“Yes,” said Rosaline. “Yes it is.”

“All right. I’m in.”

They set out for the nearest village, which rejoiced in the name of Crinkley Furze. Rosaline wasn’t sure, but she suspected its economy had been ever so slightly distorted by the popularity of Bake Expectations because there were an awful lot of cake shops, although it was late enough in the day that most of them were closed. And even if they hadn’t been, cake was not something that any of them were feeling a particular lack of in their lives.

Crinkley Furze had two pubs, one of which—the Duke’s Arm’s—had that “local pub for local people” vibe that suggested three stray reality TV contestants would be decidedly unwelcome, and the other of which—the Rusty Badger—was the kind of place that put prosciutto on its burgers. They went Badger and found the choice of non-TV-grade food slightly overwhelming.

“What even is ceps?” asked Harry, picking up the menu. “They use it on MasterChef all the time, and I’ve never worked out which bit it is.”

Anvita, too, claimed a menu. “Isn’t it that long green stuff?”

“Nah. That’s samphire. Which I know ’cos they only do it with fish ’cos it’s a sea vegetable. And apparently they’re all too good for mushy peas.”

“When I’m done with the show,” said Rosaline, “I’m going to go on MasterChef and my signature dish is going to be ceps served five ways, and I’m going to call it Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Ceps but Were Too Afraid to Ask.”

That made Harry laugh. “Bit long-winded for me. I’d probably go with The Joy of Ceps.”

“Sounds delicious,” added Anvita. “I might go so far as to say I Want Your Ceps.”

There was a pause as they menued. But Harry apparently still had ceps on the brain. “It’s in a coco bean and ceps soup. So it must be something what goes well with coco. But it’s not like marshmallows, is it? It’s probably like . . . another bean? Or a type of pepper maybe?”

“We could google this.” Anvita was already pulling out her phone.

But Rosaline firmly covered it with her hand. “No. It’s a mystery. I’m not having spoilers. What else is in the soup?”

“Cavolo nero.”

“I know that one,” said Rosaline. “It’s fancy kale.”

“Mate, all kale is fancy where I come from. If it’s not fancy, it’s called greens. And there’s also Parmesan in it. So it’s gotta be something that goes well with coco, cheese, and greens. I don’t think anything goes with coco, cheese, and greens.”

Anvita obligingly turned her phone facedown. “Weirdest Only Connect round ever. And I think Harry should order the soup and we should bet on what the ceps are.”

“Why am I,” asked Harry plaintively, “the one what’s ordering the mystery soup?”

“It’s your punishment for doing better than us in the blind bake.”

He sighed. “Fine. I reckon it’s a type of bean what isn’t a coco bean because they always put more beans than you want in bean soup.”

“I don’t care what it’s been,” interjected Rosaline in a moment of weakness, “I care what it is now.”

“Mate.” Harry shook his head. “I can’t believe I thought you was a classy bird.”

“I’m still a classy bird. But one of the tragedies of being a single mother is you have to do your own dad jokes. Anyway, I think ceps are . . . They sound like they’d be a bit like capers.”

“What?” cried Anvita. “That would be horrible with kale and coco beans. It’d be all briney and yick.”

“I said like capers. Sort of little round things that you don’t know what they’re called or what they’re bringing to the dish. Now come on. What’s your pick?”

Resting an elbow on the table, Anvita screwed her face up thoughtfully. “Judging by the flavours already in the dish, you’d need something earthy to tie it together. So it’s probably some kind of mushroom?”

“You think”—Harry gave her his flattest stare—“it’s chocolate mushroom soup?”

“I’m not sure, but I suspect coco beans without an ‘a’ are different from cocoa beans with an ‘a.’”

“Hang on.” Rosaline did a Hold your horses gesture. “Are you going double or nothing here? Are you committing to the prediction that not only are ceps mushrooms but also that coco beans aren’t cocoa beans?”

“Hell to the yes. What do I win?”

There was a silence.

“Our marginally increased respect?” offered Rosaline.

Anvita’s lip curled. “You must be really fun at poker night. I’ll see your respect and raise you slightly more respect.”

“Okay. Losers will buy the winner another drink because this is already quite expensive and I’m not going to let my child starve because Mummy is bad at food trivia.”

“Fuck, yeah,” shouted Anvita, startling an innocent waiter who had just set down a bowl of mushroom soup in front of Harry.

Rosaline held up a finger. “Hold on. It could be brown because of the cocoa beans.”

“There”—the excitement in Anvita’s voice was almost adorable—“that thing on the top. That’s definitely a mushroom. And it must be a cep. Because those are Parmesan flakes and that’s cavolo nero and I bet there’s beans in it and I bet they’re not chocolate.”

Nervously, Harry dipped in a spoon. “She’s right. They ain’t.” “Who da . . . woman? Who’s got two thumbs and can correctly identify slightly obscure cooking ingredients.” Anvita turned the digits in question towards herself. “This person.” She turned them upright. “Suck it. Now buy me a drink. Buy me two drinks. Because you are losers.”

Trying not to take more than her share, Rosaline spread some of the mackerel pâté she was splitting with Anvita over a piece of toast. “So how are the mysterious ceps?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s mushroom soup. It’s nice mushroom soup, but I’m not sure I’d pay seven quid for it. I mean, apart from the fact that I will, ’cos otherwise that’d be a crime. But it’s not what I’d normally have on a Saturday night.”