Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,25

finishing that thought, dear,” said Florian quickly, “I don’t. But that’s because I’m a misanthropist, not because I’m a homosexual.”

There was a long silence.

Then Ricky started dramatically, “Is that marmalade? Have I got marmalade on my shoulder? How long have I been going around with marmalade on my shoulder?”

“Probably since you dropped that jar of marmalade?” suggested Anvita.

“But how’d it get up there? I dropped it on the floor.”

“I’m not a man of science”—Florian took a sip of his rosé—

“but experience suggests that splashback is a bitch.”

The conversation, having been resolutely steered from the state of Rosaline’s life to the state of Ricky’s clothes, should have felt safer. But it didn’t. And so Rosaline was left sitting there feeling small, and slightly naked, and like she was probably overreacting, except she didn’t know how to not. Because, for fuck’s sake, this was a stranger she’d need to see ten times at most. Why did she care what Josie—or, indeed, anyone else—thought of her.

The problem was, she did. She really, really did.

Sunday

BREAKING FOR LUNCH was worse on the second day because instead of walking past a row of very similar-looking Dundee cakes, running a spectrum from “kind of okay” to “kind of rubbish,” you were walking past a row of very different-looking cakes, several of which blew yours out of the fucking water. When planning the recipe, Rosaline had thought decorating her chocolate beetroot cake with a simple drizzle of melted chocolate would make it look classy and elegant. Unfortunately, it just made it look . . . dull. As if the girl from the start of the movie had never taken off her glasses or let down her hair.

Which sort of summed up how she felt about the whole weekend. She hadn’t expected to come on and be instantly amazing. Except, well, maybe deep down, she had a little tiny bit? Because Cordelia and St. John had raised her to be amazing, and she’d been amazing at school and, once you adjusted for Cambridge standards, amazing at university. She was even amazing at work, although mostly because the job sucked and most of her coworkers were teenagers. And obviously, parenting had been kicking her arse solidly for eight years. But that wasn’t the kind of thing where you got marks out of ten at the end.

Her one consolation was that—for the most part—chocolate cakes were all some variant of brown, so while hers was dull, at least it was dull in company. Of course, that made Anvita’s, with its vivid pattern of crushed red chillies, stand out even more. To say nothing of Alain’s gorgeous spring morning of a creation, smoothly enveloped in pale green buttercream and crowned with basil leaves.

Having fallen afoul of the tea decanters the day before, Rosaline nervously poured herself a cup and grabbed a wrap she probably wouldn’t be able to stomach. She’d just found a quiet spot on the lawn to nurse her encroaching sense of inadequacy when she spotted Alain coming towards her, looking—as Miss Wooding so often did—not angry but disappointed.

Oh God. He knew. He definitely knew.

“Rosaline,” he said. “I don’t quite know how to put this, but—” “Okay. Yes. Um, I should—”

“Can you please let me finish?”

She would have preferred to say no and come clean before he could lay her bad behaviour before her like a piece of unfinished homework. But since she was supposed to be apologising and not conducting a hard-hitting interview, she couldn’t. “Sorry. Yes. Of course.”

“Several people have mentioned in passing that you have a daughter. And I feel, honestly, a bit strange being the only person you haven’t told about her. And I confess”—here Alain ran a hand through his hair—“I’m a little confused about how your whole life story fits together. Did you, ah, meet someone in Malawi?”

There had been never been a scenario in which this didn’t go badly. Yet, somehow, she hadn’t quite been prepared for the crushing humiliation of being confronted with her own terrible behaviour. She hung her head. “No. There’s no Malawi. I mean, there is a Malawi, but I’ve never been there. And I’m not a medical student, I’m a . . . nothing, really.”

“But you do have a daughter?”

“Yes. Her name’s Amelie. She’s eight. She’s wonderful.”

“I’m sure she is,” he told her. “I just . . . I don’t understand why you lied to me. And I certainly don’t understand why you only lied to me.”

She risked an apologetic smile. “I guess I’m a bad liar and