“And the cream cheese ice-cream,” said Marianne Wolvercote, “works surprisingly well. It just takes the edge off a dish that might otherwise have been a little overwhelming.”

Wilfred Honey had taken a second helping. “It’s a very balanced dish. And the little banana slices on top add a slightly different texture that stops your mouth getting bored.”

“This is good work from you, Alain.” Marianne Wolvercote gave him an approving nod. “I’m glad to see you getting off the allotment.”

“Thank you.” Alain was blushing in a way that Rosaline suspected would be very telegenic. “Thank you so much.”

Finally, it was Josie. “I thought I’d try something a bit different this week,” she said. “This is a fourteenth-century recipe that I’ve tried to update for the twenty-first century.”

The judges exchanged heavy looks. And with a sense of schadenfreude she tried very hard to be ashamed of, Rosaline knew she was back in the game.

Josie’s medieval molten pudding—which was apparently called a payne foundewe—had been described as “valiant” by Wilfred Honey and “definitely not a self-saucing pudding” by Marianne Wolvercote. Either of which could have been the kiss of death on its own and together became a double whammy of doom. Sure enough, Josie was eliminated. And once again, Alain took the top spot. Which, as the person who had made the most successful parkin and the best pudding, he clearly deserved. Even if he had, Rosaline thought resentfully, hopped on the booze train to victory station. But then again, so had she.

She was on her way to the car park when Alain himself came bounding over.

“Congratulations,” she told him. And was glad to realise that—petty resentment aside—she mostly meant it.

He grinned. “Oh thanks. I’m glad it came together because I was getting visions of people watching the show and saying, That Alain guy was really good in week one, but what happened to him?”

“I don’t think you were ever going to be that guy.”

“Good. Because I was running out of herbs to forage. So”—he gave her a look that hovered in between hopeful and winsome—“have you thought any more about coming to London this week?”

She hadn’t, particularly, but fuck it, she’d work it out. “It’ll depend on babysitting,” she said. “But I think I can probably do it.”

“Marvellous. I’ll text you the details.”

Checking her phone, Rosaline realised that while she wasn’t late for getting picked up, she was sufficiently not-early that her mother would consider it late anyway. “I’m so sorry. I need to dash. My mum’ll be waiting.”

Which, now that she’d said it, sounded way too fourteen to be something you were comfortable saying to someone you were shagging.

“Don’t worry. I’ll dash with you. Liv has an abstract relationship with time, so you never know when she’s going to turn up.”

It wasn’t really a dash. It was more sort of a brisk walk down the drive. And sure enough, there at the end of it was Cordelia Palmer standing by the bonnet of her Tesla—which she’d somehow managed to park in the most accusing spot possible.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Rosaline, who was actually neither.

“Don’t worry, I’m used to it.” Cordelia Palmer’s smile said she was joking, her tone didn’t. “You must be Alain. Rosaline, of course, has told us nothing about you, but St. John says you gave him a run for his money and that’s no mean feat.”

Alain offered her one of his deft little cheek kisses. “It’s good to meet you, Dr. Palmer.”

“And you.” There was the faintest of pauses, signalling that only Cordelia Palmer’s heroic intervention was preventing this from becoming an irredeemable social failure. “I hope the show’s treating you well?”

“Well enough. Actually won this week, as it happens.”

“Oh did you? That must have taken a lot of work, balanced against your career commitments.”

He gave a modest half-shrug. “Candidly, yes. Especially because I had final designs to submit for a railway conversion project I’ve been involved in. But my parents always told me that a job worth starting was worth seeing through.”

“Yes”—one of Cordelia Palmer’s famous sighs—“St. John and I tried to teach Rosaline the same thing.”

As far as Rosaline was concerned, they had. It was just that what she’d chosen to see through was having a daughter, not attending an eight-hundred-year-old academic institution. But there was no point having that argument again. She toed at the gravel like the unruly teenager her parents would always see her as.

And that, adorably but unfortunately, seemed to make Alain want to come to her defence. “Then you’ve succeeded. She’s still in the competition and she’s planning to go back to university.”

Cordelia’s eyes flashed with sudden interest. “You see. I said she never tells us anything.”

“Oh, it’s quite a new idea,” he said quickly. “We’ve only talked about it a couple of times.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re looking out for her. It’s about time someone did.”

Once again, Rosaline could have mentioned that she had Lauren and, for that matter, herself. But, once again, there were only so many times you could have the exact same conversation.

“Anyway”—Alain took the smallest of steps backwards—“I’ve put my foot in it quite enough for one day. I should let you go.”

Dreading the conversation that would inevitably descend upon her the moment she and her mother were alone, Rosaline fumbled through a polite goodbye and then got into the Tesla with all the enthusiasm of a damned soul being ushered onto Charon’s boat.

“So,” said Cordelia Palmer two seconds after the engine started.

And Rosaline kind of expected the sentence to continue but it didn’t. She sighed, but less famously than her mother. “Nothing’s definite. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s something I’m thinking about and I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”

“We’d just have liked to know you were considering it.” A slightly different flavour of Cordelia Palmer pause. This was one that said, I don’t want to say the hurtful thing I’m going to say next, but you have driven me to it. “Especially given how steadfastly you’ve ignored the same suggestion when it came from your father and me.”