory—in bloody theory—it could have worked. It had mostly worked at home. There was enough time to make pastry, make fillings, fill pie cases, and spend an hour and a half continuously stirring a pot of milk until it magically transformed into a smooth, velvety caramel. Except what she’d wound up with, now she was on the show and it was critical, was pies not quite ready to go into the oven and a pan of brownish liquid that might have been slightly sweet-tasting.
And yes, her blind bake had been broadly fine, and yes, there was only one element that was going wrong, but it was going very wrong, and it was the element that was supposed to show she could really do this, apart from the bit where she obviously couldn’t really do this, and she didn’t even pick her own tarragon, and what had she been thinking signing up to show off her cooking on television when all she’d ever done was make biscuits for eight-year-olds, who weren’t exactly discerning critics, and shit shit shit shit shit.
“What are you doing now?” asked a random production assistant.
Being about to cry was what she was doing now. “Um,” she said. “I . . . just . . . I’m stirring this . . . it’s meant to . . . but it’s . . .”
To her horror, she was actually crying.
And the next thing she knew, Grace Forsythe was gently removing the spoon from her hands. “Fuck shit piss wank bollocks drink Coca-Cola buy Smeg ovens legalise cannabis abolish the monarchy. Oh sorry, did I ruin the segment? What a shame. Maybe go film someone else for a bit.”
The producer and camera operator dutifully departed.
Rosaline drew in a shaky breath and wiped her eyes. “God, thank you.”
“Part of the job, darling. They’re a lovely bunch, the crew, but they’re a bit overzealous about capturing their”—she made flamboyant air quotes—“emotional beats. Now, stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, and best of luck with your brown sludge.”
The brown sludge simmered at her mockingly.
Home felt suddenly very far away. As did her little kitchen with the eggshell-blue cabinets she’d painted herself, and the hob with one broken ring, and the window where the sun crept through in the early afternoon. The table that barely fit where Amelie would sit and do—or more accurately not do—her homework while Rosaline made dinner or whipped up a batch of cupcakes.
Baking was supposed to be the thing that made her feel better. It was supposed to be hers. It was supposed to be family and togetherness and everything being okay in the end.
But here she was fucking it all up.
Fucking it up all up on national TV.
And fucking crying about it.
She was going home, wasn’t she? She’d spent the first week and a half dancing on the edge of not quite good enough, and then been so desperate to prove herself that she’d flown too close to the sun. And by sun, she meant dulce de leche. And by flown too close, she meant tried to make. The problem was, Rosaline had watched enough of the show to know she needed an arc. But she also knew that some arcs were very, very short. And the shortest was always “was mediocre, fucked up, went out.” And then you added another item to the long list of failures your parents would never let you forget.
The judges, at least, were fairly kind to her, but in some ways, that made it worse because it was the sort of kindness that said This has gone so badly that the best thing for everyone is if we pretend it didn’t happen. Her chicken and tarragon, at least, had been passable—although Rosaline was convinced that Marianne Wolvercote liked it only because of the sherry—but the dulce de leche was not dulce de leche. It was a kind of milky sauce drizzled over pies that, thanks to the amount of time she’d spent crying and stirring, were almost inedibly undercooked.
Which left Rosaline to trudge back to her seat and face the depressing reality that her survival now depended entirely on someone messing up even worse than she had.
Alain, needless to say, had not messed up at all, presenting his own chicken and tarragon pies, with their wild gooseberry and custard companions, on a hand-carved wooden display stand. And nearly everybody else had produced some version of fine, with Harry’s take on a traditional minced beef pie, mash and liquor being praised for its unexpectedly delicate take on a working-class staple. That just left Anvita and Florian, neither of whom Rosaline wanted to go home either.
Florian had made miniature rainbow pies in an attempt to redeem himself from his disastrous blind bake. Unfortunately, when Marianne sliced one deftly in two, they proved to be less rainbow and more a blob of vegetables in a pastry case.
“Oh my,” he observed as an undifferentiated splodgy mass of spinach and peppers oozed onto the plate, “that hasn’t worked at all, has it?”
Wilfred Honey sorted through the mess looking for something to praise. “Your crust is okay.”
“And the principle was commendable,” added Marianne Wolvercote. Before turning to his sweet offering with a frown. “Unfortunately, these jam tarts are, as the name suggests, tarts rather than pies.”
Wilfred Honey helped himself to a mouthful. “They’re right tasty, though. And who doesn’t love a jam tart?”
“I don’t,” returned Marianne Wolvercote, “on a pie challenge.”
They didn’t quite play the funeral march as Florian carried his oozy rainbow pies and disqualified tarts back to his workstation, but they may as well have. And Rosaline sat there, stewing in a mess of guilt, hope, and anxiety about as well mixed as her dulce de leche.
Next came Anvita, with her palak paneer savoury and spiced apple sweet.
“Now that,” declared Marianne Wolvercote, “is what I call a pie: rich, flaky pastry, just the right thickness, wonderful South Asian flavours, and a fine balance of textures. It’s very easy for spinach to become soggy and unappealing, and this is neither. Very well done.”
“As for the sweet,” continued Wilfred Honey, “you really get all the spices coming through, and it goes beautifully with that sharp green apple. Lovely.”
Anvita beamed. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” And half skipped back to her workstation.
From there followed the usual period of sitting around, feeling restless and useless, while the judges decided who lived to bake another day and who was cast by the culinary wayside. This week, there was actually some uncertainty to it. For a start, no one had told Marianne Wolvercote and Wilfred Honey to go fuck themselves, so it was a lot less clear-cut who was going home. Florian seemed to be most obviously in danger, but after her disaster de leche, Rosaline felt like she was standing out for all the wrong reasons.
After what could have been forever, but probably wasn’t more than an hour or so, the judges returned, the contestants were arranged in the semicircle of fate, and Grace Forsythe stepped forward.