Page 33 of Home Grown Talent

Didn’t dare talk about.

Like the way Frieda had broken down after Kurt walked out and left her alone with Mason and his twin sisters. And the way that Mason, at thirteen, had been the only one there to pick up the pieces.

Somehow, he was still picking them up. Or, rather, taking care that his patched-up mum didn’t fall apart again, doing whatever was necessary to help her through life. Back then, it had been cooking and shopping, taking the girls to the park, or to nursery. Comforting Frieda when she cried over Kurt, taking care of her when she had one of her nervous stomachs or three-day migraines.

Things were easier now, but mostly, that was because Mason had money.

Funny how people said money couldn’t solve your problems. The truth was, everything was easier when you had money—everything. Anyone who said otherwise was talking out of their arse.

True, it didn’t solve every problem, but it was a big fucking cushion, and Mason would rather have it than not.

Now, with Mason’s financial support, Frieda and his sisters lived in a leafy London suburb, in a flat close to the river. Somewhere Frieda could take Pilates classes with nice ladies-who-lunched, dabble in her art, and not have to deal with anything as traumatic as a job. She led as stress-free a life as Mason could buy, which meant she could just about cope with parenting his sixteen-year-old sisters, while he was more or less free to live his life in London.

Mason’s gut began to twist as the train drew closer to his destination, a sign of his rising anxiety. He did a good job of compartmentalising most of the time, locking his family responsibilities into a box he could ignore—but reality always intruded sooner or later. Like when he had to deal with Frieda’s money issues or intercede with Kurt. Or like now, sitting on the train, contemplating the possibility that he’d turn up to find Frieda in one of her fragile moods.

To distract himself from his anxiety, he scrolled through his phone. He’d posted a picture of him and Owen at the screen test the previous evening—#WatchThisSpace #GardeningHottie #WeekendWellness—and it had got decent traction, plenty of heart eyes and a few eggplant emojis.

Better still, Owen had replied with ‘That was fun’ and a thumbs up. They’d need to work on his social media skills, but even so, it had made Mason grin. It was a great picture too, Owen laughing and Mason mugging for the camera in that ridiculous unicorn t-shirt.

Misty had WhatsApped him too, early this morning, but he was only now checking his messages.

Saw your post on Insta last night! You guys look GREAT together!! LOVED your chemistry on-screen. Let's go hard on the flirting in your segment. Viewers pant over ‘Are they/Aren’t they?’ stuff, really positive for ratings. Would be awesome to see you teasing it on your socials too. Dinners out, pap pics in the park holding hands etc? See how far you can push it, sweetie. <3

He read her message a couple of times, considering.

Misty wasn’t wrong. He knew that. He and Owen did have chemistry, but who wouldn’t have chemistry with someone as easy-going and friendly as Owen Hunter? Sexy as fuck too with that touchable mop of dark hair, those big shoulders and arms, and that quietly spoken self-assurance that gave Mason goosebumps.

Among other things.

Yeah, the chemistry was real despite the debacle at his flat the night of the awards dinner.

The question was, would Owen be up for embracing it? Playing it up for the cameras a bit more?

Mason wasn’t sure he would. Owen was such a what-you-see-is-what-you-get sort of guy. He might be okay with gentle on-screen flirting, but Mason had the feeling that he wouldn’t like the idea of pretending there was more going on between them.

Not if that wasn’t true.

He sent a quick message to Misty.

Not sure O would be keen to push it—he doesn’t really do social media. Might not get it.

He saw that Misty was writing an immediate response, but then she stopped, and a moment later, his phone rang.

Uh-oh.

“Mason, sweetie,” she said as soon he picked up, “you’re the pro, here. You do realise that, don’t you? You're the media professional, and Owen needs to take his lead from you.”

Mason glanced around the carriage, but it was mostly empty. Even so, he sank lower into his seat and kept his voice quiet. “Yeah, I know, I’m just saying that kind of thing won’t come naturally to Owen. He’s a very straightforward guy.”

Misty made a dismissive sound. “Of course he is. That’s what our audience is going to love about him, but I have to be honest with you, sweetie—” Her voice raised about ten decibels. “Oscar Watson-King! What do you think you’re doing with that violin?”

Mason pulled the phone away from his ear, grimacing.

When he tentatively put it back, she was saying, “...not going to be geraniums that excites our audience, is it? It’s going to be the sizzle between you and Owen. And, frankly, if Owen isn’t prepared to go there—”

“I didn’t say that,” Mason jumped in hastily. “Just that he probably won’t get why we need to stage a bunch of fake stuff for Insta, you know?”

“Well,” Misty said crisply, “who says it has to be fake?” When Mason didn’t respond, she added, “You’re both attractive young gay men, aren’t you?”