And once more, Amelie lapsed into a thinky silence. Which was good, wasn’t it? It was good to have a daughter who thought for herself. Fucking terrifying, but good.
“Well,” announced Amelie finally. “I don’t think you should have to be a doctor if you don’t want to be a doctor. And I don’t mind if we don’t have a bigger house or a dog but I would like a cockroach. And fixing electrics is useful because if nobody fixed electrics we wouldn’t have any electrics and then nothing would work.”
As a summary of centuries of entrenched social stratification and a lifetime of her own personal neuroses, Rosaline had heard worse.
Rosaline was very ready for an early night. Amelie had different ideas, but she was a child so she lost that argument. And Rosaline was just crawling into bed—and thinking how good it would feel to put the last few days firmly behind her—when her fucking phone rang. It was an unknown number, which gave her a totally irrational sense of anxiety in case it was the police, wanting to tell her that Amelie had been eaten by an escaped rhinoceros, or Jennifer Hallet calling to tell her she’d been kicked off the show after all. Though of course, realistically, it was far more likely to be someone trying to get her to change her broadband provider.
“Hello,” she said wearily.
“Hi. Rosaline?” It was a woman’s voice and not one Rosaline recognised.
“Who is this?”
“Don’t hang up”—never an auspicious start—“but it’s, um, Liv?”
On the list of things Rosaline needed right now, this might actually have been last. “I think you’re going to have to do quite a bit better than ‘Don’t hang up.’”
“I got your number off Alain’s phone. And I wanted to say . . . Fuck. Can you say sorry for . . . for . . . well—”
“Sexually assaulting someone?” Rosaline offered.
Liv made a slightly horrified noise that made Rosaline feel several complicated types of discomfort. “Um. Yeah? That.”
“I don’t know. Can you?”
“Okay.” Unsteady breathing that suggested Liv might actually be crying. “I’m sorry that I . . . I—Shit. Sexuallyassaultedyou?”
There was a long pause as Rosaline wrestled with a far wider range of feelings than she should be arsed to deal with. “I want to be a good person and say it’s okay. But—”
“It’s not, is it? And I don’t think I expected you to say it was. I think I needed you to know I knew it wasn’t.”
“Well, thank you for saying so. And for knowing that, I guess? I mean, I hope you’re taking this as read but don’t do it again. Because that shit is still not okay even if you’re both women.”
“I do realise that,” said Liv a little sharply. “I’m not making excuses, but I’d been drinking since three and Alain really did tell me you were attracted to me.”
“For the record, I wasn’t.” Did that sound mean? Did it matter if it sounded mean? “It’s not that you aren’t . . . very nice . . . in the face and things. It’s just I wasn’t looking to look at you that way.”
Another woeful sound from Liv. “I know, I know. I’ve sort of been . . . letting men tell me I’m bicurious for years. They like it so fucking much. And get so disappointed if you’re not.”
It wasn’t totally impossible for Rosaline to empathise with straight women who felt pressured to appropriate her sexuality. But it was pretty fucking difficult. “Yeah. Maybe stop doing that? Because face it, Liv: you, me, and Alain could have wound up in a threesome that only he wanted.”
“I’m sorry. I feel . . . honestly, quite disgusting. And very, very stupid.”
Oh God. “Look, it’s a bit obnoxious that you’re making me reassure you here. The thing is, I’ve met Alain. I know what he’s like. And nothing actually happened. Forgive yourself or grow as a person or whatever you need to do. I’m fine and I understand you made a mistake. But I’m not your priest, your friend, or your therapist. So . . . yeah? Thank you for reaching out. I don’t think we need to talk again.”
“Thanks for”—Liv still sounded if not wrecked then at least dinged around the fenders—“for not hanging up on me. And yeah, I’ll . . . I won’t bother you again. Good luck with the show.”
Skidding her phone across her bedside table, Rosaline flumped back against her pillows and exhaled.
As days went, it had been like the eggs, sugar, flour, butter, milk, and baking powder in a perfect Victoria sponge.
Mixed.
Week Eight
Finale
Tuesday
“YOU, SUNSHINE,” JENNIFER Hallet was saying, “are the bane of my fucking life.”
Telling Jennifer Hallett that she didn’t want Cordelia and St. John involved in the “Very Special This Is What Our Adorable Finalists’ Adorable Lives Are Like” episode was not something the Rosaline who had started this competition would have done. But a lot had changed since. “All I’m asking is that you do this without speaking to my parents. Don’t think of it as losing footage. Think of it as saving a train fare to Kensington.”
“Are you really going to pretend you’re doing this for my convenience? I planned this shit months ago. You serving your nice middle-class family cakes at a nice middle-class table in a nice middle-class house. And then them sitting side by side on a sofa, saying, We’re so proud of her, she was always such a good girl, it’s great she’s finally doing something for herself.”
“Excuse me”—Rosaline voice rose without her meaning it to—“I’ve done a lot of things for myself. For example, a thing I’m doing for myself is telling you I want you to leave my parents out of this. This show does not get to claim it empowered me.”
Jennifer Hallet rose from Rosaline’s one armchair like Poseidon from the depths. “Of course it fucking empowered you. When you first showed up here you were just a mouse with an apron and a pretty smile. And now you’re a mouse with fucking ideas who won’t shut the fuck up and let me do my fucking job.”
“Right.” Rosaline could do this. She wasn’t scared of Jennifer Hallet. Well, not very scared. Okay, she was quite scared but she was also committed. “If my arc is that I’ve got more confident, because I’m a woman and not a grandmother and therefore that’s the only arc I can have, why do you need my parents to validate that?”
“Context, sunshine, context. We need to know how diffident and shit you used to be, so everybody can think Gosh, hasn’t she come a long way. We want sad little girls and stifled housewives up and down the country to look at you and think, If she can do it, then so can I. And if enough of them think it, you’ll get a huge book deal at the end of this, which you can use to put your daughter through university or rehab, whichever she winds up needing.”
Rosaline just stared at her. “You are the worst human being.”
“Flattery’ll get you nowhere. Smile, look relatable, and ride this train to Big Pile of Money Station.”