Rosaline found herself wishing she could see Alain’s expression. “Mmhm,” he said. “Thanks.”
“But overall”—Wilfred Honey quickly stepped in—“this is lovely. And you should be very proud of what you’ve achieved in the time.”
As Alain walked back to his place, Rosaline avoided meeting his eye. He didn’t look angry exactly. But there was definitely frustration tightening his jaw, and he’d gone a little red.
That just left her. She picked up the basket in which she had very carefully arranged her miniature entremets and brought them to the front.
“Oh my,” exclaimed Wilfred Honey. “These look special.”
Rosaline’s heart was racing like it had the first time she’d stood here. “So these are a half-dozen fruit-themed entremets. The ones in the shape of an apple are . . . well . . . apple. And the ones in the shape of a peach are peach. And the ones in the shape of a cherry are, um, cherry.”
Marianne Wolvercote stared at them so intensely it was a wonder they didn’t melt. “A little gimmicky, Rosaline, but these are so beautiful that I can’t complain.”
“Well, I’m a simple man myself,” added Wilfred Honey. “And I think an apple pudding in the shape of an apple is just fun.” He carefully selected one from the basket and placed it in full view of the camera. “See. Doesn’t that look fun? And the shine on it is gradely.”
“As a matter of technique,” agreed Marianne Wolvercote, “the mirror glaze is excellent. Are those real apple leaves they’re decorated with?”
“Yes.” Rosaline nodded. “But not from my garden.”
Wilfred Honey, seeming genuinely delighted, was fishing out a cherry and a peach. “It’s so clever the way you’ve done a set. And I love that you’ve done a shiny finish on the apple and the cherry but a matte finish on the peaches so they look more like peaches. That’s great attention to detail, that is.”
“Would you like to actually taste them at any point, Wilfred?” asked Marianne Wolvercote.
“It almost seems a shame to cut into them.”
Marianne Wolvercote had no such qualms. She picked up his knife and sliced all three of them in half like she was playing Fruit Ninja. “I was a bit concerned that with so much attention paid to the shape we wouldn’t get proper layering, but so far so good.” She took a judgemental forkful of each one. “My other concern had been that in working on three flavours you might have spread yourself too thin. But I don’t think you did. These are all well-put-together, each one tastes like it’s supposed to taste, and they’re light and refreshing. Perfect for a summer day.”
“I think”—Wilfred Honey had devoured most of the apple—“you should be very happy with what you’ve done here. I know I am.”
And that was that.
It was over—or almost over.
Dazed . . . and, okay, mostly dazed . . . Rosaline returned dutifully to her place so Colin Thrimp could get the necessary footage of her returning dutifully to her place looking dazed.
She was still dazed as they were herded onto the lawn for the celebratory high tea that always ended the series. They were met by an idyllic scene of traditional English life: long tables piled with goodies, bunting everywhere, families happily mingling over tea and ginger beer, and, of course, the giant fucking camera crew filming it all.
“Well, I’m rooting for Rosaline,” Anvita was telling Colin Thrimp, “because she’s excellent and sexy.”
He drooped despairingly. “You still can’t say ‘excellent and sexy.’”
“I think it’s going to be Nora,” offered Ricky, who was standing next to her, grinning and gorgeous as usual. “I mean, she’s a gran. Grans know how to bake, don’t they? Unlike me.”
Anvita jumped back in front of the camera. “Okay, can I say my Rosaline line again? I promise I won’t say I think she’s sexy.”
“Fine.” Colin Thrimp surrendered as usual. “But please, nothing suggestive. This is a happy moment and we’re going out before the watershed.”
“Yes, yes.” Anvita nodded impatiently. “I’m rooting for Rosaline because—oh my God, she’s over there.”
And Rosaline found herself nearly knocked off her feet by an overly enthusiastic optician in sparkly glasses.
“How did it go?” demanded Anvita, still hugging.
“Well, I think, but you’re holding me very tightly.”
“It’s a sign of affection.”
Anvita finally let her go—just in time for them to avoid being flattened by six grandchildren charging joyously towards Nora. It was only now Rosaline saw everyone again—most of them helping themselves to cake and chatting freely with the other contestants and their guests—that she realised how empty the last couple of weeks had been. How much she had missed the peculiar camaraderie that could spring up between strangers in a strange situation. And that was the thing about journeys, wasn’t it? They weren’t about where you started or where you ended. They were about who came with you.
“All right, mate?” said Harry, stepping out from the crowd.
And without thinking about it, Rosaline flung her arms around him and squeezed him Anvita-style. “I am, actually.”
“It’s nice catching up with everyone again.” Blushing slightly, he disentangled. “I was just talking to your bloke, Anvita.”
Rosaline spun round. “Your boyfriend’s here?”
“Yeah, that’s him.” Anvita pointed to tall, well-dressed man eating a fairy cake and talking to Claudia. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called out to him. “Hey, Sanj. Look, it’s Rosaline.”
“Wow,” said Rosaline. “You never mentioned he was a stone-cold hottie.”
Anvita shrugged. “I mean, you’ve seen my taste in men. I thought you’d take it for granted. Besides, he’s my boyfriend. We hang out all the time. I’m kinda used to it. Anyway, I have to go congratulate Nora as well. Partially because I like her but mainly so Alain knows I’m snubbing him.”
And with that, she dashed off into the crowd like a bespectacled torpedo. Leaving just Rosaline and Harry surrounded by an anonymising mill of strangers.
“I can’t believe it’s only been a week since I last saw you,” she said.
He smiled slowly at her, his eyes honeyed by the afternoon light. “Yeah, I wanted to text, but then I thought, Don’t be a ballsack, Harry, give her some space.”
“Did you miss me then?” She was fishing shamelessly. And she didn’t care.
“Course I did, mate. Like I’d be making a pie for my tea and then I’d be wondering how your practice bakes was going. Or I’d be thinking something and I’d wonder what weird thing you’d think about it. Or I’d be watching Downton on DVD with my nan and I’d be like, That’s what Rosaline’s house looks like.”
Laughing, she punched him lightly on the arm. Which, admittedly, was mainly an excuse to touch him again. “Hey, that’s my parents’ house. And it’s nowhere near as big as Downton Abbey.”
“You got two drawing rooms is all I’m saying.”