Page 34 of Home Grown Talent
Mason laughed, almost speechless. He couldn’t tell whether she was joking. “Are you…? Are you suggesting I fuck him for ratings?”
After a pointed pause, Misty said, “All I’m doing, sweetie, is giving you a heads-up on what you need to do if you want this to be a success. You do want that, right? I do—I want it to be a huge success for you. I like you, Mason, and I’m thrilled to be giving you this fantastic opportunity. Obviously, it’s up to you how far you run with it.…”
She rambled on for another few minutes before abruptly hanging up—something about her son and orchestra practice. Mason wasn’t really paying attention. His thoughts had already returned to that night in his flat.
The thing was, as crass as Misty’s suggestion was, Mason was tempted. He remembered the transparent desire he’d seen in Owen’s eyes that night.
Drunk or sober, Mason knew when a man wanted him. And Owen had wanted him.
Still wanted him, in fact, because Mason saw that same interest every time he and Owen met. Owen was reserved and respectful, yes, but Mason wasn’t blind—he saw the way Owen looked at him. He saw the obvious attraction that was simmering beneath the surface.
Saw it and returned it.
So, what would be the harm in turning up the heat a little?
Obviously, he wouldn’t tell Owen that Misty was encouraging them to mess around—Owen wouldn’t like that any more than Mason did—but that didn’t matter. The fact was, Mason was genuinely attracted to Owen. Who wouldn’t be? He was a lovely guy, and Mason had been fantasising about getting him into bed for weeks now. If Owen felt the same—and hadn’t been put off by Mason’s last clumsy come-on—why shouldn’t they have some fun? And Mason was pretty sure Owen did feel the same. Now that he knew Owen better, he could see that he was the sort of man who liked to get to know the people he slept with before he jumped into bed with them. The sort of man who’d probably be more easily seduced with a home-cooked meal and a cosy night in than the sort of blatant pass Mason had attempted before…
Well, Mason could certainly provide a home-cooked meal. It would be fun, in fact, a rare opportunity to cook something fabulous.
Then… well, they could just see how things went, but a friendly fling while they filmed and then promoted the show would be pretty sweet. It would definitely help Owen get on board with creating the sort of social content Misty wanted. Not that Owen would really understand that—or even be interested in what it could do for his own profile—but that was fine. Mason could take care of that side of things for both of them. Because Misty was right: if viewers got invested in their relationship, it would be awesome for the show, for Mason’s long-term career, and—whether Owen realised it or not—for his business too.
It was a win-win proposition all round
“The next stop is Surbiton,” the train’s automated announcement told him. “This is the Hampton Court service calling at Surbiton, Thames Ditton, and Hampton Court only.”
Sighing, Mason pocketed his phone and pushed to his feet, making his way to the doors as the train pulled into the station. When it stopped, the doors beeped and opened, and Mason stepped out onto the mostly empty platform. At this time on a Sunday, there weren’t many people around.
It was a ten-minute walk, fifteen if you took your time, from the station to the three-bedroom flat he helped his mum rent on a tree-lined street one road back from the Thames. A lot of the buildings were older, Victorian maybe, but his mum’s block was modern, and although she didn’t have a garden, she had a small balcony with room for a table and chairs. It was way nicer than the flat they’d been in when Mason had lived at home, back before he started modelling.
As always, he felt a familiar anxiety dragging at him as he rang the bell and then pulled open the building’s door when the buzzer sounded. Avoiding the lift, he climbed the stairs up to the second floor, taking them slowly to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
It didn’t take long though, and a couple of minutes later, he was walking down the short hallway to their flat at the end. The front door stood ajar, and his stomach flip-flopped uneasily. “Hello?” he called, pushing it open. “Frieda?”
It had been years since she’d had one of her black moods, and yet every time he saw her, he still felt that childlike fear of what he’d find. But when he walked in, he found her in the kitchen fiddling around making a salad, frizzy blonde hair loose about her shoulders— greying now, like tarnished gold—in a baggy sweatshirt and leggings. And when she turned around, she was smiling.
Immediately, Mason relaxed, his stomach unwinding.
“Angel!” Frieda beamed. “There you are. It’s so good to see you!”
He winced inwardly. Angel was his given name. Mason was his own invention, a name he’d picked out after his agent had walked up to him in the street and handed him his card. His real name, along with his pretty face and unconventional parents with their canal boat home, had given the other kids at school way too much ammunition to mock him with, and he’d been desperate to be rid of it.
“It’s good to see you, too,” he said and tried to mean it, slipping off his jacket and hanging it on an overcrowded coat hook in the hall. “Are the girls in?”
Frieda looked shifty. “You know what they’re like. There’s always something going on with their friends. Anyway, I thought it would be nice for us to spend some quality time together. Just you and me.” She crossed the room, holding her arms open for a hug. He obliged. “It’s been too long since I’ve seen my beautiful boy!”
“It’s been six weeks,” he said around a mouthful of her frizzy hair as he hugged her. “I have phoned.”
“I know,” she said, patting his face. “But it’s not the same. And I want to hear all about Weekend Wellness!”
Of course she did.
“I’ve made us a nice tuna salad,” Frieda went on, bustling back into the kitchen. “I know you have a shoot next week, so there’s no pudding. And it’s probably for the best that I couldn’t spring for a bottle of wine!”
She laughed, and Mason sighed, taking his cue. “As it happens, I’ve got a nice Pinot Grigio in my bag.”
Just like he always did when he came to lunch.
Frieda beamed. “Angel, you do spoil me.”