“Yeah. Always have. It’s just how I am. My dad’s the same.”

This wasn’t her business. But it wasn’t the first time he’d mentioned feeling like this, and ignoring it—especially when he kept doing things for her—felt wrong. “Have you considered maybe seeing your GP?”

“You what?” He laughed. “You want me to go see my doctor and be like, I get scared sometimes.”

“Well, I mean—I’m just going by what you’ve said. But I think there might be . . . things out there to help you?”

“What you saying? That I need to see a shrink?”

“Would that be so terrible?”

He stood abruptly—and tall people standing abruptly was not Rosaline’s favourite thing in the world. “Yeah it would, mate. I’m not mental.”

“I don’t think you are.” She slid her chair backwards slightly. “Look, I know you think my dad’s a dick, but what he’d say in this situation is, ‘If you had a bad back, you might take up walking or you might go to a chiropractor or you might go to your doctor for a painkiller, and those are all options. And you’re already doing things to make this better for yourself, which is great, but it’s also okay to ask for help.’”

“Yeah, but I don’t need help. I’m fine.”

“You told me you went on national television to try and get out of your head. And that’s brave. But it’s probably not the most effective thing you can do.”

Seeming genuinely upset, Harry pushed a hand through his hair. “I’m not having this. I know you think I’m common, and that’s fine ’cos I am, and I don’t read Shakespeare, I don’t forage, and my dad’s not a doctor. But I’m not standing here while you tell me you think I’m a nutcase.”

“That really wasn’t my—”

“I think I’d better go. Thanks for the fish fingers.”

From her seat in the kitchen, she heard his footsteps in the hall, the clank of his toolbox, and the soft thud of the door closing behind him.

And that, Rosaline, is how you take something nice and fuck it up beyond all recognition.

Saturday

“I MISSED YOU last night,” said Alain, leaning over her shoulder.

“Sorry. I was late getting in. My whole week got thrown off because of the electricity.”

“I did say you’d be welcome at mine.”

Rosaline—who hadn’t slept especially well and was pretty certain she’d fucked up her blind bake—turned sharply. “Still got a kid, Alain.”

“I know, but you have to think of yourself as well.”

“To a point. But it does eventually become criminal neglect.”

“No one”—he gazed at her sincerely—“could deny what a devoted mother you are.”

“Thanks. Sorry. I’m just stressed.”

He smiled. “Well, perhaps later I can help you unwind.”

Honestly? She wasn’t sure she needed unwinding in that particular way. At least not right now. She’d been running around like a blue-arsed fly since Tuesday, still felt nebulously guilty about upsetting Harry, and was definitely on track for a low-performing week. Put it all together, and it was the kind of situation where the solution was Put your feet up and have a cup of tea, not Do me hard from behind. On the other hand, she wanted Alain to think she was a vivacious sex kitten, not a tired single mum scared of losing her spot on a TV baking show.

“Yeah,” she said. “That’d be . . . great.”

She was almost relieved when they were called back in for judging a moment or so later because it meant there wasn’t time for him to pick up on her lack of enthusiasm.

The challenge that week had been parkin, which was only debatably a pudding, but also only debatably a cake, so what could you do? Rosaline had struggled from the outset, letting her golden syrup boil when she hadn’t intended to and, she felt almost certain, leaving her ambiguous pudding in the oven for too long and at too high a temperature.

Marianne poked at Rosaline’s offering with a world-weary air. “It’s competent. But we’re expecting more than competence at this stage.”

It was exactly what she’d been expecting, but it still felt like a rebuke. She hung her head, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes. And seeing that Josie had done about equivalently and Harry slightly worse wasn’t much consolation. Especially when it turned out that Alain had knocked it out of the fucking park and won the round.

“So”—Alain caught up with her as she made a beeline from dinner to the bar—“how about that early night, Rosaline-um-Palmer?”

She told herself that it would be . . . nice. That it would take her mind off things. That something something endorphins. “Actually,” she heard herself say, “can I just have a drink and a sit-down first?”

“We can bring a bottle up. Have a very small bacchanal.”

“Look . . . I really need a few minutes to get myself together.”

“I understand.” He ran his fingers lightly down her arm—which was probably all the PDA he was willing to risk on-set. “Let me know when you’re done mourning your perfectly adequate parkin.”

He was right. He was right. “I just . . . feel like I should be doing better.”

“You’re doing better than some people. And there’s no way they’ll send you home while there’s weaker bakers still in the competition.”

“They’ll send home whoever does worst this week. And that could very well be me.”

“It’s not going to be you. And punishing yourself won’t make you do any better tomorrow.”

She wasn’t sure sitting at the bar and moping into a G&T rather than dashing off to catch the two-for-one special at Poundland was punishing herself exactly. Or maybe it was. Maybe she was so messed up about the competition, her future, and her choices that she thought a mediocre parkin meant she no longer had the right to get laid.

“Tell you what,” she said, “I’ll have one drink and I’ll come and find you.”

He smiled. “Looking forward to it. I’ll be in my room.”

When Rosaline got to the bar, all hope of a quiet, consolatory G&T evaporated because Anvita and Josie were already ensconced in a corner. And by the time she’d seen them they’d definitely seen her, which, by unbreakable social convention, meant they would have to invite her over and she would have to go.