“For my part,” added Marianne Wolvercote, “I’m just sick to the back teeth of matcha.”
And since she seemed to have nothing further to add, Alain was obliged to pick up his cake and return to his seat.
Then it was Rosaline, who, if she said so herself, had done a pretty good job. Assuming the judges weren’t sticklers for astronomical accuracy, and it didn’t taste like arse, she was hoping that between this and her adequate performance in the blind bake she might be able to go home with the W. And then she felt bad for thinking about the W at all when they were probably losing Anvita.
“Now this,” observed Marianne Wolvercote, “is very pretty.”
“The marbling’s come out well,” added Wilfred Honey. “And I like you’ve told a story with it.”
Honestly, the story was mostly “It’s space,” but Rosaline would take it.
Marianne Wolvercote plucked a macaron planet from the top. “Good, even bake on the macaron.” She nibbled it. “Very light, which is what we want. Just the right level of chew.”
“And the cake’s nice too.” Wilfred Honey had cut himself a piece and was running a fork against the sponge to test the texture. “This has been a very good week for you, Rosaline.” He took a mouthful. “It’s got a nice rich, chocolatey flavour—and not too much buttercream. I think I could have a second piece of that.”
It wasn’t quite a “By ’eck, it’s gorgeous,” but it was still high praise.
Glowing but trying not to do it in a smug way, Rosaline went back to her seat, passing Harry on the way.
“So this,” said Harry, setting down his creation, “is a mermaid cake what I made for my nieces. Only they’re a bit of sick of it now on account of how I made six of ’em.”
The cake in question was a rich opalescent blue, with marbling that, Rosaline had to admit, had come out better than hers. The surface was decorated with carefully piped seashells and barnacles, and the top with a treasure trove of macaron oysters, tiny white chocolate pearls gleaming inside them. A fondant mermaid was diving into the top of the cake, leaving only her beautifully sculpted tail visible, and conveniently sparing Harry the embarrassment of having to create beautifully sculpted breasts.
“This is rather charming,” said Marianne Wolvercote, with the air of someone who resented being charmed. “I’m not normally a fan of whimsy, but I think it works. And you’ve shown a real eye for presentation here.”
“It looks smashing,” declared Wilfred Honey. “And the way you’ve used the macarons as little seashells is bloody marvellous. Of course, what really matters is what it tastes like.”
Rationally, Rosaline knew she should be hoping it was over-baked, or soggy, or close-textured, or the macarons would have air bubbles in them, but she . . . couldn’t. Any more than she could have celebrated Anvita’s cake falling over.
Wilfred Honey popped a forkful of Harry’s vanilla sponge into his mouth. “By ’eck, it’s lovely. So light. You’ve got a delicate touch for a big lad.”
“The macarons are exceptional as well,” chimed in Marianne Wolvercote. “The traditionalist in me would have preferred them to have a slightly more conventional presentation, but the whole thing has come together so well that I can’t hold it against you.”
Harry blinked. “Blimey. Cheers.”
This left Nora, who, in a slightly different interpretation of the brief, had made one gargantuan macaron, decorated with smaller macarons, along with fresh fruit and cream.
“Golly,” said Grace Forsythe, “it’s macaronception.”
Marianne Wolvercote eyed Nora’s offering. “This is actually quite current. You’re starting to see these all over the place, and when they work they can be marvellous. But it’s not what we were looking for, and I suspect Wilfred will be particularly disappointed to be served a cake with no actual cake in it.”
“I am disappointed,” agreed Wilfred Honey, cracking the layers of Nora’s uncake with a knife. “The macarons themselves look very nice, but the filling’s just cream and fruit, isn’t it?”
“Which does,” added Marianne Wolvercote, “make it very light and give it a refreshing tartness—which I like.”
“But it’s not,” concluded Wilfred Honey, “a cake.”
For once, the contestants were allowed to remain in the ballroom while the judges conferred—it had been a long enough day, and the results conclusive enough, that an extra round of interviews would have been gruelling and pointless. Instead, they sat patiently, mostly avoiding each other’s gazes until Grace Forsythe and the judges came back in.
“As always,” said Grace Forsythe, “we have reached the part of the show where we mix delight and despondency. The delightful part is that I get to name this week’s winner, who impressed us with his technically brilliant gougères and then frankly surprised us with his delicate touch, his dainty macarons, and his fondant mermaid. This week, at last, it’s Harry.”
There was just enough time for the camera to catch everyone’s “pleased for you” faces, some of them more natural than others before Grace Forsythe continued.
“But, of course, as with so much in life, our store of pleasures must be sauced with paine. And so it is with genuine heartbreak that, after six weeks of illuminating the ballroom with her rich flavours and seemingly inexhaustible supply of fancy glasses, we say goodbye to Anvita.”
Rosaline, to her mild embarrassment, burst into tears.
“I’m going to really miss her,” she told Colin Thrimp afterwards, wishing she didn’t have to say this on-camera, “because she’s . . . she’s . . . excellent and sexy.”
He gave a kind of nervy, ferrety blink. “Why is everyone saying that? I had to tell Nora of all people that it’s not appropriate in the time slot. Can you try it again in a way that doesn’t suggest you’re sexually attracted to the eliminated contestant?”
“Was that a concern with Nora?”
“Please,” whimpered Colin Thrimp, “we’ve all had a very long day. Say something lovely about how lovely Anvita is that we can actually broadcast.”
“She was”—Rosaline was misting up again—“a really good friend and if you’re watching this, Anvita’s nan, I hope you’re incredibly proud of her. Because she’s . . . she’s . . . excellent and . . . excellent.”
An interchangeable technician brought her another pack of tissues.
From under a nearby tree, Nora had moved on from Anvita and was mounting a spirited defence of her bake. “They told me to make a macaron cake and so I made a macaron cake. If they wanted me to make a cake with macarons on it, they should have said make a cake with macarons on it. They also said I was current. I’ve never been current in my life. Even when I was twenty, I wasn’t current. I’m slightly vexed.”
“Well,” Anvita was saying as she sat on the loser wall, swinging her feet, “that was a disaster. But they say go big or go home, and it looks like I’m doing both. And I do feel I stayed true to the spirit of Marie Antoinette. It just all ended up a bit postguillotine.”