Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,27
defeated, as if his whole body was saying I dare you to admit this is as shit as we all know it is.
“So you had a bit of an accident wi’ one o’t layers,” began Wilfred Honey, smiling his most grandfatherly smile, which, for a man so grandfatherly it was like his whole body was made of Werther’s Originals was very grandfatherly indeed. “But that doesn’t matter as long as the taste is right.”
They cut into it, and Marianne Wolvercote nibbled a delicate forkful. “The taste isn’t right.”
Dave rocked back on his heels a moment, nodded, and then said, “Well, fuck you both very much.”
The whole set had gone quiet, like everybody knew there was a wasp in the room and nobody knew where it was. It was just that in this case the wasp was named Jennifer Hallet, and there was very little ambiguity about who was going to get stung.
“David,” she said in a voice that could have split cake batter and set meringues, “a word.”
The judging proceeded as normal after that, only slightly interrupted by occasional half-caught phrases like “contractual obligation,” “caustic piss-storm,” and “faster than your first shit after a salmonella pasty” drifting in from outside.
Once Jennifer Hallet had finished politely explaining to Dave why his conduct had been unprofessional and might have negative repercussions, she brought him back inside, pointed at the spot in front of the judges’ table, and said: “From Marianne’s last line. Thanks.”
“The taste isn’t right,” Marianne Wolvercote repeated, with exactly the same intonation as the first time. “Rosewater is a delicate flavour that’s easy to overdo, and you have most definitely overdone it.”
There was a really long silence.
Dave picked up his two-thirds of a cake. “Mmhm. Thanks.” And so it went on. Anvita did well, and Rosaline was just focused enough to be happy for her. Then her own turn came around and with a kind of detached relief, she realised that she was too emotionally battered to be nervous.
Marianne Wolvercote peered at her offering with the eye of a connoisseur, which, when Rosaline thought about it, she was. “Now this looks good, but it is quite simple, and so I’m not totally certain good will be enough.”
Rosaline’s shoulders hunched slightly. She knew that already. As long as she didn’t actively tell the judges to fuck off she would probably get through, but “Good enough isn’t good enough” was the Palmers’ unofficial family motto. And here she was demonstrating her not-good-enoughness all over again.
The judges sliced into her cake and Marianne Wolvercote poked it with a knife in a way that Rosaline, already raw from the process and Alain and everything, found weirdly invasive.
“Nice lightness,” said Wilfred Honey, still chewing enthusiastically. “Tasty and with a really smooth, moist texture to it.”
Setting her fork down, Marianne Wolvercote looked grave. “But sadly that’s about all there is. If this had been perfect, it could have been the best bake of the day, but it’s a touch uneven here”—she indicated a line along the base of the cake where the mixture had settled a little, leaving it slightly denser—“and I think you left it in the oven a shade too long.”
“Also,” added Wilfred Honey, “I think it might have looked nicer if you’d made a lovely ganache. Or maybe a buttercream, just to lift it up a bit.”
Oh, of course. Put that on the list of many, many things she could have done differently in her life.
“Mmhm,” she said. “Thanks.”
As she slunk back to her workstation, she crossed paths with Alain, who was striding confidently forward, cradling a tray full of magic. He didn’t look at her, but then why would he?
He laid his creation delicately in front of the judges. “This is a chocolate cake with basil buttercream, served with a mint ice-cream.” Then, after a small pause and with a self-deprecating half-smile: “The basil’s from my garden and I, ah, foraged the mint.”
They cut into it with appreciative ceremony, exposing the perfectly even layers of dark sponge and pale cream, and then sampled it with gusto.
“This is rather delightful,” purred Marianne Wolvercote. “I was concerned about the basil, but it works surprisingly well against the richness of the chocolate.”
Wilfred Honey scooped up another forkful. “By ’eck, it’s gorgeous.”
A ripple of gasps moved through the hall. This was an informal catchphrase of Wilfred Honey’s, and he usually didn’t break it out until episode three or four. Clearly, Alain—as well as being the type of person who’d never lie about his personal history—