Page 113 of Home Grown Talent
“Isn’t that the truth?” Marc said, laughing unconvincingly. And then, more seriously, he added, “Talking about telling the truth, if you’ve been on social media this week, you might have seen quite the controversy raging about a segment we ran last Saturday.”
“That’s right,” Leah added, her expression now very grave. “Last week, we ran a story about how to grow your own pineapples, but it turns out that everything was not as it appeared. To get to the bottom of the whole controversy, we’re joined again today by one of our gardening team, Mason Nash, who’s talking for the first time about what’s being called ‘#pineapplegate’.”
Owen’s heart raced, beating so hard he could feel it in his chest. He was breathing fast, too, his fingers locked rigid around the remote control.
The camera pulled back to reveal Mason sitting on the same sofa he and Owen had occupied last week. He was dressed casually, in dark jeans and a grey jumper, still as beautiful as always. Tense, though. Owen could see that immediately. His smile looked brittle, and his fingers were knotted together in his lap.
“It’s been quite a week,” Leah said to Mason. “Thanks for coming in to see us again so soon.”
“No, thank you,” Mason said, and that voice… Its familiarity brought a lump to Owen’s throat. “Thanks for having me back to talk about all this.”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” said Marc. “At what point did you realise the pineapple plants you thought were Owen’s had actually been bought from a plant nursery?”
For a long, tense moment, Mason was silent, Marc and Leah both watching him with matching looks of concerned interest. He wet his lips, looked down at his hands, and then out past the camera towards, Owen knew, the production control room.
Mason cleared his throat. “That’s a difficult question.”
Marc nodded sympathetically. “I’m sure this whole thing has been difficult for you.”
“It has, yes. It’s put me in a very awkward position. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, but in the end it comes down to a simple choice: tell the truth or don’t. And the truth is...”
Owen’s chest squeezed, his lungs paralysed, incapable of drawing breath.
“...the truth is,” Mason said again, his voice shaking, “I knew those pineapple plants had come from a nursery from the start.”
Marc’s face fell. “Uh, really?” He shifted uneasily. “That’s not what—”
Mason spoke over him, his words tumbling out in a rush. “The producer of this show, Misty Watson-King, brought the plants onto the set and told us to pretend they were Owen’s. Owen refused, so she asked me to film a piece to camera without him. Owen had no idea.”
Something clattered to the ground, and Owen realised he’d dropped the TV remote. “Oh my God,” he breathed, lowering himself shakily to the sofa, his attention riveted on the screen.
Leah was laughing nervously. “Well, Mason, Misty Watson-King isn’t actually here to speak for herself, so—”
“Yes, she is,” Mason said, gesturing past the camera. “She’s right there in the control room. Ask her. Or ask Lucy, the director. She was there when we filmed that extra segment without Owen.”
“All right, I think we should—” Marc cut in, but Mason ignored him and kept talking.
“I shouldn’t have done it,” he said bitterly. “I regret it more than anything, but Misty made it clear that I had to do what she said if I wanted to stay on the show, and I thought—”
“Okay, well, that’s just a wild allegation,” Marc said, this time getting to his feet. The camera tracked him as he hurriedly crossed the set, cutting away from Mason. “And we’re going to leave it there and move, to, er…” He glanced off screen again, and there were scuffling noises and voices hissing.
Owen could hardly believe what he was seeing. His stupid, broken heart was bounding with a hot, fierce sensation he only belatedly realised was pride. Pride in Mason. Pride, and love, and fear for him.
On the telly, Marc was saying, “Our next guest is—” Only to break off when Mason suddenly stumbled back into shot, his blond hair mussed and his clothes slightly disordered.
“Okay, sorry…” he said breathlessly. “I really don’t want to mess this up for you, Marc. I know Misty is unforgiving and will probably give you hell for this even though it’s not your fault, but I have to tell the truth.”
He was looking straight down the barrel of the camera now, and to Owen, it felt as though he was looking right into Owen’s eyes, into his heart and soul.
“Owen Hunter did nothing wrong,” Mason said, speaking rapidly. “He didn’t claim those pineapples were his, and he definitely didn’t bully anyone. Misty Watson-King, the executive producer of Weekend Wellness, is using him as a scapegoat to cover up her own mistakes. Worse than that, she’s lying about him and stoking outrage against him online. She’s using #pineapplegate to boost her profile and the profile of her show, feeding off all the hatred and outrage and self-righteous indignation she’s stirred up. And Owen Hunter doesn’t deserve any of it. He’s a…” Mason’s voice broke, and Owen, heart thundering, pressed a hand to his mouth. “He’s a good man. A kind, loving, hardworking man who I… I was proud to call my friend. He doesn’t deserve any of the crap that —”
Abruptly, disorientatingly, the feed switched to a perky young woman dressed in exercise clothes standing in a park. “Well, you’ve heard of yoga,” she said brightly, “but have you heard of naked yoga? I’m here in Holland Park with…”
“Oh my God,” Owen breathed, slumping back on the sofa, dazed.
What the hell had Mason just done? Had he just ended his career live on TV? Had he ended it over a bloody pineapple?
From somewhere in the kitchen, Owen’s phone started ringing. He almost tripped over his own feet in his haste to reach it, thinking—hoping—it might be Mason.