The immediate chorus of “Terry, don’t” got as far as “Terry, do—” before Terry did. And to his credit, he managed to get Marie Antoinette all the way to the coffee table before stepping on one of Amelie’s Legos, hopping in pain, and dumping the whole thing into Ricky’s lap.
And for a moment, there was a reverent silence for the second demise of Marie Antoinette.
Then Harry called through from the kitchen. “Is what just happened what I think just happened?”
“That depends,” said Amelie, who was on the floor with Allison, building a shark from what was left of the Lego, “on what you think just happened. If you think that a big jellyfish came out the ceiling and stung everybody then no. But if you think that Terry dropped a huge cake all over the place then yes.”
Harry groaned. “Tel you total knobhead.”
“I was trying to help,” protested Terry, managing to look genuinely aggrieved. “It’s fine. I’ll—”
“No!” shouted everybody.
“Let me get some napkins,” said Rosaline. “I’m pretty sure we can salvage most of it. Ricky, do you mind staying where you are for a second?”
Ricky blinked. “I’ve got a cake the size of a small Labrador in my lap. Where do you think I’m going?”
Ten minutes later, Ricky was mostly de-macaroned, and everyone was tucking into what remained of Marie Antoinette.
“You know”—Anvita chewed thoughtfully—“I think it still went better than it did on the show.”
Terry was wearing an utterly unwarranted expression of vindication. “See, tastes all right. Not like I wrecked it or nothing.”
“Mate.” Harry appeared with a golden-brown filo pie that he set down very carefully on a table already slightly overflowing with baked goods. “I’d say quit while you was ahead but you ain’t ahead.”
“Your pie looks beautiful, Harry,” offered Allison, with the flawless social grace of—arguably—the only real grown-up in the room.
He blushed slightly. “Thanks. It’s spinach and feta, so we can all have a bit.”
“You didn’t have to,” said Sanjay. “Even with half of it on the floor, Anvita’s cake is going to last for days.”
“It’s fine, mate. I’ve been trying to learn some veggie cooking anyway, but the old man complains if you try to feed it to him. He’s all like, ‘This ain’t a pie, it’s a salad in a crust.’”
Pushing herself off Sanjay’s lap, Anvita prowled around Harry’s blameless pie. “Good colour,” she drawled, in her best Marianne Wolvercote. “Surprisingly sophisticated considering what a gargantuan hunkmuffin you are.”
“You know,” remarked Sanjay, “it’s a good job I’m secure in my masculinity or I might be threatened by the amount of time you spend calling other men hunkmuffins.”
“Are you not flattered?” asked Anvita. “That I have chosen you, and only you, above the vast array of hunkmuffins I see constantly around me?”
Lauren yanked the cork from a bottle of red and poured herself a Laurenly measure. “That’s a refreshingly sensible attitude for a heterosexual.”
“Yep.” Anvita nodded emphatically. “Sensible is absolutely a thing that I am.”
Allison was briefly distracted from whatever shark-related Lego conversation she’d been having with Amelie. “Please don’t encourage my wife. And, Lauren darling, stop othering the straights.”
Wiping a smear of Swiss meringue buttercream off the screen, Ricky checked his phone. “Guys. Show’s starting.”
With part of the advance for her first recipe book, Rosaline had defied years of her middle-class upbringing and bought a bigger television. An investment that had ambiguously paid off by allowing Amelie to watch squoogly fish in high-definition. Digging the remote from its habitual hiding place behind the sofa cushions, she flicked to iPlayer while Harry dimmed the lights. Her guests, who still didn’t quite fit in her living room, did their best to huddle into what seating was available. Terry—true to his knobhead nature—had claimed the only armchair, though Lauren—never one to be out-knobheaded—had perched herself on the arm in as annoying a position as possible. Amelie and Allison were on the floor surrounded by Lego, and the two-seater sofa was already overfilled with Ricky, Sanjay, and Anvita. So Harry stood against the wall, and Rosaline stood against Harry, his arms folded gently around her.
“And now,” said the announcer, for the benefit of the twelve people who were still watching live television, “it’s a brand-new series of Bake Expectations.”
The screen came alive in shades of green and blue and gold as the eye of the camera swooped across the British countryside, through the gates of Patchley House, up the long gravel drive, and finally alighted on the dapper figure of Grace Forsythe.
Harry’s hands tightened over Rosaline’s. “Hope I don’t come across as too much of a ballsack,” he whispered.
“You won’t. And even if you do, who gives a fuck.”
“Be honest with you, mate. I give a little bit of a fuck.”
“Oh my God,” shrieked Anvita. “It’s me. And I look fiiiiiiine.”
Amelie had got close enough to the screen that it was both bad for her eyes and other people’s viewing experience. “Where’s Mummy? Where’s Mummy?”
“There’s Dave,” said Ricky. “I really wanted to like him. But I think he might have been a prick.”
“He’s wearing a fedora, mate.” That was Terry, craning awkwardly past Lauren. “Sure sign of a wanker.”
Half turning, Lauren contrived to get in Terry’s way to a frankly impressive extent. “Excuse me? I own several fedoras.”
“It’s okay, Loz.” Rosaline nestled deeper into Harry’s embrace. “There’s different rules for lesbians.”
“It’s Mummy,” cried Amelie, pointing helpfully. “Mummy, you look pretty.”
“Excuse me,” Rosaline told her, “I look like somebody who is going to win this whole damn thing.”
Except . . . she didn’t. She looked like somebody who’d missed her train, tried to impress an arsehole by lying to him, and had no idea what she wanted or what she was doing. But that was okay.
Because she was going to work it out.
Since Leaving the Competition
DAVE dropped out of university to travel round Nepal and has not been seen since.
FLORIAN and his partner Scott are still not married. They still do not care.
RICKY has completed his degree and now works for Procter & Gamble, a job he describes as “a bit of a laugh.”
CLAUDIA returned to her legal practice, but still bakes at weekends.
JOSIE continues to bake for children and her husband’s parishioners. Apparently they like her payne foundewe even if the judges didn’t.
ANVITA has qualified as an optician and is finally engaged to her boyfriend. Her nan is very proud of her.
HARRY is still working as an electrician with his dad, but has started running hands-on cooking classes in primary schools on his days off. His nieces’ friends continually ask him for mermaid cakes.