Page 84 of Home Grown Talent
He pointed at the pineapple plants again. “You do realise it’s going to be months before any of those baby pineapples are full-size?”
Misty gave him a long, hard stare. Owen didn’t shift or let his easy smile fade.
Eventually, Misty sighed. She held up her hands, palms out. “Okay, okay, I hear you. Let’s just film this. Just say what you’re comfortable saying, and we’ll take a look in the editing suite and decide where to go from there. Maybe we’ll do the section. Maybe we won’t.”
Owen raised his eyebrows, surprised that she was giving in. Surprised, but pleased.
“All right then,” he said. “Thanks for understanding.”
She shrugged. “You have to be tough to work in television,” she said, “especially on a content-driven show like ours. But I like to think that, as tough as I can be, I am fair, and I do listen.” She gestured around the set and added modestly, “And I’m pretty sure all of the crew here would back me up on that, right guys?” She glanced around, and after a moment, there was an unenthusiastic muttering of insincere agreement. Though it may as well have been a standing ovation, given how pleased with herself Misty looked.
Somehow Owen managed to keep a straight face.
“Right then,” Lucy said briskly from behind Misty. “Let’s get this bit filmed so we can move on, shall we?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mason
The pineapple segment was a disaster.
Mason tried his hardest to keep the tone light and their easy banter flowing, but Owen was mulish about explaining, in excruciating detail, how long pineapples took to grow, that these specific pineapple plants were years old and had come from a nursery, and that they were definitely not plants he’d grown from scratch at home.
As much as he hated to admit it, Misty was right. Viewers were going to be bored rigid. So, it was no surprise when, as she was leaving the set, Misty called him over again.
“Walk with me,” she said as she strode across the car park towards her huge Audi estate car, blonde hair flying out behind her.
Mason sighed and followed.
The spring sunshine was bright and warm, and Misty had pulled on a massive pair of square-framed Prada sunglasses. Very on-trend. When she turned to face him, Mason had the bizarre impression that she was looking at him through a couple of TV screens and had to bite back a smile.
“That was not good.” Her tone quashed his amusement and replaced it with a bolt of fear. “Oh, I don’t mean you, sweetie,” she said, clearly having noticed his dismay. “You did your best, but I don’t know what Owen’s deal is today. He does realise he’s not David bloody Attenborough, doesn’t he?”
Anxiety stifled Mason’s instinctive defence of Owen. Misty might cancel the whole slot if he couldn’t fix this, and it wouldn’t help the situation to piss her off even more. Placatingly, he said, “Remember that he’s not done any media work before. He doesn’t really get that things on TV aren’t always what they seem.”
She huffed, tossing her head and setting her mane of hair swaying. “I should never have agreed to work with a total amateur,” she said, as if the whole thing hadn’t been her idea in the first place. “Which is why I’m going to need your help to get things back on track.”
“Yeah?” He tried not to sound as relieved as he felt. “Okay, what do you need?”
She waved a hand towards the set, and Mason followed her gesture with his eyes. He could pick out Owen right away, talking to Lucy, the director, with his arms folded across his chest. He’d barely unwound all morning and looked bullish, unmoving as the crew bustled around him.
“I’m going to need some more footage in the greenhouse,” Misty said. “What we got today was useless, and Owen obviously isn’t going to give me anything better.” She flashed a smile, dropping her voice into a whisper. “But you’re a pro, Mason. So I’m going to get Naomi to squeeze in another hour’s shooting tomorrow morning.”
“Oh,” Mason said, uncomfortably. “I don’t think Owen will have time to do a second day. He’s been really busy with—”
“We won’t need Owen.” Misty’s smile turned sharp, rendered weirdly inhuman by her TV-shaped glasses. Mason could see his own uncertain expression reflected back to him in the twin black screens. “I’ll just need to get some extra footage of you, a couple of different angles and so on. That’s all.” She gave a brittle laugh. “Something to give us a fighting chance in the editing suite.”
Okay, that didn’t sound too bad. Thank God she wasn’t demanding Owen drag himself back to set tomorrow. He suspected, given Owen’s loose contract, she may have been able to insist, and it would only have pissed him off even more. This was better. Mason could shoot the extra footage needed, and Owen could get back to the day job that he clearly enjoyed so much more than shallow TV work.
Ashamed of that disloyal thought, Mason forced a smile and said, “I can do that. Happy to help.”
“You’re a star,” Misty gushed, chucking him under the chin as if he were a five-year-old. “I’ll get Naomi to ping you the details.” She glanced at her watch. “And now I must go. Oscar’s got orchestra practice this afternoon, and the au pair’s chosen this week to be off sick!”
The rest of the day’s filming went much better. Owen was more relaxed when Misty wasn’t around, and he wasn’t the only one. The whole crew seemed to let out a held breath, and the set felt lighter, with more space for laughter when things went wrong instead of tense cursing. By the time they lost the light, they had everything in the can for the next three episodes.
“I hope they’ll actually let the plants grow this time,” Owen said, casting a regretful look over his shoulder as they headed off-set. “I don’t want to come back and find a couple of coconut trees poking out of the greenhouse.”
Mason smiled wanly. “It’s a balance, I suppose, between being real and looking real. I get where Misty’s coming from, and where you’re coming from, too.”