The Heart Whisperer (22 page)

In the first script, Claire played an airport security guard frisking a gorgeous model who had a bottle of Vitalustre strapped to her thigh. When the model wouldn't hand it over, Claire had to
elbow her and run off with it. The next script had Claire leaping out of a locker in a gym to elbow a second model so she could grab her Vitalustre. In the final script, she was a sexy cat burglar who blew a hole in a hotel room wall then elbowed yet another model who came at her with a pillow. All the spots ended with Claire tossing her hair and saying: ‘I'd do anything to get my hands on the Vitalustre shine.'

While her hair was blow-dried into an impossibly shiny sheet of copper silk, Claire tried to work out her motivation. If her character already had amazing hair, why did she need the conditioner at all? As the last fake eyelash was glued into place, she found the answer. Her character was an ordinary woman, her victims were all models. No matter how much conditioner she had, she was never going to be as gorgeous as they were.

‘Wow!' Desmond said, when he finally called a wrap, ten hours later. ‘That was absolutely brilliant, Claire. You should think about acting.' She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She had a rash on her back where the towel had been glued to her skin in the second script. The smoke from the fake dynamite had given her a sore throat and the leather cat suit had cut off the circulation in her calves. She staggered back to Wardrobe, and Vogue, whose name it turned out was Grainne, released her from the cat suit and she tugged on her jeans and sweatshirt. Her phone was dead. She had no idea what time it was but she knew it must be late. She had forgotten all about Dog.

She stuffed the rest of her things into her bag and ran out into the car park, where the crew were packing the lighting equipment from the sets on to lorries. Richard was standing by a car talking to two of the models. Claire felt about a hundred and fifty years old but he looked as crisp and fresh as he had at seven a.m. He probably had a whole wardrobe full of freshly laundered shirts at home and a freshly laundered girlfriend waiting for him, Claire thought, instead of a huge and possibly incontinent dog.

‘Hey!' he called. ‘You going to join us for a drink?'

Ray had told her once that a dog's intestine was seven times longer than its body. Dog was three feet long. That was twenty-one feet of intestine. He hadn't eaten much this morning. Maybe
there was time for a quick drink? She stole a look at Richard's wrist. Ten to eleven. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I can't.'

Richard saw her looking at his watch. The models had drifted away now and it was just the two of them standing in the dark car park in a rectangle of light from the open studio door. ‘That watch comes with an interesting story,' he said. ‘Why don't I tell it to you over dinner sometime?'

Dog was curled up by the cooker when Claire came in. He had surrounded himself with a world of leather. Two handbags, a pair of boots, a belt and three shoes. But the floor was clean. He opened one eye and looked at Claire accusingly. ‘I'm sorry but I have a life,' she said, ‘which doesn't revolve around your intestines.'

She stood back so he could get out the door without touching her. She didn't feel quite so terrified of him now but she tried to minimise actual physical Dog-on-Claire contact. She watched him climbing the steps then doing an arthritic circuit of the garden. Richard wasn't strictly her type. But who was? The string of actors she'd dated in her twenties who treated her more like an audience than a girlfriend? Declan, who had said he loved her then proved he didn't? Or Shane who thought she was a cold hearted liar?

Dog was snuffling around the nettles. ‘Be careful of those,' she hissed. ‘They sting.'

‘It's going to be a great show today, right, Owen?' Oonagh put her hand on Owen's thigh and gave it a friendly squeeze.

‘That's right, Oonagh.' Owen lifted her hand and dropped it on to the sofa between them as if it were something dead that was going off. The camera was too high to catch it but a ripple of tension ran around the studio.

‘Coming up,' Oonagh's smile wobbled but she managed to steady it, ‘we have the Clontarf woman who found the face of Jesus in a tea towel.' She turned to Owen. ‘Should she sell it or send it to the Pope?'

‘And we'll be meeting the ex-politician who has opened
Ireland's first bubble tea café. But before we get to the interesting stuff, we have Doctor Nick and We-Fit.' He yawned.

‘You can't be tired.' Oonagh slapped him on the wrist with her notes. ‘You were tucked up in bed last night at half-nine!'

Owen folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. ‘How would you know?'

‘This seems like the perfect place,' Nick jumped in, ‘to discuss conflict resolution. On the last show we talked about big issues, like sex and money, that drive couples apart. Today I want to talk about the little irritations that can end in divorce.'

Oonagh turned her back on Owen. There was murder in her eyes.

‘What we have to watch out for is the catalogue of day-to-day complaints we build up about our partners.' Like his own reactions to Kelly's hormonal highs and lows, he thought ruefully. Last week she'd cancelled their date night for the second time in a row and he had screened her calls for the next two days.

‘What can we do, Doc,' Owen was saying, ‘when we're just sick of the sight of our partners?' Oonagh flushed.

