Page 101 of Home Grown Talent

If you’re asking why this sordid tale of nepotism and TV fakery matters, read on because #pineapplegate tells us everything we need to know about gender, class, and privilege in the post-truth world.

It comes as no surprise, for example, that the show’s fearless female producer, Misty Watson-King, is the only person to fall (or was she pushed?) onto her sword in a heartfelt apology for #pineapplegate. Not only that, but she bravely disclosed, and took responsibility for, allegations of bullying by Hunter that will come as no surprise to those familiar with the toxic culture of television…

It went on like that, outright lies and vitriol dressed up in flowery language. Mason’s fury at the article was eclipsed only by the distress he felt at the thought of Owen reading it. And Mason couldn’t even talk to him about it because Owen wasn’t responding to any of his messages or answering his phone. At least, not Mason’s calls.

Eyes stinging, Mason looked up, staring out across the brown river and blinking hard.

A chilly wind blew, ruffling his hair. He shivered, but made no move to leave. Already, he was second-guessing his decision to come here. How could Frieda help? She was probably already freaking out about the situation, envisaging the end of Mason’s career. The unravelling of her safety net.

In his hands, his phone vibrated with an incoming message.

Owen?

As always, his heart hoped before his mind had time to register the name that popped up on the screen—then sank like a stone when he saw it was Misty. Well, fuck. He’d wondered when she’d get in touch.

He stared at the notification for a long time, his simmering anger coming back to the boil. What was she messaging him about? He didn’t expect any apologies. Maybe a bunch of bullshit excuses for her lying Insta post? Or a contract termination notice for the gardening segment?

He stabbed the message open. Read it. Stared, and read it again.

Frankie has details for Saturday’s show. Need you at the studio by 8. You’ll be live at 11. Marc’s doing the interview—a few tears would be great ;) Naomi will send you talking points & content for post-interview socials. Expecting a HUGE audience. #pineapplegate getting lots of engagement on all channels ;) Was trending in the UK last night! This is BIG!!!

What. The. Fuck?

Zero attempt to justify or even try to excuse what she’d done. Not even an acknowledgement that she’d thrown Owen under a bus to save her own skin—that she’d lied about him. Just carrying on like nothing had happened. No, it was worse than that—carrying on like this was a welcome development. And that fucking winky-smiley emoji? Like Mason had to be as delighted as she was about the numbers? As he stared, disbelieving, at the message he saw three little dots appear in the corner, and a moment later, another message appeared.

Btw, don’t worry about the gardening slot being cancelled (formal email from Legal following). Already speaking to Frankie about getting you another role in the show. Maybe a food slot? Give him a call—he’s got all the details ;)

Un-fucking-believable! If Misty—or Frankie—thought he was going to help spread lies about Owen live on her shitty TV show, then she had another thing coming. No way. No fucking way.

Furious, he switched his phone off and shoved it in his pocket.

Too wound-up to sit any longer, he got up and stalked along the river to the end of the gardens and back up to the street. Frieda’s flat was one road back, just a few minutes’ walk away. For a moment, Mason hesitated. The station was in the opposite direction, but he could be there in fifteen minutes, heading home to…

To what? To sit in his flat and feel miserable? To brood and avoid Frankie’s calls?

No, he didn’t want to go home. Not yet. And he might be in two minds about going to his mum’s, but the truth was, he had nowhere else to go. Which was a depressing thought.

Besides, the rain was starting to pick up too, turning from drizzle into a definite shower.

With a sigh, Mason turned on his heel and began striding towards Frieda’s flat, away from the station. Head down, he walked fast enough that he was slightly breathless by the time he got there. He paused for a moment, then pressed the buzzer on the door.

After a moment, Frieda’s voice came over the crackly intercom. “What have I told you about remembering your key, Melody? You’re lucky I’m in.”

Mason felt an unexpected swell of emotion at the sound of her voice. For all the strain in their relationship, she was still his mum, and right now, he needed some comfort. A simple hug, maybe. “It’s me,” he said, his voice hitching. He cleared his throat. “Angel.”

“Angel?” Immediately, she sounded concerned, and the door buzzed open. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”

“I’m coming up,” he said, by way of an answer, and pushed open the door.

Frieda was waiting in the doorway to her flat when Mason reached the second floor, looking worried and all but wringing her hands. When she saw him, though, her expression changed.

“Oh, Angel, look at you. You're soaking wet. What happened?”

He didn’t answer, found he couldn’t speak. Emotion closed his throat, a heavy knot of sadness and anger and loss. Shaking his head, he wiped at his wet face. Not only rain on his cheeks.

“Oh, love,” Frieda said, taking his hand and patting it. “Come on. Let’s have a cuppa. I’ve got a packet of chocolate digestives to open. I dare say you’re allowed one or two in an emergency.”

He sniffed a soggy laugh and followed her inside, hanging up his jacket on one of the hooks behind the door and toeing off his wet shoes. Then he padded into the kitchen after her.