Rosaline opened her mouth and—realising she had absolutely no idea what to say—closed it again. Because she was kind of with another bloke. So probably letting stone-cold hotties tell her she was a fucking weirdo was over some hypothetical but very specific line.

Except what if Alain had been right however many weeks ago and she was desperate for . . . something? Because she didn’t actually want Harry to shut up at all. She needed more of—actually, she wasn’t quite sure what. If it was the quiet otherworldly feeling of your child being in bed. Or not having to worry about the electricity going off for no reason or about how she’d pay to fix it if it did. Maybe it was because she’d come first on biscuits, and every time she thought about it she had to stop herself bouncing like Tigger. Or maybe it was the company. Being with someone who’d seen her house and met her kid and knew what her life was like. Someone who seemed to care about who she was. Not who she should have been.

Standing, Harry gathered up their plates and then took them over to the sink—where he started to wash up.

“You cooked,” she said. “You shouldn’t be—”

“I stuck some fish fingers in a frying plan. Marcus Wareing ain’t gonna be knocking on my door anytime soon.”

“It was a really good fish finger, though. And Marcus Wareing did serve a custard tart to the Queen.”

“Can you imagine, though?” He glanced over his shoulder. “If I tried to serve the Queen a fish finger sandwich. They’d hate me worse than they hate Meghan Markle.”

“That’s not funny,” she told him. “And I feel bad for wanting to laugh anyway.”

“I know. Poor girl. I mean, poor young woman. Had a terrible time of it. My mum and dad still remember what happened with Princess Di. You think they’d learn, wouldn’t you?”

Rosaline pulled a tea towel from the rack—it was a souvenir one from Battle Abbey, which Amelie had picked up on a school trip—and started drying. “Shock horror: monarchy terrible system.”

“Eh, someone’s got to open things, and it can’t always be the Archbishop of Canterbury or someone what came third on X-Factor.”

There was a pause while they finished up, Rosaline tucking the plates back in the cupboard while Harry rinsed the grease out of the sink with more diligence than Rosaline herself often displayed.

“So,” he asked, “why’d you come on the show, then?”

Now Bake Expectations was in full swing, it had been a while since she’d had to answer that. “Honestly, I’m kind of . . . Saying ‘desperate’ sounds really overdramatic. And, actually, I’m fine. I’m much better off than most people in my situation. It’s just I feel . . . stuck.”

He tilted his head in gentle curiosity. “How’d you mean?”

“Oh, it’s complicated. And I’m not even sure it makes sense. Because, the thing is, I’m so glad to have Amelie. And if I could go back and do it all over again, I’d do everything the same. But I’m tired of never having quite enough money and never having quite enough time. And I’m tired of feeling like my whole life is an expensive hobby that my parents are bankrolling for me. Sorry, that’s”—she slumped down at the kitchen table again—“a lot.”

“Is what it is, init? And there’s nothing wrong with wanting a bit of extra cash, and you ain’t got nothing to lose by going on the telly for it. I mean,” he went on, with far more confidence than Rosaline had ever felt, “you’re a good baker, and I reckon folk’ll like you even if you don’t win. Look at her with the teeth from last season—she went out in the semifinal and she’s got her own TV series now.”

Strangely, talking to Harry about the show had made it feel realer than it ever had before. Like it was actually a plan, not a pipe dream or a detour on the way to something better. “I think maybe I was hoping more for, I don’t know, a recipe book or a column in the Guardian. Writing for a website. Something I can do from home that pays more than eight pounds seventy-two an hour.”

“Go far enough and you can have your pick. And that’s what life’s all about at the end of the day. Doing something you’re okay with that pays enough that you can take care of the people you want to take care of.”

It was a very . . . a very un-Palmer way to think about it. “My parents would say that life was about making the most of your talents and finding a career that challenges you and makes a difference.”

“Well, baking’s a talent.” Harry gave half a smile and half a shrug. “And I reckon you’ve got enough challenges already. And if what you do makes you happy and makes other people happy, that should be enough of a difference for anybody.”

She wished it was that simple. And while she appreciated his, well, all of this, she had to change the subject, or . . . it was too much to think about. Especially when she was supposed to be looking at access courses and going back to university and turning her life into whatever it was meant to be. “What about you?”

“Well, I’m doing all right. Working for my dad at the moment, but I’ll take it over when he retires. I know it’s not Harrods, but it’s something. It’s what we do and I like doing it.”

“No, I mean why did you go on the show?”

He blew out a long breath. “Bit daft, if I’m honest. I’m trying to do more things what scare me.”

“And going on a baking show scares you?”

“Oh yeah. Gotta be on TV. Gotta talk in front of cameras. Gotta wonder what my mates think. It’s all my worst things.”

“If your friends are that bad, they’re not your friends.”

“They ain’t. I mean, Terry is. But mostly I just get in my head about what people are going to say. And they never do—well, hardly ever, except Terry—only it keeps going round and round anyway.” Joining her at the table, Harry brushed away the last fish finger crumbs. “So I thought, Fuck it. You like baking, go on the baking thing. Did not expect to get this far if I’m honest.”

“You’ve done really well,” she offered.

“Cheers, mate. I reckon I’ve got another week in me at least.”

Rosaline wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. And so she found herself watching him, half enjoying having someone to talk to who wasn’t either her child, her ex-girlfriend, or a man she was trying to impress, and half confused because Harry was never quite who she expected him to be. Or maybe he was, but it meant something different than she’d thought it would. “You . . . you seem to worry about things a lot.”