Page 98 of Home Grown Talent
“Before you go...” Aaron paused, then added carefully, “Owen, how are you coping with the other stuff? The online stuff, I mean.”
Online? Christ, he should have realised. Of course Mason would have posted something about them.
He sighed. “So Mason’s announced our break-up, has he?”
“You and Mason broke up?”
“Uh, yeah…” Owen scratched his head. “Isn’t that what we’re talking about?”
“No. I’m talking about fucking hashtag-pineapplegate.”
Owen stared out at the car park, mostly still empty at this time. “What the hell’s that?”
“Shit,” Aaron said. “You don’t know? Owen, it’s all over the socials.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t give a shit about ‘the socials’.”
A long sigh came down the line. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to. This is big, Owen, and not in a good way. They’re saying the pineapple thing was fake—”
“It was fake.”
“Yeah, well, the #pineapplegate fiasco is threatening to bleed over into the whole Weekend Wellness brand. Misty’s throwing a fit. So’s her boss. They’re trying to work out how to play it, but…” He sighed again, and Owen could imagine his kind, concerned expression. “Owen, it looks like you’re getting the brunt of it on social media. You need to call Misty, make sure you’re on board with however they’re going to handle it. Mason, too.”
Owen screwed his eyes shut. “I’m not doing that.”
“You have to! You can’t let them—”
“I really don’t give a shit about that stuff, Aaron. Honestly. I’ll leave that to Mason—” His voice broke like a wave over his name, and he cleared his throat. “That’s his area, not mine.”
There was a brief silence. Then Aaron said, more quietly, “And you broke up? What happened?”
Owen blew out a breath. “You saw what happened. He made me look like a fucking liar on TV. They wanted me to film some crap saying you can grow a pineapple in a few weeks, and I refused, so Mason filmed it behind my back. The first I knew about it was when I was live on air. I should have said something then and there, but—” He broke off, unable to say aloud why he hadn’t spoken up. Because the truth was humiliating. Even as furious as he’d been, he hadn’t wanted to expose Mason. Not when his TV career meant so much to him.
“Oh, Owen—”
“And I know you’re not surprised,” Owen went on, unable to bear the sympathy in Aaron’s voice, “because you warned me about him from the start. You were right, by the way. It was all—” Again, his voice cracked, and this time he couldn’t shake it off. Sucking in a breath, blinking into the sunlight, he said, “It was all just about telling a story for him. Just for attention.”
Softly, Aaron said, “I’m sorry, Owen. I thought… Seeing you two together, I’d hoped I was wrong about that…”
Owen ran a thumb under his leaky eyes. “Yeah, well. I’d hoped so, too. Love really is blind, I guess.” He grimaced and blew out a breath before Aaron could say more. “Listen, I have to get to work. Thanks for the heads-up about the online stuff, but I really couldn’t give a shit. Weekend Wellness can drop me tomorrow for all I care. If I never see another TV camera again, I’ll be happy.”
“Yeah, okay.” Aaron sounded unhappy. “Just…be prepared for some blowback over this. I’ll tell Lewis you’ll call him tonight.”
“Yeah.” He smiled, although it felt watery. Aaron was a good guy, perfect for Lewis. They were perfect together, and dwelling on that was pretty much the last thing his broken, aching heart needed right now.
What he needed was work, and lots of it.
Luckily, there was plenty to hand.
The crew started trickling in then, and Owen got busy rearranging the day’s jobs. Then he headed over to Langley Road with Kyle and Dave. With the three of them working on the drive, they had the brunt of the hard work done by lunchtime. Owen left Kyle and Dave to finish up and set off to do a quick maintenance job for Mrs. Dickinson, one of his long-standing customers. Grass cutting, weeding, a little pruning. He had a raft of customers like Mrs. D who he’d been seeing for years, older people mostly, who couldn’t manage their gardens. Mac told him that he undercharged—and he probably did—but he did the work himself so he didn’t need to cover staff costs and could keep the price affordable. Besides, the last thing he wanted to do was cut loose some of the first people who’d taken a chance on him back when his business was as green as spring grass. He reckoned he owed them his loyalty in return for their faith.
After that, he headed down to the community garden in Beckenham to put in a couple of hours weeding the beds and picking up litter. Years ago, the council would have had park keepers to do this kind of thing, but those days were long gone. Now, it was left to volunteers, and Owen helped out as often as he could.
Which hadn’t been very often over the last few months.
Standing in the park, which was busy with primary-school kids and their parents on this sunny Monday after school, he realised how much he’d missed it. He’d kidded himself that the gardening slot on Weekend Wellness would bring gardening to ordinary people, but that had just been another lie. It had never been about gardening at all, but this… this park, these flower beds planted with blue salvia and pansies and petunias, would give real people pleasure all summer. This was gardening for the people. This was real.
He’d lost sight of that for a while.