It was at this moment that Rosaline realised she was the only one who hadn’t contributed. “My parents aren’t huge fans of reality television. But Amelie’s thrilled. Of course, she’s eight and I’m her mother so she still gets excited to see me on a cctv camera in a shop.”

The dangerous, interested look had snuck back into Anvita’s eyes. “But your parents don’t care at all?”

The answer to that was complicated, and Rosaline wasn’t sure she could articulate it, let alone share it. “Oh, they care. Just not in a good way.”

“I know what you mean,” said Harry. “I haven’t even told my mates about this. They’d take the fucking piss. They will anyway, mind, but at least this way I’ll only get it once.”

“Pro tip”—Ricky nudged him—“tell them baking gets girls.”

“Not where I come from it don’t.”

“You’re trying the wrong crowd, mate. Come down the SU with me. They’ll think you’re sensitive.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” That was Anvita, a little sharply. “Please go back to talking about football.”

While the pattern of filming, and waiting, and filming, and waiting, was already becoming second nature, Rosaline wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to the judging.

“This is perfectly adequate,” announced Marianne Wolvercote, dissecting Rosaline’s pie with the merciless enthusiasm of a doctor in a Hammer Horror. “But nothing special.”

Yay. Saved by mediocrity.

Again.

At this rate, it was looking like baking was going to rip her a new arsehole.

Anvita and Alain had also done something in the region of fine. Florian, however, hadn’t allowed the filling to cool before putting it on the base, so the whole thing had come out as a dribbly mess. And—surprising no one more than himself—Ricky had somehow produced the perfect incarnation of a pie he knew nothing about.

“I have no idea what happened,” he said in his interview afterwards. “I’ve never heard of that pie, I’ve never seen that pie, I’ve never eaten that pie. Didn’t have a clue what I was doing. But I guess it paid off. Because I won.”

By contrast, Florian seemed a little down. “Well, it was a simple mistake, albeit one with profound consequences. In fact, I’m taking it rather poorly. I’m not at all used to being on the bottom. Oh my, can I say that on television?”

Rosaline’s own interview involved muttering “I think it went okay” about six different ways and trying not to sound too deflated because she really had no reason to. Assuming she didn’t totally screw up tomorrow, or Florian didn’t utterly nail it, she was pretty sure she wasn’t in danger, but all she’d managed to prove so far was that she wasn’t bad enough to get eliminated immediately. Which wasn’t even a little bit the same as being good enough to win.

“You all right, mate?” asked Harry, who’d also just finished saying he thought things went okay, but had, at least, got to say it in front of a rhododendron.

She sighed. “Yeah. I shouldn’t be complaining, but I hoped I’d done better.”

“Well, you didn’t win. But you didn’t lose either.” Tucking his hands into his pockets, he hunched his shoulders slightly. “Consistency like that gets you into the semifinals.”

“But only as the boring one who they never quite got around to kicking out.”

He gave her that ridiculously sweet and perfect grin. “Hey, that’s my strategy you’re having a go at.”

“For what it’s worth,” Rosaline told him, laughing, “I don’t think you’re going to be remembered as the boring one.”

“Why? What one do you think I’m going to be?”

There was no good answer to that. Because while she’d been happy to playfully imply he’d be remembered as “the hot one,” there was no way she could say it to his face. “Ask Anvita.”

He looked comically dismayed. “I’m not sure I want to know now.”

“No, it’s—” At that moment she caught sight of Alain coming up from the Lodge, and for the first time that day, he was looking at something other than his workstation. He was, in fact, looking at her. “No, it’s good,” she finished absently.

Alain lifted his hand in greeting. “Rosaline. Hi.”

“Hi.” She tried to sound casual and collected, like they were both totally the sort of person who could kiss somebody and then go a whole day without speaking to them.

Harry gave one of those man-to-man nods. “All right, mate? Well done last week.”

“Oh yes, thank you.” Alain’s brows arched their shadiest arch. “Your praise means the world to me.”

There was a slightly weird lull in the conversation because Rosaline had a bunch of things she really wanted to say—such as, Are you ignoring me? and Am I a terrible kisser?—but couldn’t with Harry standing right there. And Harry himself was either incapable of recognising sarcasm or unwilling to rise to it.

“Got something else fancy planned for tomorrow?” he asked finally.

Alain laughed. “I like that you think basil is a fancy ingredient. But I actually wanted to see if Rosaline felt like coming for a walk. Of course if you’re”—his eyes flicked between the two of them—“busy, then I can see you later.”

Busy? What kind of evening did he think she was likely to have planned with an electrician whose primary interests seemed to be Spurs and long silences? Rosaline took a sharp step away from Harry, hoping she hadn’t given anyone the wrong impression. “Oh no, we’d just finished our interviews and got chatting. A walk would be lovely.”

“Have a nice evening, mate.” Harry also did the “no wrong impressions” backstep. “You too, Alain.”

Rosaline followed Alain across the lawn, away from the main house. They seemed to be taking a different route from last time, down a slightly overgrown path towards a little knot of trees and a mound of stones piled up in an arch. And it was another balmy summer’s evening, with the sky swirled into a perfect watercolour and the air heavy with the scent of pollen and meadow flowers. She’d say this for Alain, he certainly knew how to take a girl for a walk.

“What I find fascinating about these old houses,” Alain remarked, “is the way they accumulate the trends and fashions of centuries.”