Harry blinked. “Blimey. Cheers.”

This left Nora, who, in a slightly different interpretation of the brief, had made one gargantuan macaron, decorated with smaller macarons, along with fresh fruit and cream.

“Golly,” said Grace Forsythe, “it’s macaronception.”

Marianne Wolvercote eyed Nora’s offering. “This is actually quite current. You’re starting to see these all over the place, and when they work they can be marvellous. But it’s not what we were looking for, and I suspect Wilfred will be particularly disappointed to be served a cake with no actual cake in it.”

“I am disappointed,” agreed Wilfred Honey, cracking the layers of Nora’s uncake with a knife. “The macarons themselves look very nice, but the filling’s just cream and fruit, isn’t it?”

“Which does,” added Marianne Wolvercote, “make it very light and give it a refreshing tartness—which I like.”

“But it’s not,” concluded Wilfred Honey, “a cake.”

For once, the contestants were allowed to remain in the ballroom while the judges conferred—it had been a long enough day, and the results conclusive enough, that an extra round of interviews would have been gruelling and pointless. Instead, they sat patiently, mostly avoiding each other’s gazes until Grace Forsythe and the judges came back in.

“As always,” said Grace Forsythe, “we have reached the part of the show where we mix delight and despondency. The delightful part is that I get to name this week’s winner, who impressed us with his technically brilliant gougères and then frankly surprised us with his delicate touch, his dainty macarons, and his fondant mermaid. This week, at last, it’s Harry.”

There was just enough time for the camera to catch everyone’s “pleased for you” faces, some of them more natural than others before Grace Forsythe continued.

“But, of course, as with so much in life, our store of pleasures must be sauced with paine. And so it is with genuine heartbreak that, after six weeks of illuminating the ballroom with her rich flavours and seemingly inexhaustible supply of fancy glasses, we say goodbye to Anvita.”

Rosaline, to her mild embarrassment, burst into tears.

“I’m going to really miss her,” she told Colin Thrimp afterwards, wishing she didn’t have to say this on-camera, “because she’s . . . she’s . . . excellent and sexy.”

He gave a kind of nervy, ferrety blink. “Why is everyone saying that? I had to tell Nora of all people that it’s not appropriate in the time slot. Can you try it again in a way that doesn’t suggest you’re sexually attracted to the eliminated contestant?”

“Was that a concern with Nora?”

“Please,” whimpered Colin Thrimp, “we’ve all had a very long day. Say something lovely about how lovely Anvita is that we can actually broadcast.”

“She was”—Rosaline was misting up again—“a really good friend and if you’re watching this, Anvita’s nan, I hope you’re incredibly proud of her. Because she’s . . . she’s . . . excellent and . . . excellent.”

An interchangeable technician brought her another pack of tissues.

From under a nearby tree, Nora had moved on from Anvita and was mounting a spirited defence of her bake. “They told me to make a macaron cake and so I made a macaron cake. If they wanted me to make a cake with macarons on it, they should have said make a cake with macarons on it. They also said I was current. I’ve never been current in my life. Even when I was twenty, I wasn’t current. I’m slightly vexed.”

“Well,” Anvita was saying as she sat on the loser wall, swinging her feet, “that was a disaster. But they say go big or go home, and it looks like I’m doing both. And I do feel I stayed true to the spirit of Marie Antoinette. It just all ended up a bit postguillotine.”

They reunited outside the Lodge for another round of hugs, goodbyes, and promises to stay in touch.

“I tried telling them you were excellent and sexy,” explained Rosaline through a cloud of sniffles. "But Colin told me it was inappropriate to imply I wanted to do you.”

Anvita grinned. “Ah, so you do want to do me?”

“I mean, if we weren’t both seeing someone and you had any interest in women, I’d probably be willing to have a tumultuous fling with you.”

“What makes you think it’d be tumultuous?”

“Because I’ve met you.”

Anvita thought for a moment. “Fair.”

“I tried to say you were excellent and sexy too,” Harry offered. “But they wouldn’t let me say it either. And frankly, I’m relieved. I don’t want your nan or your boyfriend coming after me.”

“Yeah”—Anvita gave him an appraising look—“my boyfriend couldn’t take you. But my nan is vicious. Anyway, let’s swap numbers because you’re not getting rid of me this easily and you should know by now I always get my own way.”

There was a brief flurry of phones.

And when they were done, Anvita poked Rosaline firmly on the shoulder. “And you, lady, had better win this for me. Err, no offence, Harry.”

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s all right. I reckon I’ve peaked with the mermaid cake.”

“And your dainty macarons,” added Anvita, in her best Grace Forsythe voice.

“Leave it out. I’m going to get enough of that from Terry.” Anvita wrinkled her nose in genuine bemusement. “I still don’t understand why you’re friends with this man.”

“Ask your boyfriend. It’s a bloke thing.”

“That’s not an answer. That’s internalised sexism.”

“I think you’ll find,” he told her in his driest voice, “it’s gender socialisation.”

Before either of them could reply, Alain sauntered over.

“Ah, Rosaline,” he said.

She knew she should have been pleased to see him. And, well, she was. It was just that she knew how seriously he took the competition, and he hadn’t done as well as he was probably hoping this week. Plus, he didn’t exactly gel with Harry and Anvita.

But to her surprise, he slid an arm round her waist, pulled her close, and kissed her full on the mouth before turning to Anvita with an expression of what seemed to be genuine sympathy. “I’m so sorry you had a bad week, Anvita. I really think you could have gone further.”