Page 89 of Home Grown Talent

Owen ran a hand self-consciously over his cropped hair. “Too short?”

“No,” Mason said, smiling, head cocked. “No, I like it… It’s different, though. Very GI Joe.”

“I thought I should, you know…” His voice wobbled nervously, and he cleared his throat. “Look smarter.”

Mason’s smile faded. “Are you okay?”

Owen blinked. “What? Oh, yeah, of course. Sorry, just a bit nervous, you know? I had to give Lewis a call when I got here before I could make myself come in.”

“You’re nervous?” Mason said. He sounded surprised.

“God, yes. Aren’t you?”

Mason seemed to think about that, his gaze going inward for a moment as though he was checking himself. Then he shrugged and met Owen’s gaze again. “A little. Nothing too bad.”

“Really?” Owen said. “I feel like throwing up.”

Mason gave a short, surprised laugh. Then whatever he saw on Owen’s face made his laughter tail off, and he said slowly, “You’re serious.”

Owen nodded.

Mason got out of his chair and went to Owen, taking hold of both his hands and guiding him into the chair to the left of his own.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said worriedly. “Maybe you shouldn’t? We can say you’ve taken ill if you like. You’re white as a ghost, so they’ll believe you.”

Owen gave a weak laugh. “I’ll manage. I just—need a minute.”

“The thing is,” Mason said, still holding his hands, “there’s something you should—”

Just then, the door opened, and a large woman in a yellow-and-blue kaftan with a matching yellow turban sailed in.

“I told you to stay in that chair!” she exclaimed, staring accusingly at Mason.

“I promise I haven’t touched my face,” he said hurriedly. “Or even moved it!” He gestured his hand at his own face in a circular motion and added, “I’ve been totally expressionless just like you said.”

“Hmmpf.” She eyed him suspiciously for several long moments, then grudgingly turned to Owen, examining him with impersonal interest. “You’re the other one,” she said at last. She glanced at Mason and added, “You have good taste.”

Mason pinkened, and Owen’s heart gave a little thud.

“This is Carmen,” Mason said. “Carmen—Owen Hunter.”

“I know your brother,” Carmen said, raising her eyebrows. Owen wasn’t sure whether that was a pleasantry or an accusation, so he just smiled.

“Nice to meet you, Carmen.”

Carmen nodded, then bent to get something out of the bottom tier of the enormous trolley. When she straightened again, she had another of those little plastic shoulder capes in her hand. A pink one this time.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s get you ready for the cameras.”

After the delights of Make-up, Owen and Mason were taken down to the green room, which, disappointingly, looked more like a GP’s waiting room than anything else, with two dispiriting rows of not-particularly-comfortable seats facing each other. There were some drinks and snacks, but Owen still couldn’t stomach the thought of food. He took a seat on the row opposite Mason so they were facing one another, knees brushing, and sipped at some water, his palms damp, his heart racing.

He tried to think of the questions the presenters would ask—Naomi had sent them through a rough list in advance, so they could prepare—and how he had planned to answer them, but right now, his mind couldn’t seem to settle to anything. It was racing and curiously blank at the same time.

Mason had gone quiet too, his fingers picking nervously at the hem of his t-shirt, a pink one sporting a sequinned rainbow, clearly Misty’s choice. Owen was vaguely aware of Mason watching him worriedly. He offered what he suspected was an unconvincing attempt at a smile.

“Sorry about this. I didn’t realise I’d react this way.” He swallowed hard.

Mason’s frown was concerned. “Honestly, maybe you shouldn’t go on. I’m totally fine doing it myself. It might even be—” He cut himself off and gave a weak smile.