Setting her fork down, Marianne Wolvercote looked grave. “But sadly that’s about all there is. If this had been perfect, it could have been the best bake of the day, but it’s a touch uneven here”—she indicated a line along the base of the cake where the mixture had settled a little, leaving it slightly denser—“and I think you left it in the oven a shade too long.”

“Also,” added Wilfred Honey, “I think it might have looked nicer if you’d made a lovely ganache. Or maybe a buttercream, just to lift it up a bit.”

Oh, of course. Put that on the list of many, many things she could have done differently in her life.

“Mmhm,” she said. “Thanks.”

As she slunk back to her workstation, she crossed paths with Alain, who was striding confidently forward, cradling a tray full of magic. He didn’t look at her, but then why would he?

He laid his creation delicately in front of the judges. “This is a chocolate cake with basil buttercream, served with a mint ice-cream.” Then, after a small pause and with a self-deprecating half-smile: “The basil’s from my garden and I, ah, foraged the mint.”

They cut into it with appreciative ceremony, exposing the perfectly even layers of dark sponge and pale cream, and then sampled it with gusto.

“This is rather delightful,” purred Marianne Wolvercote. “I was concerned about the basil, but it works surprisingly well against the richness of the chocolate.”

Wilfred Honey scooped up another forkful. “By ’eck, it’s gorgeous.”

A ripple of gasps moved through the hall. This was an informal catchphrase of Wilfred Honey’s, and he usually didn’t break it out until episode three or four. Clearly, Alain—as well as being the type of person who’d never lie about his personal history—

was also a big deal in the kitchen. And Rosaline had thrown all of that away by being an insecure, disappointing mess of a human being.

So Alain won. Obviously. And Dave went out. Obviously. And Rosaline was safe and unremarkable and desperate to get home. See her daughter. Have a glass of wine. Come to terms with the fact that the thing she normally did to make herself feel better—to wit, baking—was now the third-largest source of stress in her life.

Well done, Rosaline. Nailed it as usual.

Unfortunately, before she could to do any of that she had to wait. In the car park. For her father to pick her up. Like she was sixteen and had gone to the wrong sort of party. It was one of the problems of filming in a picturesque rural setting: no trains out of Tapworth on a Sunday. Which, in practice, meant another favour Rosaline would owe her parents.

It was probably going to be a long wait. Mr. St. John Palmer—a man so successful in the medical profession he’d gone through Dr. and out the other side—tended to arrive late on the grounds of his being so very busy and important. And that would have been . . . what it was. Except Alain, who Rosaline should have realised would be in a similar situation, seemed to be depending on someone equally unreliable.

For a few minutes they stood in miserable silence.

“Well done on the win,” Rosaline tried.

“Thank you.”

Well, at least he’d answered? “Sorry again for the . . . all the, y’know, lying.”

“Rosaline . . .” His mouth curled into a wry half-smile. “If this hadn’t happened to me, I’d think it was hilarious. But it did,

so it’s going to take me a little longer than usual to see the funny side.”

“I think you can probably get really good mileage out of the ‘girl who liked me so much she invented a life in Malawi’ story?”

He laughed, somewhat reluctantly. “I should have suspected something when you were so reticent. I know a few people who’ve done that kind of thing and none of them will shut the fuck up about it.”

This was . . . better, wasn’t it? He seemed amused rather than actively disgusted with her.

And of course, Mr. St. John Palmer chose exactly that moment to pull up in front of them. Emerging from the driver’s side, he released the boot to allow Rosaline to stow her bag.

“I got here as quickly as I could,” he told her. “I was stuck behind some cretin with a caravan on the motorway and then all the roads round here are full of bloody sheep.” It was at about this point that he noticed Alain and, whether for reasons of proximity, gender, or general demeanour, decided he was probably important. “Terribly sorry. Where are my manners? St. John Palmer. I’m Rosaline’s father.”

As Rosaline tried to apologise with her eyes, Alain was left with no choice but to accept one of her father’s extremely forceful handshakes. “Alain Pope. I’m one of Rosaline’s cocontestants.”

“Oh. I’d assumed you were the producer.”

“No, I’m an architect.”

“Worked on anything I might know?”

“Possibly. When were you last in Dubai?”

“Not for a year or two.”

Alain smiled the kind of smile you were supposed to use in job interviews. “Then you wouldn’t be familiar with my most recent project. If you’ve visited Coombecamden Manor, I’ve done some work there as well?”

Rosaline had seen her father do this to a lot of people. The game was to keep tacitly implying he thought you were a loser until you gave up and admitted it. And unusually, Alain seemed perilously close to actually winning.

“You do keep busy,” conceded St. John Palmer. “How the hell did you wind up baking?”

“Ah, well. When I was refitting my house a few years back I had an AGA put in, and I thought I should probably learn to use it properly.”

“Something for the wife, was it?”

“No. I’m not married.” By way of illustration Alain raised his left hand to display his entirely absent wedding ring.

To Rosaline’s absolute horror, St. John Palmer clapped Alain on the back and, with one hand between his shoulder blades, guided him towards the rear of the car where she had just dumped her bag. “Rosaline,” he called out, “was I interrupting something between you and this young man here?”

“What?” She had no idea how to respond to this. “No. Nothing. I mean—”

“Rosaline’s been very sweet.” Alain shot her a look that could almost have been conspiratorial. “But the competition has kept us both extremely busy. Still, I’m sure we’ll get to know each other better as the weeks go on.” A car horn beeped from the other side of the car park and Alain glanced over in recognition. “And that will be my friend Liv. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Palmer.” He shook her father’s hand again and seemed to be giving as good as he got. “I’ll see you next week, Rosaline.”