Page 29 of Home Grown Talent

“And you’re sure that’s going to work?”

“Of course,” she said, frowning a little. “Obviously, we need to do a screen test first, but I’m never wrong about these things.”

Owen blinked at her. “A…what?” He had an atavistic dread of the word ‘test’.

“Nothing to worry about,” she said with the breezy confidence of a straight-A student. “A formality, before we sign the final contracts. We’ll just get you and Mason walking around the garden, chatting. It’s to make sure the chemistry is there on-screen.” She gave a stagey wink. “Which it obviously is. I just know our viewers are going to love the two of you together. Oh, and we’ll probably test some costumes at the same time.”

“Costumes?” Owen echoed.

“Not costumes,” she backpedalled. “But, well, clothes. I’m thinking of a gilet for you, Owen, maybe with one of those sexy utility belts with tools hanging off it.”

Owen felt his eyebrows hit his hairline. “Tools? Like what? A trowel?”

With surprising diplomacy, Mason said, “Maybe Owen should just wear whatever he usually wears when he’s working? You know, for authenticity.”

“Which is pretty much this,” Owen said, gesturing at his olive-green sweatshirt with its discreet company logo, cargo shorts, and muddy work boots. He was on his way to a job, which was why this meeting was so early in the day.

“Well,” Misty said, giving Owen a swift, unimpressed once over. “There’s authenticity and then there’s authenticity.”

Whatever that meant.

She waved a hand. “Look, don’t worry about it. We’ll try some options out at the screen test and you can see what you think.” Gazing around the scrubby plot of land, she added, “Given the current state of this, I suggest we do the screen test in a proper garden. I was going to scout somewhere, but then everyone said I should volunteer my own garden. Although heaven knows why. I’m not really a gardener. I just dabble, you know?” She laughed, then added, “But who am I to argue with my team? So, my place it is. Naomi will be in touch with times and such, but the sooner we can do this, the better. We need to get those contracts signed, boys!”

Which was how, two days later, Owen found himself pulling up outside a substantial house in Primrose Hill. It was three in the afternoon, and he’d been working nonstop since eight, finishing a large job in Hampstead. Mac was dealing with the final sign-off. Even though she and the rest of the crew thought it was brilliant, and hilarious, that Owen was going to be on telly, Owen still felt guilty leaving the job early. Ordinarily, it was a matter of pride to him that he personally saw every job finished to the customer’s satisfaction, and he didn’t like leaving that to someone else, even Mac.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether he’d made a mistake in agreeing to this whole Weekend Wellness thing. What on earth had he been thinking?

The probable answer to that question arrived as he was studying himself in the van’s wing mirror, trying to tame his hair—he really needed to get to the barber. A car pulled up in front of his van, and a familiar, slim figure climbed out of the back seat.

Mason.

Owen sighed at himself, even as his stomach did a strange flip-flop. Mason glanced over at Owen’s van, probably recognising the logo, and lifted a hand to wave.

Feeling awkward, as if he’d been caught staring—well, he had been caught staring—Owen grabbed his phone and wallet and scrambled out of the van.

Mason smiled, waiting for him. “Are you ready for this?”

“To be honest, I’ve been so busy with work I haven’t even had time to think about it. I hope I don’t muck it up for you.”

“Of course you won’t,” Mason said, patting his arm. “Just be yourself.”

Owen grimaced. “Easy for you to say.”

Mason looked puzzled, head tilted in query.

“I mean, look at you. You always look perfect, like you’ve spent hours at a spa.”

A complex expression crossed Mason’s face.

“Well,” he said lightly, after a moment, “we shameless self-promoters have to make sure we look good at all times, you know.”

“Oh God, not this again,” Owen groaned. Apparently, this was a reference to some joke Lewis had made at Mason's expense when Owen had first met him. Now Mason lobbed it into conversation whenever he wanted to make a dig at Owen.

Mason smiled placidly. “Come on,” he said, turning towards Misty's house, a large Victorian villa with a nice wisteria growing around the front porch. “Let's get this screen test over with.”

The house was pretty much exactly what Owen had expected; he’d worked on a hundred places just like it in North London. Reclaimed hardwood floors and muted Farrow and Ball paint dominated the original front part of the house, while the back of the house was all hard-edged gleaming surfaces and glass.

Misty’s assistant, Naomi, today dressed in a neat white shirt and cropped black trousers, led them through a huge, open-plan kitchen-living space, and out into an immaculate but curiously soulless garden.