“Kiss,” Anvita was shouting. “Kiss kiss kiss.”

Rosaline de-Harryed herself. “Literally what we’re doing.”

“I’m encouraging you.”

“Well, you failed. Because now I’m talking to you instead.”

Anvita probably had a reply to that because she had a reply to most things, but it was lost to a sudden cry of “Mummy” as Amelie, trailing Lauren and Allison and Cordelia behind her, raced across the lawn. And Rosaline, caught by a moment that seemed to be everywhere and come from nowhere, and fizzed through her like lemonade in spring, broke free of the group and ran to catch her daughter in her arms.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“We were in the car for ages,” Amelie said. “And you’re squashing me.”

“I’m squashing you because I love you.”

“That’s not fair. I’m small and can’t squash you back. But”—and here Amelie surrendered briefly to the squash—“I do love you. To the bottom of the Mariana Trench which is the deepest thing that there is and they’ve just found a new type of snailfish in it.”

“Well,” Rosaline told her, “I love you to the bottom of the Mariana Trench and back.”

“Ummmm.” There was a wavery static squeal. Someone had given Colin Thrimp a megaphone. “If we could, you know, have the finalists in front of the house and everybody else standing around being happy—remember to be happy—that would be perfect and also completely necessary. So if you could do that as in right now. Please. Thank you.”

For a bunch of strangers being herded by a man with the gravitas of a whelk, they all organised themselves into appropriate positions with surprising efficiency. It turned out that if being on reality TV taught you anything, it was how to stand somewhere that looked good on-camera.

A few moments later, the host and the judges descended in state from the steps leading to the hotel.

“Contestants,” began Grace Forsythe, who had no need of a megaphone, “friends, family, finalists. We’ve reached that moment again when Bake Expectations closes the ballroom doors for another year and we celebrate eight weeks of the finest baking Britain has to offer. And, of course, it’s time to crown—although I say ‘crown,’ the budget wouldn’t stretch to a crown, so it’s more sort of a cake slice—our winner.”

There was a pause, the timing of which spoke to her classical training.

“Much as we would love,” she went on, “all of you to be victorious, there can only be one champion, and this year . . . and it has been a very difficult year for the judges because you’re all so fabulous, so talented, so downright wonderful, but after lengthy deliberation, Wilfred and Marianne have decided that the winner . . .”

Pause. Another damn pause.

“Of this year’s . . .”

Pause.

“Bake . . .”

Really? Another pause? Did that need a pause?

“Expectations is . . .”

A pause that put all other pauses to shame.

“Rosaline.”

That evening’s argument for why Amelie should be allowed to stay up past her bedtime was that Rosaline had won first place on a nationally televised baking competition something something so she didn’t have to go to bed yet.

“It doesn’t work that way,” Rosaline insisted.

“Well it should. Because today is your special day and you should be allowed to celebrate it with me.”

“I’ve been celebrating with you all day.”

“It wasn’t all day. I had to sit in the car with Grandma and Auntie Allison and Auntie Lauren for hours and hours and hours. And then I had to sit in the van for hours and hours and hours on the way back.”

“Oi,” said Harry, “don’t be having a go at my van.”

“Also, I was in the van as well,” Rosaline pointed out.

Amelie folded her arms defiantly. “But we weren’t celebrating. We were in a van.”

“Amelie.” It was time for Rosaline’s parent voice. “Go to bed. You have school in the morning.”

“But it’s not fair,” protested Amelie, with outraged sincerity.

“Yes, it is. You just don’t like it.”

“I’m not sleepy though. If I have to go to bed when I’m not sleepy it’s like being in the van again except I live here so I can’t leave.”

Drawing back the covers, Rosaline tried to make Amelie’s bed look as appealing as it could to an unsleepy eight-year-old. “This isn’t a negotiation.”

“Yes it is. You want me to do something and I don’t want to do it.”

“Technically, that’s an impasse. But how about if I read you a bedtime story?”

There was a thoughtful pause. “Can Harry read it?”

Rosaline glanced over to where he was leaning in the doorway. “You don’t have to.”

“You will though, won’t you?” said Amelie, hopping under her duvet. “You’re nice.”

Pushing himself upright, he took a few steps into the room. “Oh no you don’t, Prime Minister. Me and my sisters used to play them games.”

“Harry can read you a story”—it was still Rosaline’s parent voice—“if he wants to and if you ask nicely.”

As it turned out, he did want to, and she did ask nicely. And soon Rosaline and Harry were sitting by Amelie’s bed, while Rosaline tried to talk them out of tackling Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Amelie’s copy had been a well-intentioned but, on this occasion, ill-judged gift from Cordelia and St. John. While it was certainly a very pretty edition, with art-deco sharks and submarines on the cover, the text itself remained resolutely Victorian, and despite Amelie’s enthusiasm for the idea of the story, they’d never made it past the first chapter. Still, if they got lucky, the sheer density of the prose would bore Amelie to sleep.

“‘The year 1886,’” Harry began valiantly, “‘was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and puzzling phenomenon’—bloody hell, this is hard going, init?”

It was, indeed, hard going. And Rosaline’s brain, full of entremets and victory, didn’t even try to keep up.

“‘Naval officers of all countries,’” Harry was saying, “‘and Governments of several States were deeply interested in the matter.’”