She still didn’t win. Obviously, she didn’t win. Because, while one of the judges had quite liked Rosaline’s concept, Nora had created an entire fucking garden—complete with brioche grandchildren and a working swing. Ricky, meanwhile, did not recover from the fall of Smaug and was dispatched with hugs, pats on the back, and genuine tears.

Which left Rosaline as much in the middle as she’d ever been, but it felt different somehow. After all, she’d had a quietly approving look from Marianne Wolvercote, and not many people got those. And for the first time, it seemed almost possible to think of herself as a contender. That whatever Jennifer Hallet might believe, she could do more than look good in a pinny.

She could make a competitively viable sourdough with no warning and barely any recipe.

She could construct an anatomically correct heart out of bread and blueberries.

She could have a flirty friendship with a straight optician and get an electrician to stop calling her “love.”

And there was a hot architect who gave every impression of thinking she was pretty great.

So why couldn’t she go back to medicine? Be a doctor. Live the life she was always meant to.

She finished her debrief—“feeling very positive, actually. Took a risk, and this time, it paid off”—grabbed her bag from her room, and joined the general throng of people saying goodbye to Ricky. Before heading to the car park to wait for her father and, hopefully, say goodbye to Alain before he got picked up.

“Got something for you, mate.” The gravel crunched behind her and there was Harry, bag over his shoulder, Tupperware box in his hand.

“Have you? Um, why? What?”

“Yeah, and I’ve just realised this was probably a bit weird. Only when you were talking to your girl, she was saying she was into fish now, so I thought she might like this.”

He offered the box and she peeked inside. Tucked in a protective layer of kitchen towel was the crab from his rock pool.

“Managed to swipe it before the crew got it.” Harry shrugged. “It’s a bread roll but, you know, sorta cute, init?”

It was, in fact, sort of cute. As was the gesture. As was he but no. Not going there. People like Rosaline were not interested in people like Harry.

“I mean,” he went on, “she’d probably prefer an anglerfish or a goblin shark, but I’m not sure I could make one of them.”

Rosaline wasn’t quite sure what to say. “Thank you. That’s really kind.”

“Anyway, I should go. I’m giving Ricky a lift back.” He kicked dolefully at the path. “I promised if he went out, I’d let him take me up the Emirates.”

“Do what to you?”

“The stadium. We’re going to a fucking Arsenal game. I was drunk when I agreed to it, and he was being sad, so don’t tell my mates.”

She gave him an incredulous look. “Come on, it’s just a football game.”

“Mate, you do not get it. Better dead than red.”

With a Sydney Carton sigh, Harry began trudging back to the house. And nestling the crab safely into her luggage, Rosaline scanned the horizon for any sign of St. John Palmer.

She’d been waiting for ten of what she expected to be at least twenty minutes when her phone buzzed.

We seem to have missed each other, Alain had sent. I very much enjoyed the weekend.

If he’d enjoyed it that much, why hadn’t he managed to see her before he left? Except it was impossible to ask without sounding needy, passive-aggressive, or shrewish. So, in the end, she went with me too. Which, while bland, was impossible to take negatively.

Sorry, I was in a bit of a mood last night.

He had, indeed, been in a bit of a mood. And if his sudden disappearance was anything to go by, was in a bit of a mood today as well. But, once again, she didn’t particularly want to confront him with it. She was very out of the loop on dating, but she didn’t think “have sex a few times and then start complaining at someone” was a good way to kick off a relationship.

I understand. We all have bad days.

If I haven’t put you off, I’d love to see you this week. I’ve just come to the end of a contract so I’ve got some free time at the moment.

Could she get babysitting? Lauren was already doing a lot for her, and she couldn’t ask her parents twice in a row. But maybe if it was Thursday—Amelie had karate on Thursday, so she’d be out for most of the evening anyway.

There’s a lovely little pub in the village. We could have lunch. Go for a walk. Or not go for a walk. Sit in my garden. Practise our bakes. I’ve recently had the kitchen re-done so you’re more than welcome to take advantage. A pause. Of the kitchen. And anything else that takes your fancy.

It sounded so exactly what she needed. A little bit romantic, a little bit sexy. Taking the time to be alone with someone who was into her and liked the same things she did. But could she get the day off work? Could she afford to?

That all sounds great, she texted back. I just need to sort some things out first.

Absolutely.

Can I let you know Tuesday?

Looking forward to it.

Sticking her phone back in her pocket, Rosaline plonked herself down on a wall and watched the few wisps of cloud drift across the slowly setting sun. She wanted to feel more excited—this was a date, a proper date, not a stress-relieving on-set hookup—but the logistics. God, the logistics.

Immediately her mind began spinning through everything she’d need to put in place: she’d have to ask Lauren to come a day early, ask her manager to move her shift, and move it where? She was already taking weekends off. She’d have to let the community centre know that someone else would be picking Amelie up from karate and, for that matter, let the school know someone else would be picking her up from school. And, of course, she’d have to tell Amelie she’d be away for another day, which Amelie would accept but not like, and, fuck, was she being a bad mother? Running away to be with some guy in his garden instead of looking after her child like she was meant to. Or did worrying about that make her a bad feminist? Was she a bad mother and a bad feminist? And would Amelie like Alain? She liked him, but she wasn’t an eight-year-old girl. And while there were lots of good things to say about Alain, he definitely wasn’t an anglerfish. Or a Viking.

On top of which she somehow had to find time, space, and energy to make an awful lot of biscuits.