“That’d be great,” she told him. “Thank you.”
She walked Harry to the front door, slightly surprised when he lingered for a moment on the step.
“So you know.” His hand was on the back of his neck again. “So we’re clear. If you ever ask me again, I’ll probably say yes. But there’s no rush.”
She wasn’t sure what to say to that—because it felt enormous and trusting and slightly magical—but as it turned out, she didn’t have to say anything because he just said a quiet “Good night” and walked back to his van.
“—cannot believe,” Jennifer Hallet was saying, “what you greasy puddles of anal drippings are putting me through now.”
No sooner had Rosaline arrived at Patchley House that afternoon than Colin Thrimp sent her to Jennifer Hallet’s trailer for what he had optimistically described as a “quiet word.” And a tiny, perhaps delusional, part of her had hoped it would genuinely be a quiet word, at least by Jenifer Hallet’s standards, about something relatively minor. Maybe she wasn’t looking good enough in her pinny or the goat was still having flashbacks. But no. The moment she stepped inside and saw both Alain and Harry were there already, and mid-chew-out, she knew it was going to be more serious.
A lot more serious. Because while Rosaline had not been looking forward to seeing Alain again that was on the grounds that it would be socially awkward. Not on the grounds that he would make an official complaint to production and ask to have her removed from the show.
“Did you think,” Jennifer went on, “that when I said ‘Don’t do any more crimes’ what I really meant was Immediately go out and commit felony battery against another contestant? What in the name of Prince Philip’s shrivelled bollocks is wrong with you?”
Harry put his hands in the air. “It weren’t nothing to do with Rosaline. Me and Alain got into a bit of a disagreement. I thought he was out of line. So I stuck him one.”
“Excuse me.” Alain looked up from where he was sitting and maybe Rosaline was imagining it, but his jaw still seemed slightly swollen. “You forced your way into my house and punched me in the face.”
“I never come inside because you didn’t want me to. But I asked you to take your hands off me. Twice. And you don’t get a third ask.”
“That might be how it works in your world,” snapped Alain. “In mine, we don’t go around throwing our fists at each other whenever we feel like it.”
“Mate, from what I’ve seen of your world, I don’t want nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, how will I bear the—”
“Everybody”—Jennifer Hallet’s voice cut through Alain like a machete—“shut the fuck up right the fuck now. I don’t give a dead rat’s limp cock what happened or why or who was to blame. What I care about is making a lovely fucking TV show about lovely fucking people making lovely fucking cakes. And you’re ruining it with your goat fiddling and your macho bullshit because you both want to spaff on the same woman’s tits.”
“Um,” said Rosaline. “Can we leave my tits out of this?”
Jennifer dervished round on her. “Your tits are what got us into this, sunshine.”
“I want her off the show.” That was Alain. “She was drunk and aggressive. To me, and to a close female friend of mine.”
“You mean,” asked Rosaline, “the close female friend that you deliberately got wasted and were trying to force me into bed with?”
There was a dull thump as Jennifer Hallet beat her fist against the wall. “Fuck me with a rusty egg whisk.” She bore down on Alain. “If you’ve come to me with a sob story because you got smacked in the teeth for being a dirty sex pest, then I might actually have to lose my temper with you.”
“That isn’t what happened,” protested Alain, wilting a little. “I invited Rosaline to stay with me, and I invited a friend to stay with us. We had some drinks and one thing led to another. I’m sorry if she misread the situation.”
A silence, mostly occupied by Jennifer staring at Alain through narrowed eyes. “If you think I believe that for the length of a weasel’s cumshot, you smug little prick, you really don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
“And who do think the Daily Mail will believe?” Alain folded his arms tightly. “Me or the girl who got pregnant at nineteen?”
“I think the Mail and the Mirror and the fucking Sport on fucking Sunday can do what the fuck they like because we’re the goose that lays the pissing golden eggs. But if you think you can hurt us more than we can hurt you, you’re very welcome to step up and take a crack at it. Though”—Jennifer paused ominously—“I’d advise you to check your contract for the bit that explains what happens if you say a fucking word to the press that we don’t want you to say.”
“You,” said Alain, “are a—”
“Just get the fuck out of my trailer. Go back to your room. Have a nice wank over a picture of your mother. And, in the morning, it’ll be like none of this ever happened.”
“I’ll be—”
“Go.”
Comprehensively out of options, he went. And Rosaline let out a deep breath that turned out to be embarrassingly premature.
“And as for you, you pair of second-hand urinal cakes,” Jennifer went on, with barely a pause, “do not think you’re off the hook. You”—she pointed at Harry—“committed an actual crime. Again. And you”—her finger travelled to Rosaline—“are just pissing me off.”
Rosaline winced. “It’s my fault. Harry wouldn’t have been there if I hadn’t called him.”
“He still stuck his fist in the mouth of one of my contestants.”
“He had it coming though,” Harry pointed out. “Also it was on the chin.”
“Neither of those are legal defences. I am this close to sending you home right now and telling the audience that you had to deal with a”—Jennifer’s lip curled in actual disgust—“family emergency.”
That seemed miserably unfair to Rosaline. “If he goes, I go.”
“Don’t fucking tempt me, sunshine. I’ve got contingency plans coming out my fucking urethra. I could still make this show if every single one of you fuckers was killed in a freak blending accident. But”—and here Jennifer cast herself disconsolately into her chair—“I do not like to waste footage. And I’ve put a lot of work into giving you a beautiful fucking journey, so a beautiful fucking journey you will pissing well have. Now get out of here, both of you, look humble yet grateful, and leave the rest of this objectively faecal situation to me.”
They got out of there and were about halfway across the lawn before they realised they weren’t sure where they were getting out of there to. The bar seemed wrong now Anvita was gone, and the only place they could be certain of not running into Alain again was one of their rooms and that felt way too intense, especially given how things had ended last time they’d been alone together.
“Bloody hell.” Harry plunged his hands thoughtfully into his pockets. “I can’t believe he tried to get you kicked off the show. I mean, you weren’t even the one what smacked him.”