“Well”—Nora gave a slightly pleased-with-herself smile—“it is the final. I thought I’d push the boat out. First time I’ve done spun sugar. Won’t lie: probably be the last.”

Marianne Wolvercote gave a stately nod. “It was worth it.”

Meanwhile, Wilfred Honey cut out a generous slice and angled the layers towards the camera. “Now what have we got here?”

“I think they’ve probably got fancier names,” Nora said, “but as far as I’m concerned you’ve got the chocolate bit, the coffee bit, and the vanilla bit with the mascarpone.”

“That’s good enough for me.” Wilfred Honey popped a generous forkful into his mouth. “By ’eck, it’s gorgeous. Perhaps I just never got past the seventies, but the way I see it you can’t go wrong wi’ a tiramisu.”

“You can definitely go wrong with a tiramisu,” put in Marianne Wolvercote, “but I’m pleased to say you haven’t in this context. Your layers are distinct, even, and well-defined, everything’s perfectly set”—she took her own sample—“and the flavours come through clearly. I will say that I’m not the biggest fan of tiramisu—I think it’s hard to interpret it in a modern way. But I think you’ve succeeded admirably here. Well done, Nora.”

There was a pause, Nora blinking back a few tears. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

Rosaline gave her arm a squeeze as she sat back down. And then it was Alain’s turn.

“This is a spiced apple entremets,” he explained, with slightly less conviction than he normally did. “Oh, um, with saffron.”

Shit. Rosaline had been so focused on her own work that she hadn’t paid much attention to what everyone else was doing. And Alain, of course, was doing apple as well. At least she wasn’t only doing apple. But the comparison was still . . . unhelpful.

And his bake did look rather special. It was sort of Alain all over: glazed in a delicate, almost honey tone and decorated with an elegant minimalism. Just an artfully placed cinnamon stick and a spiral of fresh apple that the fucker had probably picked from his private orchard.

“The apples,” Alain continued, “have come from my garden.”

“This is very you,” said Marianne Wolvercote, in that ambiguous tone that was sometimes worse than criticism. “It’s certainly chic, it’s modern, it’s understated. I could see this in the window of a number of patisseries.”

Alain bobbed his head. “Thank you.”

“But of course”—Wilfred had his knife at the ready—“it also has to taste good.”

The judges took a moment to determine whether it tasted good and decided that it did.

“The apple gellee,” said Wilfred Honey, with the air of someone who didn’t like having to say “gellee,” “is tart but well-spiced and contrasts well with the white chocolate mousse. And the dacquoise is perfectly executed.”

“But I’m not getting the saffron,” added Marianne Wolvercote. “To be honest, I don’t miss it—I think there’s enough here already—but if you’re going to the trouble of including a spice like saffron, it should bring something to the dish and I should be able to taste it.”

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.