Page 88 of Home Grown Talent
All too soon, he was pulling into the RPP studio car park again. He parked the van and switched off the engine, then closed his eyes and forced himself to take five deep breaths in and out, filling up his lungs, then letting the air out slowly.
It didn’t help. He’d never felt as nervous about anything in his whole life. Why had he agreed to this?
Mason, a little voice in the back of his head supplied. You agreed for Mason’s sake.
He was in the middle of another series of five deep breaths when his phone pinged a notification. He pulled it out to find a message from Lewis.
Good luck today, I know you’ll be awesome.
All Owen could think at that moment was that Lewis was awake. He swiped the call button with his thumb and waited. It rang twice; then Lewis answered.
“Owen?”
“I can’t do it. Shit, Lew. I can’t go in there.”
Silence for a beat, then, “Bollocks. Of course you can.”
“Nope.” His breath was coming in short, panicked gulps. “Nope, can’t do it.”
“Come on, this is nothing.” Lewis yawned, sounding sleepy. Probably still in bed, the lucky sod. “You’re the brave one, remember? Nothing freaks you out.”
Not true. That had never been true, although Owen always took care not to let Lewis see his fears and struggles. Growing up, he’d had to be the strong one, and that hadn’t changed.
“Right,” he said, pulling all the other words and feelings back behind his teeth. “Yeah, you’re right.”
“Honestly, you’ll be fine,” Lewis went on. “Just make heart eyes at Mason and the audience will lap it up—Ow! What?” A muffled sound. Lewis said, presumably to Aaron, “I am being nice!” Then, louder again, “Look, Owen, this is Saturday morning TV. Most people watching will either be hungover, still drunk, or shagging. Just smile, flirt with Mason, and take the money.” A pause followed. “They are paying you, right?”
“I have to go,” Owen said. He didn’t want to get into that argument on top of everything else.
“What the fuck? I told you to get an agent to look at—”
Owen hung up, switched off his phone, and threw it onto the passenger seat. Then he spent another minute staring at the studio door, willing his pulse to stop racing and his feet to start moving.
Mason’s in there, he told himself firmly. He’s relying on you. You have to go in. Now. You’re five minutes late already.
Finally, steeling himself, Owen got out of the van and strode up to the front door, passing through security first, then reception, where he was given a visitor’s pass and had to wait for a bored-looking production assistant bearing a name-tag that read ‘Adam’ to come and collect him.
Adam tried to take him to Wardrobe, insisting that Naomi had organised an outfit for him that he was supposed to wear—probably another tattersall shirt, Owen thought sourly.
“I’m fine as I am, thanks,” he decided. “No need to put Wardrobe to any trouble.”
Adam’s expression grew pained. “Could you wait here a minute?” he said tightly, walking a few yards and turning away from Owen as he made a call, speaking in a hushed but driven undertone to whoever answered.
After ending the call, he came back and said briskly, “I’ve to take you to Make-up instead. Apparently, your co-presenter’s already up there.”
“Mason, you mean?”
“Yup,” Adam replied, popping the ‘p’ irritably and stalking away.
Owen made a face at his back as he followed him through a maze of corridors, up a couple of flights of stairs, and past a bunch of doors. Finally, Adam opened one of the doors—to room 3.09, according to the grubby plastic sign—and gestured for Owen to enter.
It was a surprisingly small, windowless room containing three swivel chairs in front of a bank of mirrors. A massive three-tier trolley, stuffed with cosmetic products, brushes, and other paraphernalia, took up half the remaining floor space, and a bank of shelves on the far wall was packed with more stuff in various labelled boxes and containers. Two of the room’s three chairs were empty, but Mason sat in the middle one, a small, blue plastic cape around his shoulders.
“Hey!” he said, his smiling reflection in the mirror turning comically wide-eyed. “Oh my God, you cut your hair.”
Behind Owen, the door closed, and he turned reflexively to discover that Adam had apparently decided to leave them to it.
When he turned back, Mason had swivelled his chair around so he was facing Owen. Someone had already applied a layer of foundation over his face. In the harsh overhead light, it looked plasticky, masking the subtly expressive lines of Mason’s face and making him seem somehow unreal, like a mannequin.