“Good answer,” Nick said.
“Or that they think you’re a miserable git who deserved it,” Freddie said. “But surely it’s the first one.”
Gaz had been so popular that when the baking stalwart decided to do a fan favorite season, Gaz was the first call, and he’d come prepared. The show taped each episode over one weekend in the country and then aired it a few days later, so Gaz had holed up in his office or his flat working and cooking in alternate bursts as he baked his way through each round (and successfully defended the Oxford Street branch of Boots from a slip-and-fall accusation), including a dizzying Desserts Week in which his rum-raisin cheesecake had been par excellence, his chocolate roulade had been an absolute nightmare, and his croquembouche had enough bouche to scrape him through. By the end, it was him, a young mother named Marian, and a seventy-year-old named Wayne, who Gaz told us had a much younger boyfriend who’d refused to go on camera because he thought Wayne was more sympathetic if he seemed lonely.
The tent they erected for filming moved each season, and was currently parked on Annabelle Farthing’s enormous Somerset lawns, which come finale time would get their locational due and a boost of tourism. When Nick read about this coincidence in a fawning article about Annabelle’s conservation work on behalf of a rare crocus, he got what he considered a great brainwave: having Annabelle smuggle us into the finale garden party to congratulate or console Gaz in person.
“No,” I said. “We are not asking that woman for anything.”
“She owes me one,” Nick pointed out. “And she’ll make sure we’re protected.”
“While I would love to cash in on Annabelle’s theoretical guilty conscience, this will never work,” I said. “People know we’re friends with Gaz. Don’t you think they’ll be extra watchful?”
“We won’t be there,” he said, shoving the tail end of a Gaz-made practice croissant into his mouth. “Steve and Margot will be there. Possibly with their old chum Niles Kensington.”
“Niles has already been caught in public with Margot,” I pointed out.
Nick scoffed. “By the time anyone in attendance even thinks to look that up, we’ll be long gone.”
“I could wear last summer’s pants, I guess,” I said grudgingly. “No one will be looking for a duchess with a visible muffin top.”
“It’s thematic. You’re dressed as a baked good,” Nick said.
“This seems highly risky,” I said. “And Freddie will never say yes.”
“Have you met Freddie?” Nick asked.
Thirty seconds later, we had Freddie on FaceTime, and he was clapping his hands with glee from what looked like the inside of his coat closet.
“Yes, absolutely yes,” he said.
“Aha! I knew it,” Nick said. “Bex didn’t think you’d go along with it. ‘Too risky.’” He used sarcastic air quotes.
“Why in the world would I veto such a foolhardy and stupid plan?” Freddie asked. “Have you met me?”
“That’s what I said!” Nick crowed.
“I just thought that since Freddie has been on hrmbsthvrunkjjshaliut…” I trailed off.
Nick blinked. “Did you mutter a bunch of gibberish and hope we wouldn’t notice, because you can’t actually explain yourself?”
“No,” I lied.
“Look, Bex, we’ve had a tough couple of months. A tough couple of years,” Nick said, taking my hands. “This will be fun. Let’s go be there for Gaz, for all the times he’s been there for us.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Are you really using infertility and all our past bullshit to guilt-trip me into saying yes to this?”
Nick shifted on his feet. “Is it working?”
I glared at him. Freddie, on the phone, started humming the Mission: Impossible theme, and between that and Nick’s faux angelic expression, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Fine,” I said. “Fine! Yes, you jerks. But if we get caught out, I’m making sure Eleanor comes for your heads first.”
It was cool outside the day of the finale, perfect for three people who needed to layer up without fear of sweating off any of their facial disguises. PPO Twiggy drew the short straw of carting us all out to Annabelle’s second back entrance, where Annabelle had stationed one of her staff members to guide us to a parking spot and then sneak us to the party unobserved. The tent sat on a side lawn, huge and white and cheaper looking in person; the garden party was a football field away, already peopled with past contestants and the finalists’ family members. No one seemed to care much about us.
“A recurring theme seems to be that nobody is as observant as I fear they are,” I said to Nick.
“Or not as interested,” he replied.
“I’m fine with either one,” Freddie said, readjusting his Gwyneth Paltrow wig. “I swear this wasn’t always so itchy. I hope Gwyneth hasn’t gotten lice.”
The competition was still raging inside the tent as Gaz and the other two cooked up their final confections. We could see a cluster of monitors in the distance, turned away from us, where the director and producers would be watching feeds from all the active interior cameras so as not to let their logistics distract the contestants. It made for an odd juxtaposition—bucolic country picnic on one side, and a bustling production on the other, about to collide.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” said a familiar voice, and I turned to see Annabelle, who gave Nick and Freddie very sedate handshakes and then squeezed me on the arm, her expression one of studied polite indifference.
“Bloody great publicity for the estate,” Freddie said.
“And the location fees are going to pay for a new roof on the stables,” Annabelle said. “Once the episode airs, we’re expecting an uptick in requests for weddings, too, which will bring in enough to repair the heating in the east wing.”
Nick squinted at one of the plastic sides of the tent, which were mostly opaque to us but which let in some light and scenery for the bakers. “Do I see fire in there?”
Freddie craned his neck. “No, that’s just a
