Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,39

sherry, mind.” Marianne Wolvercote seemed genuinely disappointed by this. “Which might give you the edge.”

“He grew his own tarragon, though, didn’t he?” asked Rosaline.

Grace Forsythe threw a look to camera. “That’s competitive baking for you. Here today. Tarra-gone tomorrow.”

“So that’s the savoury taken care of.” Wilfred Honey was still twinkling at her. As far as Rosaline could tell, he’d been twinkling solidly for the best part of a century. “What about your sweet?”

Thankfully, her brain did not re-fart. “I’m doing toffee apple pies with dulce de leche.”

Marianne Wolvercote got that You have made a terrible mistake look in her eyes that Rosaline saw every season on the show and wondered why competitors didn’t notice. “And you think you can manage that in the time?”

“If I work really fast, don’t make any mistakes, and don’t get interrupted—oh God, I didn’t mean, I just . . . at home my daughter sometimes comes in and time works differently for eight-year-olds.”

“No, no, we understand.” Grace Forsythe threw her hands in the air. “Marianne, Wilfred, we have been given our marching orders. Thus must we march.”

They didn’t so much march as stop to get a couple more establishing shots and do a short to-camera bit about what a big risk she was taking well within earshot. But eventually, they were gone and Rosaline could confront the fact that her dulce was probably writing cheques that her leche wouldn’t be able to cash.

Within an hour, she was forced to conclude that her leche not only wasn’t cashing cheques but was having the bailiffs come round for the furniture.

In theory—in bloody theory—it could have worked. It had mostly worked at home. There was enough time to make pastry, make fillings, fill pie cases, and spend an hour and a half continuously stirring a pot of milk until it magically transformed into a smooth, velvety caramel. Except what she’d wound up with, now she was on the show and it was critical, was pies not quite ready to go into the oven and a pan of brownish liquid that might have been slightly sweet-tasting.

And yes, her blind bake had been broadly fine, and yes, there was only one element that was going wrong, but it was going very wrong, and it was the element that was supposed to show she could really do this, apart from the bit where she obviously couldn’t really do this, and she didn’t even pick her own tarragon, and what had she been thinking signing up to show off her cooking on television when all she’d ever done was make biscuits for eight-year-olds, who weren’t exactly discerning critics, and shit shit shit shit shit.

“What are you doing now?” asked a random production assistant.

Being about to cry was what she was doing now. “Um,” she said. “I . . . just . . . I’m stirring this . . . it’s meant to . . . but it’s . . .”

To her horror, she was actually crying.

And the next thing she knew, Grace Forsythe was gently removing the spoon from her hands. “Fuck shit piss wank bollocks drink Coca-Cola buy Smeg ovens legalise cannabis abolish the monarchy. Oh sorry, did I ruin the segment? What a shame. Maybe go film someone else for a bit.”

The producer and camera operator dutifully departed.

Rosaline drew in a shaky breath and wiped her eyes. “God, thank you.”

“Part of the job, darling. They’re a lovely bunch, the crew, but they’re a bit overzealous about capturing their”—she made flamboyant air quotes—“emotional beats. Now, stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, and best of luck with your brown sludge.”

The brown sludge simmered at her mockingly.

Home felt suddenly very far away. As did her little kitchen with the eggshell-blue cabinets she’d painted herself, and the hob with one broken ring, and the window where the sun crept through in the early afternoon. The table that barely fit where Amelie would sit and do—or more accurately not do—her homework while Rosaline made dinner or whipped up a batch of cupcakes.

Baking was supposed to be the thing that made her feel better. It was supposed to be hers. It was supposed to be family and togetherness and everything being okay in the end.

But here she was fucking it all up.

Fucking it up all up on national TV.

And fucking crying about it.

She was going home, wasn’t she? She’d spent the first week and a half dancing on the edge of not quite good enough, and then been so desperate to prove herself that she’d