Page 86 of Home Grown Talent

MASON

[Planting the pineapple]

Okay, so here’s a top Owen prepared earlier. He knows a lot about tops, actually. He’s very experienced.

[Crew laughter]

What? I’m talking about pineapples!

[Laughs]

Anyway, so basically, you just get your lovely top and pop him in a pot like this, all cosy, cover him with soil…

* * *

MASON

[Eating pineapple]

It’s fresh, it’s healthy, and it's packed with vitamin C. Best of all, when you grow your own, you know it’s organic and pesticide-free.

[Eats another chunk]

Mmmm, delicious! Not to mention, it doesn't cost a bean, so it’s great for your budget too!

* * *

Mason kept his face as expressionless as any catwalk model’s while he read the, frankly cringey, script. Tentatively, he ventured, “I’m not an actor. I’m not sure I’ll be convincing working from a script…”

“Oh, that’s fine,” Misty said breezily. “Put it into your own words, if you like, but that’s the message we need to hit in each section.”

“But the thing is… It’s not all quite true? And Owen—”

Misty’s good-humoured expression winked out. She held up her hand like she was stopping traffic and snapped, “Lucy, give us a minute.”

With a sympathetic look for Mason, Lucy ushered her crew away. They all but ran, and Mason didn’t blame them. Misty’s face was thunderous.

“Okay, Mason,” she hissed, once they were alone, “let me be very clear. If you want a future with RPP, then I need you on board with this. Nobody’s interested in all that crap Owen keeps spouting about growing times and whatnot. This is a fun story about sticking the top of a pineapple in a fucking pot and posting it on Instagram, okay?”

“Yes, but—”

“It’s a fucking story! You understand that, don’t you? The whole show is about selling uplifting stories to miserable people—whether it’s that they can grow their own bloody pineapples or find gay love in a greenhouse. And trust me when I say this, Mason—if you want to keep working on this show, you need people to buy your stories. You need them to invest and tune in every week and post the fuck out of them online, because RPP is not going to waste money on a segment that doesn’t wash its own face. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Mason swallowed. “I do, but honesty’s important to Owen, and he wants—”

Misty laughed nastily, her lip curling. “You weren’t so bothered about honesty when you decided to—how did you put it?—fuck him for ratings.”

Mason’s jaw dropped. “I didn’t—” he began, then broke off, staring at Misty in horror.

“Sweetie,” she said, “we both know you did. And believe me, the last thing I want is for Owen to find out—Christ knows how he’d react if he gets this worked up over a bloody pineapple.”

Was she threatening him? The thought of Owen learning that Misty had suggested Mason deliberately seduce him made his stomach knot painfully.

Perhaps seeing his horror, Misty made an obvious effort to soften her expression, which was about as reassuring as a shark trying to smile. “Look,” she said, placatingly. “We don’t need to get into any of this stuff with Owen, do we? I get that he’s not familiar with the media. Fair enough. He’s an amateur. But you? Mason, sweetie… For you, this is just a stepping stone. Who knows where it might lead if you play your cards right? You know that Marc’s probably leaving the show at the end of the year, and I’m looking for a fresh face. And do you realise I’ve literally had Austin bloody Coburn on the phone desperate to interview you? Do you know who he is? He has a column in Weekend Life, Mason. Weekend Life! That’s fantastic exposure for us—for you.” She shook her head. “There’s a choice to be made here—don’t fuck it up.”

Mason stared sightlessly down at the script he still held in his hands, the lines blurring as he tried to absorb Misty’s mind-fucking whirlwind of threats and bribes.

He found himself recalling Owen’s words too, the night they’d argued in Mason’s flat.