Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake (Winner Bakes All #1) - Alexis Hall Page 0,90
Whoops, sorry. Didn’t realise there’d be a dress code. Let’s go somewhere not awful instead.
In desperation she tried googling the place to see if there was anything on its website that might offer a clue re vibe or attire. But all she found was a black page and the words “coming soon” underneath a massive logo.
“Why don’t you wear this?” asked Amelie, tugging on the hem of the very pink, very puffy-shouldered dress that a combination of Allison’s traditional aesthetic and Lauren’s cruel sense of humour had forced the bridesmaids to wear at their wedding. “It’s pretty. And it makes you look like a princess.”
“I thought princesses were undemocratic?”
“They are. But yesterday when I didn’t want to wash my hair you said this family isn’t a democracy.”
“She’s got you there.” Lauren was lounging in the doorway, a glass of pre-babysitting wine firmly in hand.
Rosaline led Amelie gently away from the wardrobe. “Please don’t gang up on me. I’m trying to get ready.”
“Can I choose your lipstick?” Apparently interpreting being led away from the wardrobe as an invitation to retrain as a makeup artist, Amelie started digging through the contents of Rosaline’s dressing table. “What about this one?”
The lipstick in question was deep purple and glittery and had been sitting in the back of Rosaline’s makeup drawer since before Amelie was born. “Assuming it’s survived the last decade, Mummy’s no longer interested in looking like a drag queen.”
“Why not? Drag queens are pretty.”
Lauren shook her head. “No, darling. I remember your mother’s glitter phase very well, and while I was madly in love with her at the time, even I have to admit she did look a bit silly.”
“It wasn’t my glitter phase,” protested Rosaline. “It was a generalised glitter phase. Lots of people were doing it.”
“You did it quite hard.”
“Oh come on. I was seventeen. Everyone makes terrible fashion choices when they’re seventeen. What about you in your whole . . . ” Rosaline had been about to say “lick my pussy and call me Byron phase,” but Amelie was right there and the makeup box wasn’t quite that distracting. “ . . . wannabe Oscar Wilde act? You had a crushed velvet frockcoat and everything.”
Lauren gave her a withering look. “I think you’ll find I’m still doing that act. And I was wearing that coat yesterday. And what Allison was doing while I wore it, I will never tell you.”
“Was she,” asked Rosaline, “preparing a detailed analysis of her client’s recent expenditure?”
“On this occasion, yes. Last week, definitely not.”
“I make sensible fashion choices.” That was Amelie, deciding the conversation had gone on long enough without her. “I wear my uniform when I’m at school and other things when I’m not at school. I always have pockets because they’re useful and I like things that have pictures on them I like.”
“Well, I’m going to wear this.” Rosaline turned away from the mirror in her wardrobe door, having settled on a nice pair of slim-fit trousers, boots, and an off-the-shoulder top that had been pretty fashionable about three years ago. “I think it’s a bit flirty but not pushing it.”
“It would be better if you were an anglerfish,” offered Amelie.
“I admit”—Lauren peered disappointedly at the dregs of her wine—“straight men aren’t my forte, but I suspect Alain wouldn’t like your mummy anywhere near as much if she was an anglerfish.”
“I don’t know. I’d have one of those cute little lights on my head.” Putting her hand to her forehead with one finger hooked over in a vague approximation of an anglerfish’s bioluminescent appendage, Rosaline pushed her jaw forward and began swimming about her bedroom.
“I meant,” explained Amelie patiently, “that if she was an anglerfish . . .”
“I am an anglerfish,” said Rosaline.
“Stop being silly, Mummy. Anyway, if you were an anglerfish you’d release a pheromone into the water and a boy anglerfish would follow it and then he’d bite onto your tummy and he’d stay there forever which would be very convenient.”
Lauren raised an eyebrow. “Well, that does sound better than most heterosexual dating.”
“You’d rather”—nudging Amelie aside, Rosaline dug through her makeup for something more sedate than her ancient stick of Electric Plum—“have a man permanently attached to your stomach, than go for drinks with one?”
“From what I’ve seen, that’s what happens anyway. Why not ditch the preamble?”
“You’re going to give my daughter very weird ideas about relationships.”
Plopping on the edge of Rosaline’s bed, Amelie swung her feet gently back and forth. “If you were a puffer fish he’d draw a