Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,110
is it? It’s about, you know, family and that.”
She nodded. “I guess so.”
“What’s brought this on?”
“I don’t know. I . . . I put so much into it, I sometimes wonder if I’m wasting my time, maybe?”
“What, ’cos your dad’s a cardiologist and you ain’t?”
That was the problem with Harry. He didn’t look like he was supposed to be perceptive. But he kept . . . getting her? “And my mum’s an oncologist.”
He thought about this for a second or two. “Bloody hell, you aren’t half a bunch of clever bastards, ain’t you?”
“They are. I got knocked up and dropped out of university.”
“Don’t mean you’re not clever. Just means you made different choices.”
“Maybe.” She sighed. “The thing is, though, they feel like lesser choices.”
“I wouldn’t know, mate. Or maybe I want lesser things as well.”
“How do you mean?”
He shrugged, eyes firmly on the road. “Well, way I was raised, you got a job that pays the bills, you got people around you care about, that’s all you need.”
“Is it though?” she wondered aloud. “Can that really be enough?”
“Well ”—his gaze flicked to her so quickly she half thought she’d imagined it—“there’s a couple of things I’d like what I ain’t got. But that’s life, init?”
“And you aren’t worried there could be, I don’t know, more?”
He laughed at that. “Of course there’s more. But so what? No one can have everything. You’ve just got to figure out what matters. And then not let stuff what don’t matter get in the way of stuff what does.”
It all seemed so simple, so attainable, so . . . right in front of her when he said it. But she knew the moment she got out of the van she’d be swept straight back into an ocean of coulds and shoulds and other people’s expectations.
It didn’t stop her from pretending, though. Imagining for a moment she could have a life like Harry’s. Where your world was whatever you made of it and whoever you let into it and you were allowed to be happy with that.
Week Seven
Semifinal
Thursday
ROSALINE ARRIVED AT Alain’s place a little before eight. To her surprise, the door was opened by Liv, who was wearing another sleek black dress and had a half-empty wineglass clutched in her other hand.
“Rosaline,” she exclaimed, hugging her somewhat unsuccessfully on account of the wineglass and Rosaline not having expected to see her, let alone be enveloped by her. “Hi. Come in. Alain’s in the kitchen.”
Hoping that her feelings of What the fuck? hadn’t reached her face, Rosaline followed Liv into the living room—where she stood looking dazed while Liv kicked off her Louboutins and curled up catlike on the sofa.
“Isn’t it wonderful,” she purred, “to be seeing a man who cooks.”
“Well, I did meet him on a cooking show, so it’d be weird if he didn’t.”
Liv waved her wineglass. “Believe me, you still can’t take that type of thing for granted. Every man I’ve been with since Alain has been very much the ‘lives off takeaway and fucks his secretary’ sort.”
What was happening right now? “Maybe you’ve been unlucky?”
“Oh, I’ve been very lucky. I’ve known exactly what I’ve been getting into.” A pause. Then a sigh. “But I have missed Alain. He was always different.” Another pause. “I think it’s being an architect: it’s just creative enough you can’t be totally dry and miserable but not so creative you’re obliged to act like a total wanker. And it’s just corporate enough that you can’t get away with living in sandals but not so corporate that you can get away with anything.”
“Have you tried,” suggested Rosaline, “dating somebody . . . not like any of those things?”
Liv gazed at her solemnly. “I admit the thought has crossed my mind.”
This had started weird and was showing no signs of de-weirding. “Sorry, am I stepping on your . . . Is there some kind of . . . ” Rosaline did her best approximation of an Are you still in love with my boyfriend gesture. “Are you and Alain . . . ?”
“Not at all, darling. I’ll admit we’ve been a bit on-again, off-again, but I think we’re off for the foreseeable.”
It seemed a bit rude to say, “So why are you in his house dressed like you’re on a date?” but Rosaline really wanted to know why Liv was in his house dressed like she was on a date. Before she could formulate an even halfway-polite version of that question, Alain appeared in the doorway, with—of all things—a tray