“Upset me?” she repeated, slightly taken aback.

“Yeah. About the name thing. And the love thing. And the girl thing. And the pretty thing.” She thought he might actually have been blushing. “I just didn’t want you to think I was a dick.”

If she was being honest, she wasn’t used to thinking about guys like Harry at all. “No? Not really.”

“Great. Just, you know, checking.” He let out a breath that, to Rosaline’s surprise, said I am relieved, not That’ll cost you. “Because,” he went on, “sometimes I’ll say something and then I’ll think Christ, Harry, you utter ballsack, and it’ll be buzzing around my head forever.”

She gave him a slightly curious look. It felt natural for her to be constantly paralysed by the possibility of other people’s disapproval. But what did Harry have to worry about? He was a good-looking bloke who lived in a world of mates and pubs and women who didn’t mind being called “love.” “I think maybe everyone gets that. Although possibly with less ballsack.”

“Okay. Good.” He was silent a moment, possibly dwelling on the ballsack, and wasn’t that a strange mental image. “Thanks, mate.”

Rosaline suspected she’d regret asking this but couldn’t quite help herself. “Why am I mate all of a sudden?”

“You said I wouldn’t call you ‘love’ if you was a bloke. And I thought about it and you had a point. And it was this or start calling all my mates ‘love,’ and I reckon they’d look at me a bit funny if I tried it.”

She couldn’t tell if she’d won that one or lost it. “Fair enough, I suppose.”

“Well done last week, by the way. You done all right.”

“Thank you. You did . . .”

“Kind of average,” he offered ruefully. “My chocolate didn’t temper and my decorations melted. It’s always something, init?”

“Well, it’s still early days.”

He nodded. “Yeah, and I’m looking forward to tomorrow. I like a good pie. Except once we’re in the ballroom, some bloke with a camera’ll come round and be all, What you doing, Harry?, and I’ll be all, I’m making a pie, ain’t I? And then he’ll say, Can you say that again like you’re not answering a question. It’s a bit daft really.”

This surprised a laugh out of her. Because it was, when you got right down to it, a bit daft really.

“Anyway.” He gave her one of his unexpected smiles. “I should let you go, mate.”

“Actually . . .” Oh, why had she agreed to this? It was stupid, and terrible, and a bit patronising. “Anvita was wondering if you were okay? Sort of by yourself. Over here. Like you are. And I mean, me as well. Unless you’re annoyed by that, in which case it was totally her idea. Which it was.”

He gazed up at her, his eyes big and brown and confused. “I’m good, thanks. Just having my lunch. Wondering how badly I ballsed up my filling.”

“I think we’re all ballsed and wondering.” Words kept coming out of Rosaline and she wished they wouldn’t. “We noticed you tended to keep to yourself. And we weren’t sure if that was because it was a personal choice, or because you hated us, or because you thought we hated you, or because you’re allergic to picnic benches, or . . . some other reason.”

“I don’t think it’s any of those.” His air of confusion was not abating. “I figured you lot had your own thing and didn’t want to push in.”

“It’s not really a thing. It’s more a . . . table.”

He glanced between her and the table in question, brow crinkling anxiously. “Trouble is, I’m not brilliant at lots of people all at once.”

“Is anyone?”

“Well. Yeah. My mate Terry’s always dragging me out to stuff and he’s always like, Hey Harry, what are you doing there in the corner not talking to anyone. This is Jim and Brenda what I’ve just met. I don’t know how he does it.”

“Okay, but this is Ricky, Anvita, and me, who you’ve already met.”

“Not all at once, though.”

“Oh come on.” She held out her hand, and after a moment of obvious reluctance, he took it, letting her guide him to his feet. His palm was warm and calloused, and realising she kind of appreciated that made her feel like Lady Chatterley. “It’ll be fine. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

“Except that’s the problem, init? Because you get that voice in your head going Why aren’t you saying anything, why aren’t you saying anything, why aren’t you saying anything, why’d you say that? ”

She squinted at him. “I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

They drifted back to the group, Harry dragging his feet slightly like a prisoner going to the guillotine or a child at the dentist’s.

“’Lo,” said Rosaline, with a small flourish. “I have returned bearing Harry.”

He sat down next to Ricky. “All right, Gooner?”

There was a long silence.

“Sorry.” Anvita gave Harry an appalled look. “Is that a racist slur?”

Harry seemed genuinely shocked. “What? No. Gooner? Woolwich? Scumbag?”

“Arsenal fan,” explained Ricky. “What can I say? I like teams that win.”

“There’s more important things than winning, mate.” There was an unusual conviction in Harry’s voice.

“In a competitive sport?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s about loyalty. Being part of something.”

“I’m very attracted,” Anvita interrupted, “by this boring conversation about a sport I don’t play or watch or care about.”

“Sorry, love—er—mate—err, Anvita.” Harry reached for a pint that wasn’t there, and then hastily folded his hands on the table. “So, err, how’s your nan?”

“Pleased I’m on the show. Having real trouble not telling her friends about it.”

“Yeah, mine too. I’ve been like, ‘No, Gran. I’ve signed a thing. You can’t tell anyone. Not even Sheila from Bingo.’”

Ricky crumpled his napkin on top of his paper plate and balanced his half-empty water bottle on top of that to stop everything from blowing away. “My mum knows me too well. She’s very supportive, but she’s pretty sure I’m going out in week three.”