Today had clearly got to him. It had been low-key getting to her as well, but she was probably far more used to feeling like she wasn’t doing well enough than he was.
“Well, Nora’s a hundred and sixty,” she tried, hoping to make him smile. “She probably had to make bread out of sawdust and rubble in the Blitz.”
“They liked Harry’s loaf better than mine. When do you think he last ate a bread that wasn’t sold with a plastic sticker saying ‘Reduced to Clear’?”
Maybe she’d been infected by Anvita’s arm fetish, but Rosaline actually found it pretty easy to imagine Harry making bread on a Sunday afternoon. He’d make it for his sisters, and their husbands, and their kids, and probably his parents, and probably his nan. And they’d be so used to it they’d forget to thank him and he wouldn’t mind because he’d be surrounded by the people who loved him.
“Rosaline?” Alain nudged her gently. “Have I worn you out?”
“What?” she said quickly. “No. I’m right here. And you’re fine. The blind bake’s always a bit random. I’m sure you’ll turn it around tomorrow.”
“No, you’re right.” He drew her back into his arms. “I’m in my head and there’s no need to be.”
“It’s okay. The competition’s stressful for everyone.”
He smiled at that. “It has its compensations.”
And then turned her face back to his for a kiss.
Sunday
TWO HOURS INTO a five-hour challenge, Rosaline was starting to feel she would have been better off if the previous night had involved more sleep and fewer orgasms. But she’d found distracting Alain more effective than consoling him, and at the time, it had seemed like a win-win.
“So what are you planning this week, pet?” asked Wilfred Honey, appearing in front of her with Grace Forsythe, Marianne Wolvercote, and a camera operator.
Rosaline paused in her kneading. “Well, I’ve always been interested in biology, and I thought I’d do a bread heart. I’m going to do sweet-filled loaves for the chambers, cherry and blueberry fillings for the oxygenated and deoxygenated blood, and twisted brioche for the aorta and vena cava.”
“That’s rather macabre.” Marianne Wolvercote was looking more impressed than she had so far this series, at least with Rosaline.
“Yes,” added Grace Forsythe, “it does have a bit of a serial killer vibe, I won’t lie.”
Suddenly Rosaline’s concerns about coming across as a tragic single parent with mediocre baking skills seemed misplaced. “I haven’t been practising on real ones or anything.”
Grace Forsythe’s eyebrows shot towards her unapologetically ’80s mullet. “I’m not totally reassured you felt the need to say that explicitly.”
“I think it’s very imaginative.” That was Wilfred Honey, who could usually be relied upon to say something defusingly anodyne. “Just make sure the flavours are right, because that’s what it’s all about at the end of the day.”
Grace Forsythe patted her on the shoulder. “Good luck, Patrick Bate-Mum.”
“Oh . . . poo to it,” cried Ricky from across the ballroom, which caused producers, presenters, and cameras to zoom towards his workstation like drama-seeking missiles.
“What’s happened?” Colin Thrimp was practically vibrating with eagerness. “For the camera, please.”
Ricky slapped a hand to his forehead. “Guess what muppet put his oven on the wrong temperature. So his Chelsea buns have been sitting there, getting a suntan.”
An hour or so later, Rosaline’s dissected organ was in the oven, and she had a few minutes’ breathing space. The advantage of the baketacular over the blind bake was that it was okay to talk to each other during it, and now that the group was a bit more established, it felt more natural to wander around and have the occasional chat.
Anvita and Grace Forsythe were standing together at Anvita’s bench, staring at the loaf that had just come out of the oven. As ever, there was a camera operator nearby, but she seemed genuinely uncertain whether this was about to generate usable footage.
“What’s it supposed to look like?” asked Grace Forsythe, stroking her chin and staring at a tall, proud baked column that definitely resembled something but not the sort of thing you would expect somebody to deliberately make on a family-friendly television show.
Anvita was staring at her creation much as Dr. Frankenstein may once have stared at his. “It’s Big Ben, isn’t it?”
“Darling, technically, Big Ben is the bell. And technically, that is a bell end.”
“Oh f—fu—fellatio.” Anvita hung her head.
“You’re not allowed to say that on camera either, pumpkin.”
“I know. My mind went blank.” Turning to Rosaline, Anvita flung her arms in the air. “It’s me. I’ve done it. I’ve made a penis. I’ve made an enormous bread penis. Someone always makes a penis. And this year it’s me who made the penis. My nan is going to watch me lovingly mould a penis with my bare hands on TV, probably with all her friends.”
Grace Forsythe collapsed into unbroadcastable laughter. “It is one of the better ones I’ve seen. I mean, in the ballroom. Outside, I’m no judge. And, frankly, who would want to be?”
“I think,” offered Rosaline, trying to be helpful, “you could carve it?”
Lifting the offending article from the bench, Anvita brandished it in Rosaline’s face. “You want me to circumcise the penis?”
“Okay. Bad idea. Why don’t you say it’s a satirical commentary on the current state of our political system?”
“Because I’m on a baking show, not Have I Got News for You.”
Grace Forsythe pulled herself upright and wiped tears from the corners of her eyes. “You could always leave it out.”
“I’m trying to do the Houses of Parliament. Without the clock tower, the Houses of Parliament is just houses.”
“Then,” said Grace Forsythe, “you’ll have to do what we do every year when someone makes something that looks like a penis.”
The light of hope flared in Anvita’s eyes. “What? What can I do?”
“Pretend very hard that the thing which obviously looks like a penis does not, in fact, look like a penis.”
“But then everyone will think I don’t know what a penis looks like.”
“Excuse me.” Colin Thrimp popped up on the other side of the counter. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s just that you’re saying the word ‘penis’ over and over again very loudly, and it’s drifting into other people’s shots.”
“My fault, Colin.” Grace Forsythe gave an unrepentant grin. “Penised the whole thing up as usual. You’ll be fine, Anvita, they can do wonders with camera angles.”
From Ricky’s side of the ballroom, there came an ominous crash.
“Welp,” said Ricky. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the shrapnel of what must once have been a large, fan-shaped crispbread. “There goes one of the wings. But it’s fine. He’s got two. I’ll show him in profile.”