Page 14 of Home Grown Talent
“No, really,” Misty insisted, setting her elbows on the table and leaning closer. She gazed at him intently. “I’ve got a great eye for this, and you’ve got a fantastic face.”
“Who’s got a fantastic face?” That was Tag.
“We’re talking about Owen,” Misty told him. “I think he’d be very telegenic. What do you think?”
Tag studied Owen closely for a few moments, and Owen shifted uncomfortably. “I agree,” he said at last. “After all, Lewis photographs well, and you’re very alike.”
“No, we’re not,” Owen protested. “Lewis is handsome.”
“For God’s sake,” Mason put in, and this time he really did roll his eyes.
Owen scowled at him. “Lewis is way more handsome than me.”
“Rubbish, and you know it,” Mason said dismissively. “You’ve got a whole other thing going on.” He waved his hand in a lazy circle. “Hot gardener vibe. It’s wholesome as fuck.”
“Yes!” Misty said. “That’s it. He’s got that sort of honest-farmer look. I could totally see him in”—she leaned back, narrowing her eyes as if envisaging some other version of him— “tattersall shirts, tweed gilets, green wellies. Yeah?”
“Um, I usually just wear t-shirts, shorts and work boots.”
Misty pursed her lips, considering. “Work boots? Hmm. We could probably work with that.”
Owen shook his head, feeling hunted now. “I’m really not—that is, being on TV is not something I’ve ever wanted to do.”
Misty opened her mouth to argue, but luckily, she was interrupted by the arrival of a fleet of waiting staff who moved through the room depositing starters on tables with military precision, directed by supervisors wearing radio earpieces and barking orders.
Some kind of cheesy quiche type thing appeared on a plate in front of Owen. It was a tiny little tartlet, dribbled with a couple of swirls of a dark sauce. Pretty fancy but absolutely miniscule. Out of old habit, Owen glanced over at Lewis to see him prodding his food suspiciously with a fork.
Owen leaned towards his brother. “You could just have the bread rolls,” he suggested. He pointed at his own. “Want another?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Aaron said repressively. “There’s nothing remotely exotic on the plate. Just bloody try it, Lewis. You might like it.”
Lewis sighed, adopted a martyred expression and took a bite.
“Sorry,” Owen said to Aaron under his breath. He blamed himself for Lewis’s poor eating habits, but even before their mum had died, Lewis had been fussy. And afterwards… Well, Owen had been seventeen and spending every hour God sent grafting for the money to keep a roof over their heads. Back then, chicken nuggets and chips had felt like pushing the boat out.
Aaron's mouth quirked up in a grin. “At least he’s trying it,” he said softly. “Look.”
Owen did, and had to stifle a laugh at the disgusted expression on Lewis’s face.
The dish was actually quite nice. Owen wasn’t sure why Lewis disliked it so much. He glanced at Mason to see what his reaction was—he was cutting careful slices and chewing thoughtfully.
Perhaps sensing Owen’s eyes on him, Mason glanced up.
Owen said, “This is pretty good.” He sounded heartier than he’d intended. “What do you think?”
Mason shrugged, reaching for his wine. “It’s not bad, for a mass catered event. I like the hint of smokiness. That’ll be the Scamorza, I suppose.”
“Yeah, probably,” Owen said, wondering what Scamorza was. He ate the second half of his tartlet in one bite, and this time, yes, he noticed the smokiness, which seemed to come from the cheese. Was Scamorza a cheese? “I expect you go to a lot of these things,” he tried. “Award dos and stuff?”
“Obviously. It’s part of my job.” Mason didn’t sound exactly happy about it, though. In fact, he sounded pretty defensive, and Owen decided to change the subject.
“You were very good on Weekend Wellness,” he said. “Do you see yourself working in TV in the future? Is that your goal?”
“Er…” Mason blinked a couple of times, as if trying to work out whether Owen had asked a trick question. “A regular TV role would be good for me career-wise.” He gave a shrug. “I mean, it's easy money. Definitely better than modelling pays.”
“Really?” Owen teased. “I thought you models didn’t get out of bed for less than ten grand.”
Mason huffed, not quite a laugh. “Yeah, well, we’re not all Kendall Jenner. And male models—even the top ones—get paid a lot less than female models. I earn a decent amount from sponsorships, though. I’ve got pretty good numbers on Insta, and if I got more TV work, that would help me build my following up even more. So yeah, like they say, all publicity’s good publicity.” He took another hefty swig of wine.