He gave her what she thought was one of his teasing looks. “So your plan is to get her drunk, so she’ll treat you more favourably?”
“Yes. That’s the strategy. Get her totally bladdered on three biscuits and take advantage of her while her judgement is impaired.”
“That would do wonders for the ratings.”
“To be fair, you’d go there, wouldn’t you? I mean, not on live television. And not to get ahead on a baking show. And not if she was actually so drunk she didn’t know what she was doing.”
His eyes had gone wide. “Are you telling me you find Marianne Wolvercote attractive?”
“My God. Who doesn’t? Have you seen her?”
“Isn’t she . . . well . . . a little old for you?”
“She can’t be more than forty-five. And last week she was wearing those wide-leg silk trousers, which made her look like Lauren Bacall.”
“Honestly,” he said, frowning, “I don’t see the appeal. I think I admire different qualities. And speaking of admiring different qualities, my concern with the biscuits would be that Marianne might go for them but Wilfred definitely won’t.”
Rosaline actually had considered that. But the lesson she’d taken away from last week was that Marianne and Wilfred were very different judges, and trying to please both of them was a recipe for mediocrity. “I’m hoping he’ll appreciate the quality of the bake, even if he’s not sold on the idea.”
“That seems risky.”
“Too late now.” Turning her attention to Alain’s biscuit selection, she took a bite of one. “Is that lavender?”
He nodded.
“It’s delicious. Not too ‘old lady’s bedroom.’”
“Thank you. As we’ve established, avoiding old ladies’ bedrooms is one of my highest priorities.” He gestured at the plate. “Those are honey and thyme, and finally rosemary butter.”
“Isn’t it weird we’ve been doing this a month and we’ve never actually tried each other’s cooking.”
His mouth quirked up. “I swear the crew carry forks in their back pockets.”
“They do. I’ve seen them.”
Picking up a honey and thyme, she snapped it in two and ran her thumb across the break, feeling the texture. “I don’t quite know what to say. You’re obviously really good at this, and you obviously know you’re really good at it because you’re doing it on TV.”
“Yes, but I’d still like your feedback.”
She thought for a moment, flattered that he thought her opinion was worth seeking, and wanting to be useful. “They’re delicious and the bake is excellent, but . . . I guess . . . if I was looking for something to be concerned about, I’m not totally certain it hits the brief.”
There was a small, not totally pleasant silence.
“Well, does yours?” he asked. “They’re supposed to be childhood favourites so, unless your childhood was very different from mine, I’m not sure how lashings of alcohol reflect that.”
The homey sense of comfort she’d had while they were baking together suddenly felt distant and presumptuous. This was Alain’s house. She was a guest. And she’d insulted him, however inadvertently. “I think I was trying to do a twist on a fairly traditional family biscuit tin. But yours are just”—she gestured apologetically at Alain’s plate—“don’t get me wrong, they’re very nice, but they are just sort of . . . biscuits. Posh biscuits. But not biscuits that evoke fond childhood memories.”
“The brief didn’t say it had to be biscuits you could buy in Aldi.”
“No, but . . . ” She gazed at him warily, feeling like Winnie-the-Pooh in Rabbit’s front door, not sure if she should go forward or back, and pretty sure she couldn’t do either. “I think they’re looking for something with kind of a . . . nostalgia factor? And I’m not sure what the story is with these.”
His eyes were cold. “The story is that they’re biscuits.”
“Alain, I’m not criticising. I just think in this challenge they want it to be a bit more personal. It’s not that you have to change the biscuits, but, I don’t know, can you give them more context?”
There was a moment of quiet tension exactly long enough for Rosaline to worry that she’d messed everything up.
“Look,” he said at last. “The things that take me back to my childhood aren’t . . . they aren’t fucking biscuits. I love my parents, and I’m very close to them, but part of the reason for that is that they’ve never assumed I couldn’t cope with adult things. So yes, I grew up on olives and grissini, not jammy dodgers and chocolate Hobnobs. And the truth is, I don’t enjoy being asked to pander to some antiquated notion of relatability.”
Weirdly, Rosaline could relate. At least to bits of it. “My family aren’t a biscuit family either. But I’m here to win a competition so, yeah, I pandered.”
“And I probably should have as well. I just . . . wasn’t sure how to. I wouldn’t know a custard cream if I sat on one.”
“Well”—Rosaline offered what she hoped was a disarming smile—“I think identifying biscuits by sitting on them is a pretty niche skill.”
He gave a grudging laugh. “Besides, my parents are going to watch the show. I don’t want them to feel they raised me badly because they didn’t feed me the right kind of biscuits. And I certainly don’t think my childhood was impaired because I spent more time at the ballet than the supermarket.”
Rosaline’s parents had taken her to exactly one ballet and she’d thought it was nonsense. It was one of the few things she and her father had ever agreed about.
“I’m sure,” she said, “you’ll get through regardless. I mean, unless you set the oven on fire or punch Wilfred Honey in the face.”
“I can probably restrain myself from doing either—though getting through isn’t quite what I’m aiming for.”
She thought for a moment. “You know what, you should tell them what you told me. About your family. I think it’ll work better if they understand where you’re coming from.”
“Might it not seem . . . condescending?”
“Well, maybe leave out the bit about Aldi,” she told him, laughing. “Maybe you could say, ‘I didn’t eat a lot of traditional biscuits growing up, but my parents taught me to appreciate food and cooking and I’ve tried to use some of the flavours they enjoy.’”
“My mother does like lavender,” he agreed.
“And if they’re going to watch, that might be a nice moment for them.”
He smiled at her then. “Come here.” She went there and he pulled her down into his lap and kissed her deeply. And afterwards, stared at her for a while, as if he was trying to work something out. “You’re not very good at being in a competition, are you, Rosaline-um-Palmer? It’s terribly sweet.”
“Hey, I still want to win. I just don’t want to win because your parents never bought bourbons.”
“As I say, terribly sweet.”
He kissed her again.