Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,13
by being consistently mediocre and then people will finally remember I’m there and I’ll have to leave.”
“Aim high, girlfriend.” It was mildly impressive how much irony Anvita could pack into three words.
There was a brief pause, and it wasn’t totally uncomfortable. “I think,” Anvita went on, “I’m socially mandated to ask what you do. I’m training to be an optician, which is less boring than it sounds, but not by much.”
This is it, Rosaline. Tell the pretty young woman you aren’t doing anything cool or interesting with your life. Don’t make up an elaborate personal history again. Stop pretending your child, who you love, doesn’t exist, because that’s fucked up. “I’m . . . a single mum and I work in a shop.”
“Which shop?”
“Chain stationery store. Living the dream.”
“How old’s the kid-slash-kids?”
“Kid. And she’s eight.”
“Oh, that’s the good age.” Anvita seemed to have at least a vague idea where she was going, leading Rosaline confidently out of the Lodge and towards the main house. “Old enough they’re fun to talk to, but young enough they’re not a complete prick. I’ve got a nephew who’s seven. He’s the best.”
“Yeah, Amelie’s amazing, but I have no idea what I’m going to do when she’s a teenager.”
“Wait until she’s stopped being a teenager?”
It wasn’t the worst parenting advice Rosaline had ever encountered. As they tramped up the hill together, they passed a small village of vans, temporary gazebos, and bits of scaffolding that had taken over a far corner of the grounds—somewhere that would be artfully invisible from the house to maintain the illusion of unspoiled pastoral beauty.
“Yikes.” Anvita was also staring at the tangle of crap from which televisual magic would apparently be wrought. “This is actually happening, isn’t it?”
“Well, I’m not naked, so I’m pretty sure it’s not an anxiety dream.”
“Have you had a chance to scope out the competition yet?” asked Anvita, with an air partway between playful and ruthless.
“Not exactly. I met one guy yesterday. But I more got stranded with him than scoped him.”
“You got stranded?”
“There was a whole big train thing and we wound up having to crash at a farmhouse overnight.”
This earned her a look of mock reproach. “You spent the night with the guy and you know nothing about him?”
“I didn’t realise I was supposed to be doing intelligence gathering.”
“Fine.” Anvita sighed heavily. “I’ll share my secret stash of opposition research with you out of pure pity.”
“Good thing I have no pride or I might object to that.” Leaning in close, Anvita dropped her voice to an urgent whisper. “Okay. So. Most importantly, there are two stone-cold hotties.”
“I mean, good to know? But how relevant is that from the perspective of a baking show we’ll both just be happy to get through the first round of, but secretly want to win?”
“It’s very relevant from the perspective of me enjoying myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a boyfriend and I love him to bits, but a girl likes to window-shop.”
There was, as far as Rosaline could tell, no real reason not to go with this. “Okay, tell me what’s on sale.”
“So, there’s Ricky. He’s a student at Southampton—something something material science something. Bit young, but tall, locs, good cheekbones, great smile. He plays football or whatever and you can tell. He’ll look great when he’s whisking.”
“I feel like I know him already.”
“Then there’s Harry. I haven’t been able to get much out of him, but I think he fixes things. With his hands. His strong, manly hands. I hope he makes it to bread week.”
“Have you spoken to anyone who wasn’t an attractive man?” As questions went, Rosaline knew this was slightly hypocritical.
“Yes. I’ve spoken to Nora, who’s a gran, so I bet she’s going to win. And I’ve spoken to Florian, who I’m sure is attractive to some people, but I think he’s about fifty and really quite gay.
There’s also Claudia, who’s this terrifying lawyer lady; and Josie, who I’ve heard owns over four hundred cookbooks.”
“I couldn’t fit four hundred cookbooks in my house.” “I wouldn’t want to. I’ve got the internet and a phone. Like a normal person.”
Breakfast, as it turned out, was a kind of self-service arrangement on the veranda: long, shallow metal trays filled with rapidly cooling offerings of eggs, bacon, hash browns, and other staples of the English breakfast. Vegetarians, Rosaline assumed, would have to make do with mushrooms and toast.
“I’m trying to weigh up,” said Anvita, “whether it looks worse to get one enormous plate of everything or to