She wasn’t quite sure how to respond. Nothing should have changed—Alain was as charming and engaging as he’d been before, especially when he was talking about something he cared about. But something was different. Maybe it was just that the show created its own little universe so someone telling you about art or architecture or Victorian grottoes felt natural. Now it reminded her how far she’d drifted from the life that Alain had and that she’d been meant to have.
Except, as Alain had reminded her, it didn’t need to be that way at all. She could trade shortbread and the school run for a life wandering through the Venice of the Cotswolds, showing Amelie the Saxon Church and explaining to her what the difference was between the Saxons and the Vikings and that no, the Saxons didn’t have horns on their helmets either. Or would it be a life where she spent the next seven years studying and the decade after that constantly on call?
“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she blurted out. Well done, Rosaline. Take a nice conversation about something someone else cares about and sharply derail it into talking about yourself.
“Oh?” His brows went up.
“You know, about going back to university. Because I could, couldn’t I? I mean, I should, shouldn’t I?”
“Well, it’s your decision obviously. But I’d say it’s probably a good time.”
She took a sip of her beer, wishing she liked beer more. “It’d make my parents happy.”
“I’m sure it would.”
“And it’d be better for Amelie in the long run. As career moves go, it’s way more sensible than trying to win a baking show.”
“I don’t think it should be about what’s right for your daughter,” Alain said carefully. “It needs to be about what’s right for you. And after all, you’ve always wanted to be a doctor.”
She laughed. And it sounded far weirder than a laugh had any right to sound. “Who wouldn’t? It’s a really important thing to do.”
“I’m glad you think so because—well . . . ” He picked up the menu and put it down again. “Let me know if this is too much, but I was thinking too, thinking about you, and I did actually wind up doing a little bit of research.”
Shit. This had got real fast. “You did?”
“Nothing in-depth. It’s not like I have a stack of application forms waiting for you at home. I was just interested to know what it would take.”
“Wow, you do have a thing for doctors, don’t you?”
“It’s the stethoscope,” he told her, with a sardonic smile. “But tabling my kinky medical fantasies for the moment—”
“Are you sure? I think I might have a thermometer in my bag.”
His laugh was indulgent, but he didn’t play along. “Tabling that, the point is I do actually care and I do actually think this would be good for you.”
He was right. He was clearly right. She should have got her act together years ago. “So what . . . what do I have to do?”
“Well, if you wanted to go back to Cambridge, although I think it’s similar for most Russell Group universities, you do need to have done some academic work within the last two years—”
“Oh dear,” said Rosaline cheerfully. “Guess I left it too late then.”
“Rosaline, I am aware that this is a little intimidating. But let yourself have it. You know as well as I do that you aren’t meant to be working in a stationery shop.”
Defeated, she gave a long sigh. “So, what, I take my A-levels again?”
“That’s one option. But you’d be better off with an access course or something through the Open University. They’re very flexible, so you should be able to schedule around your other commitments.”
“You mean”—her voice was slightly sharper than she’d intended—“Amelie? That commitment?”
“I know she’s an enormous part of your life, but she doesn’t define you.”
She shifted uncomfortably, trying to work out if she had, in fact, let Amelie define her. And if letting something define you was different from it being the most important thing in your world. And if it mattered? “I know. It’s just I don’t like it when people talk about Amelie like she’s a burden.”
“I never meant to imply that. All I meant was you have responsibilities, and if you did want to take your career in a different direction, you have options that will let you continue to meet those responsibilities.”
“Alain. Amelie is not a responsibility. She’s a person. She’s my favourite person.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I only want to make sure you’re aware of your choices.” A slight pause. “Shall we order?”
That was probably for the best. She hadn’t meant to be so defensive. But clearly, in her current state, think seriously about her future and have a nice time with a guy weren’t totally compatible. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
After lunch, they wound their way back to Alain’s house. Or rather his terrifyingly picturesque cottage, which to Rosaline’s complete lack of surprise turned out to have been elegantly modernised in a way that allowed twenty-first-century convenience to exist effortlessly alongside exquisite period fittings. It made her even more nervous for the day Alain saw her house—with its tiny rooms and low ceilings, and Amelie’s ever-expanding collection of interests marching across every free surface like the Golden Horde.
During the back-and-forth of arranging the visit, Alain had suggested they use some of the afternoon to practise their bakes, and so once Rosaline had dumped her bag and rescued her ingredients from its depths, they set up in his rustic yet state-of-the-art kitchen. And this, Rosaline was delighted to discover, was one of the nicest dates she’d ever been on. There was something so comfortable about baking beside someone, swapping the idle thoughts and ideas that came to you when you were wrist-deep in biscuit dough.
And slowly, as the ovens began to warm and the scent of hopefully-televisual-quality biscuits began to fill the kitchen, she started to feel almost—What was it? Oh yes, good. Maybe even optimistic. The woods and the churches and the history lessons had taken a bit of getting used to—and her maybe-plan to go back to university was lurking ominously in the back of her mind—but this? Sharing a space and a moment and rolling pin with somebody? This came easily. Naturally.
Rosaline didn’t want to jinx it, and possibly she was reading too much into one ambiguously encouraging look from Marianne Wolvercote, but she thought she could do okay this week. Possibly even well? After all, she had a strong concept. And the part of her that used to do homework under test conditions was secretly rather glad to get to practise in an unfamiliar kitchen.
Once they were both done, they sat at Alain’s reclaimed-wood kitchen table and took turns sampling each other’s biscuits.
“These are very good, Rosaline,” he said finally.
And she should have known that. But still, a part of her relaxed. “I hope so. I think they’re a bit different. I took your advice about having a secret weapon.”
“And your secret weapon is booze?”
“Well,” she admitted, “we all know what Marianne likes.”