Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,67
level, how you identify is informed by, well, circumstance. I honestly believe that there are people out there who pretty much define as straight who might have gone a different way if they’d met a different person at a different time in their lives. But as long as you’re happy, it doesn’t really matter.”
Alain hummed noncommittally.
“I suppose,” Rosaline went on, “and I don’t want this to come across like I’m telling your ex how to feel. But your sexuality shouldn’t be defined by FOMO.”
“I know. But she wonders, sometimes—and I think it might ease her mind if she had a safe way of, well, finding out for certain.”
“There are places to meet people, real and virtual. But I can’t give any more advice because everyone’s different.”
He propped himself on his elbow and ran a hand lightly over the curve of her hip. “Don’t worry. You’ve been very kind. I suspect she’d be happier if she could be more like you.”
And before she could ask exactly what he meant by that, he suddenly became very, very distracting.
Sunday
SHE DIDN’T WANT to jinx it, but things were going pretty well. Rosaline had made up three different types of biscuit dough, her jam was setting, and Marianne had already remarked approvingly on the quantity of alcohol she was using.
Across the ballroom, Claudia—who remained a total mystery to Rosaline, aside from having a vaguely high-powered career and an uninspired approach to bread sculpture—was having the “No, I haven’t had time to practise” / “Do you think that’s a good idea?” conversation with Grace Forsythe and the judges.
“No,” she was saying, “it’s obviously a terrible idea. But it wasn’t a deliberate strategic decision. I haven’t watched the show and thought to myself, Ah yes, every time someone tries a bake that they haven’t previously practised it goes exceptionally well for them and the judges are hugely impressed. Unfortunately, I had a busy week and that’s sometimes just the way the custard creams.”
Rosaline was busy measuring off-brand Irish cream liqueur for what, were they not on the BBC, would have been a Bailey’s Buttercream but was instead an Other Varieties of Creamy Alcoholic Beverages Are Available Buttercream.
“So lad.” Wilfred Honey landed at Alain’s station and Rosaline’s head came up in semi-appropriate curiosity. “What have you got planned for us. Is that lavender I can see? It’s a tricky thing, is lavender.”
Alain paused in his preparations. “I think I might have a slightly unusual take on the brief. You see, I didn’t grow up in a big biscuit-eating household, so I’m going for a very simple base but infused with the flavours that remind me of my childhood.”
“And what flavours are those?” asked Marianne Wolvercote. “We already know you’re an excellent baker, so we have high expectations of you.”
“I’m afraid it is more herbs.” Alain gave the camera a winsome look. “But for this challenge in particular the scents really called out to me—my mother loves lavender, the rosemary reminds me of helping her prepare Sunday dinners as a child, and the honey just conjures up an English country summer for me. You know, those long afternoons when you think the school holidays will never end.”
Wilfred Honey was nodding approvingly. “What a lovely story. And I will admit I’m partial to a honey biccy myself.”
“Yes,” added Marianne Wolvercote. “It’s quite a clever interpretation of the brief. Obviously not every challenge we set speaks to everyone in the same way, and it’s important to stay true to your culinary voice. Get this perfect, and we could have something very special.”
Oh fuck. Alain was going to win again, wasn’t he? Maybe he’d been right and Rosaline should have kept more of an eye on the competition. She’d been glad enough to help at the time, and, abstractly, she still thought it was the right thing to do, but what a donkle she was going to feel if she lost Bake Expectations because she’d given the man she was sleeping with unsolicited advice the moment he looked a bit vulnerable.
“Blimey, mate,” said Harry as he sauntered over from his own station. “Smells like a distillery over ’ere.”
“Yeah, I wanted to show the judges something different, so I thought I’d show them some alcohol.”
He peered into the bowl where she was mixing her freshly cooled blackberry jam with a generous splash of unspecified Chambord-analogue. “Tell you what, you are some kind of genius, because I would never of thought of putting booze in a jammy dodger.”