“Obviously, we’re both here for the competition. But I . . . well . . . I wasn’t expecting to meet someone like you.”

“What? A single mum who works in a shop?”

“You must know you’re more than that, Rosaline.” He gazed down at her, his eyes tinted grey in the growing darkness. “You went to Cambridge, for fuck’s sake. You’re fearless and adventurous and, I suspect, a little wicked.”

The truth was that Rosaline felt like hardly any of those hardly any of the time. But she liked that he saw her that way. So she slid a hand behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss.

Sunday

“AND WELCOME,” BOOMED Grace Forsythe, “to the second baketacular of the season. Today we’re asking you to blow our socks off with not one, not two, not three, but twenty-four miniature pies. There should be a dozen sweet and a dozen savoury, but apart from that they can be shortcrust, rough-puff, hot water crust, pumpkin, pork or paneer, chicken, chorizo, or cherry. You have three hours, and that includes making the pastry and setting up your delightful displays of deliciousness. Your time begins on the count of three. Three, darlings.”

And they were off.

And Rosaline had barely begun sifting out the flour for her shortcrust when Colin Thrimp and Grace Forsythe and the judges descended on her station all at once.

“Tell us about your pies, pet,” said Wilfred Honey, twinkling soothingly at her while Marianne Wolvercote picked through her ingredients.

Rosaline tried very hard to look at Wilfred Honey and not at the camera that was being thrust directly into her face. “Well, I felt I’d played it too safe last week. So this time I’m trying to push the boat out a bit, and I’m doing . . .”

Oh help, what was she doing?

“Um, sorry, I’ve completely forgotten what I’m making.”

Wilfred Honey’s eyes flicked to Colin Thrimp. “Do we need that one again, Colin?”

There was a pause while Colin took instructions from his earpiece. “It’s fine. It’ll come across as endearing. In your own time, Rosaline.”

“I’d rather not,” said Rosaline, “come across as not having a clue what I’m doing.”

Grace Forsythe put a hand on her shoulder. “Lambkin, I’ve been making it up as I go along for forty years and nobody’s tumbled me yet. It’s rather the British way, you know.”

“You’ve got chicken, sherry”—Marianne Wolvercote picked up the sherry and peered at the label with an air of profound interest—“and tarragon here. I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest you might be making chicken, sherry, and tarragon.”

“Now, interestingly,” added Wilfred Honey, “young Alain’s also doing chicken and tarragon.”

Rosaline froze. “Oh fu—f—fancy that.”

“No sherry, mind.” Marianne Wolvercote seemed genuinely disappointed by this. “Which might give you the edge.”

“He grew his own tarragon, though, didn’t he?” asked Rosaline.

Grace Forsythe threw a look to camera. “That’s competitive baking for you. Here today. Tarra-gone tomorrow.”

“So that’s the savoury taken care of.” Wilfred Honey was still twinkling at her. As far as Rosaline could tell, he’d been twinkling solidly for the best part of a century. “What about your sweet?”

Thankfully, her brain did not re-fart. “I’m doing toffee apple pies with dulce de leche.”

Marianne Wolvercote got that You have made a terrible mistake look in her eyes that Rosaline saw every season on the show and wondered why competitors didn’t notice. “And you think you can manage that in the time?”

“If I work really fast, don’t make any mistakes, and don’t get interrupted—oh God, I didn’t mean, I just . . . at home my daughter sometimes comes in and time works differently for eight-year-olds.”

“No, no, we understand.” Grace Forsythe threw her hands in the air. “Marianne, Wilfred, we have been given our marching orders. Thus must we march.”

They didn’t so much march as stop to get a couple more establishing shots and do a short to-camera bit about what a big risk she was taking well within earshot. But eventually, they were gone and Rosaline could confront the fact that her dulce was probably writing cheques that her leche wouldn’t be able to cash.

Within an hour, she was forced to conclude that her leche not only wasn’t cashing cheques but was having the bailiffs come round for the furniture.

In theory—in bloody theory—it could have worked. It had mostly worked at home. There was enough time to make pastry, make fillings, fill pie cases, and spend an hour and a half continuously stirring a pot of milk until it magically transformed into a smooth, velvety caramel. Except what she’d wound up with, now she was on the show and it was critical, was pies not quite ready to go into the oven and a pan of brownish liquid that might have been slightly sweet-tasting.

And yes, her blind bake had been broadly fine, and yes, there was only one element that was going wrong, but it was going very wrong, and it was the element that was supposed to show she could really do this, apart from the bit where she obviously couldn’t really do this, and she didn’t even pick her own tarragon, and what had she been thinking signing up to show off her cooking on television when all she’d ever done was make biscuits for eight-year-olds, who weren’t exactly discerning critics, and shit shit shit shit shit.

“What are you doing now?” asked a random production assistant.

Being about to cry was what she was doing now. “Um,” she said. “I . . . just . . . I’m stirring this . . . it’s meant to . . . but it’s . . .”

To her horror, she was actually crying.

And the next thing she knew, Grace Forsythe was gently removing the spoon from her hands. “Fuck shit piss wank bollocks drink Coca-Cola buy Smeg ovens legalise cannabis abolish the monarchy. Oh sorry, did I ruin the segment? What a shame. Maybe go film someone else for a bit.”

The producer and camera operator dutifully departed.

Rosaline drew in a shaky breath and wiped her eyes. “God, thank you.”

“Part of the job, darling. They’re a lovely bunch, the crew, but they’re a bit overzealous about capturing their”—she made flamboyant air quotes—“emotional beats. Now, stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, and best of luck with your brown sludge.”