Page 35 of Home Grown Talent
They ate at the kitchen table, shoving aside Frieda’s art supplies. She fancied herself something of an artist and sold a handful of things—handmade greetings cards, mostly—on Etsy. It didn’t make any money, but Frieda found her art relaxing, and so Mason had always encouraged it.
“You were so good on Weekend Wellness,” Frieda rattled on. “So handsome! I had my girlfriends over, and we watched it three times on catch-up, with a few glasses of pink fizz. Shelly said you were a natural, much better than that other bloke—the old one. And her daughter works in the theatre, you know, so she knows about that sort of thing.”
Mason gave a noncommittal hum and forked up another mouthful of claggy tuna salad.
“So…” Frieda sent him a sidelong glance. “What’s next? Has Frankie got you anything else? They have social media stars on Strictly these days, you know.”
“Frieda…”
“This could be your break, Angel. The big time!”
He shrugged, weirdly reluctant to tell her about the gardening slot with Owen. Why, he wasn’t sure, but for some reason he found he wanted to keep it to himself, as if sharing the news with Frieda would sully it in some way. Which was stupid; it was only a job, like any other gig he’d taken over the last six years. Shoving his discomfort aside, he ploughed ahead. “You’ll be happy to know that I’ve just signed to do a series of slots on the show.”
“Oh my gosh!” Frieda squealed. “That’s brilliant! I knew that would happen. I told Shelly it would! Those cosmetic companies must have been wetting themselves, having someone as gorgeous as you promoting their stuff.”
“It’s nothing to do with cosmetics actually,” he said. “It’s a gardening feature.”
“Gardening?” Frieda looked baffled. “What do you know about gardening?”
“Nothing. I won’t be doing the gardening, obviously. I’ll be learning about it. They’ve got another guy—he’s called Owen. He’s…” He bit back a sudden smile, looking down at his plate and pushing a lump of mayo-clogged tuna around. “He’s very cool. The idea is that viewers learn along with me.”
Frieda shrugged, tapping her wine glass against his in salute. “As long as they’re paying you, that’s what counts. And it’s all good exposure.” Then she sighed, and Mason braced himself. “Such a shame we don’t have a garden. Then I could have learned too. Gardening can be so mindful.”
“You have a good size balcony,” Mason said, unable to suppress his reflexive instinct to fix her every problem. “Owen knows a lot about gardening in small spaces, including balconies, and we’re definitely going to be talking about that.”
“Hmm,” Frieda said. “That’s just pots and things, though, isn’t it? Not really connecting with the earth. When we lived on the boat, we had so much green space around us. It was like we were part of nature. I do miss that.”
Alarm fluttered in his chest, the way it always did when his mum expressed any displeasure.
“You’re a two-minute walk from the river,” he pointed out. “And there’s that lovely walk all along the towpath…”
“Oh, I’m not complaining,” she said, which was what she always said when she complained. “You’re very good to us, Angel.” She covered his hand with her own, squeezing. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
And there it was, the concrete slab of responsibility he had no choice but to shoulder, the chain he couldn’t break. Her hand tightened on his, and her lips began to wobble. He knew what was coming next.
Freeing his hand from her grasp, he picked up his fork and stabbed at a piece of tomato. “So, Kurt’s late with this month’s payment again?”
“Yes…” Frieda said, fiddling with her hair, tucking it behind her ears. “And, well, things are a bit—” She trailed off feebly.
“Tight?” Mason supplied.
Kurt did make most of the payments eventually, but he was almost always late, and despite Frieda’s complaints to Mason, she was useless at confronting Kurt about it. Which was why Mason always ended up having to get involved, both to push Kurt to pay up and to sub Frieda so she could pay the bills till the money arrived. And since Frieda wasn’t great at managing money, and overspent most months, the subs just disappeared into the bottomless pit of her bank account.
“The thing is,” Frieda went on, “the girls have their GCSE French trip this term. They have to go. It’s part of the curriculum, but it’s four hundred pounds each...”
It was tempting to just say how much do you need? He could transfer the money on the spot and fuck off home. But that’s not how they did things; he had a role to play first.
“Don’t worry,” he said, smiling for her. “I can cover that.”
“Oh, Mason, I didn’t mean—”
“No, I’d like to. They are my sisters, remember? It’s the least I can do.”
“Well, it’s very good of you,” she said. “If Kurt could just pay up on time, but his new girlfriend…”
She trailed off, and Mason felt another pinch of anxiety when he saw her downturned mouth. “Regan?” he said with a deliberate laugh. “She won’t last. She’s awful.”
Frieda gave a watery smile.