‘Today I'm going to teach our guest couple three We-Fit exercises designed to return us to a space of love and intimacy. The “Bicker Buster”, “Positivi-Three” and “Naming the Elephant”.'

Owen turned around and prodded Oonagh's corseted stomach. ‘We could call her “Oonagh”.'

‘I don't care what happens after we sign the contract with Cling-films,' Oonagh groaned, ‘but we're going to have to manage Owen somehow or he'll derail the whole thing.'

‘
If
we sign!' Nick reminded her.

They were sitting in an empty row of seats in the back of the studio after the show, drinking takeaway coffees. ‘Oonagh,' Nick said, carefully, ‘I think there are issues here that you and Owen need to face. I think you're in denial.'

‘I'm the queen of denial.' She sighed.

‘I'd be happy to coach the two of you if that would help.'

‘You just love fixing other people's problems, don't you?' Oonagh kicked off her shoes and swung her legs over the seat in
front. ‘What about your own?' Nick shrugged. He and Kelly used to sit down every week and discuss their problems, but that was easy when nothing much was going wrong. ‘You look wrecked, Nick. I want you looking good for Clingfilms. It's a shame we don't have time to do anything about that scar.'

‘What scar?' Nick mumbled.

‘I've been looking at you under the lights for months now.' She leaned over and ran a finger along the fine white line on his forehead. ‘How did that happen?'

‘I fell out of a tree.'

‘Whoever stitched you up should be shot. I know a good plastics guy in the Mater Private. When we get the go-ahead, I'll book you in.'

‘
If!
' Nick laughed.

She leaned back farther and unbuttoned her tight jacket. ‘I have a good feeling about it. Once Curtis meets you, it's a no-brainer. They're talking about shooting
The Ex-Factor
pilot before Easter.'

‘
The X-Factor?
' Nick turned to look at her.

‘With an “e” and an “x”. Fabulous, isn't it?'

‘What happened to
Relationship Rescue?
'

‘Oh,' Oonagh tossed her takeaway cup on to the floor, ‘that was just a working title.'

‘But it doesn't make sense.'

‘Not with the old format, but they've revamped the whole idea. There'll be open castings to find the most bitter divorced couples. Each couple will be managed by a coach and a celebrity.' Hadn't Rory mentioned celebrities? Nick remembered. ‘And there'll be a public vote every week.'

‘But it sounds just like—'

‘I know!' She grinned. ‘TV gold! Clingfilms have got buy-in from one of the American networks. If it takes off, the show will go directly to the States with the UK presenters on board!'

‘What?'

‘I could be the white Oprah! You could be Doctor Phil with hair!' She laughed. ‘Say something.'

Nick was speechless. Clingfilms hadn't just reformatted the show, they'd reinvented it. But if people got something from it, if watching other couples sort out their problems taught them how
to fix their own, then the ends justified the means, didn't they? Especially if it meant that he could go back to the States with a job that would set him up in the coaching business for life.

‘Your jaw just dropped,' Oonagh grinned. ‘Are those veneers?'

The chemist was frumpy and wore medical-looking shoes. ‘I'm looking for something for cellulite,' Ray whispered.

He'd tried to check himself out in the bathroom mirror in the morning but the lighting in there was moody. It was surprisingly difficult to get a good look at your own arse.

The chemist came out from behind the counter and he followed her over to a shelf of bottles and boxes.

‘It's a gift,' he said.

She picked out a box. ‘I think we both know,' she pursed her lips, ‘that this is not a gift.'

Ray swallowed. ‘Do we?'

‘Perfume is a gift.' She handed him a box. ‘A scented candle is a gift. This is an insult.' She turned on her sensible heels and stalked off.

Ray trailed her back to the counter. ‘Do you have any,' he lowered his voice, ‘Preparation H?'

‘Yes,' she beamed. ‘Do you want me to gift wrap it?'

Five years ago, when ‘Asia Sky' was still riding high, Ray would have caused a riot if he'd gone into a café full of teenage girls, but now the girls in Starbucks in Dundrum looked through him as if he didn't exist. He was the same but everyone else was different. The girls were so loud that he almost didn't hear his phone ringing, and he had to go outside into the shopping centre to take the call. It was Andy from Sounds Familiar.

‘Bentley's Bagels are loving their jingle.'

‘Great, but I need to tidy it up a bit before they go into production.' Ray was going to have to change it so it didn't sound like Chip's track. He could fly in a new baseline, add a second guitar, suggest a female singer instead of a male one.

‘No need,' Andy said. ‘They want the demo as is and they want to pay you handsomely for your vocal.'

Ray felt a wave of panic lap at his knees. If he didn't change it and Chip
heard it
… ‘I can't let it go as it is. It's just too raw.'

‘It's perfect, Ray. Everyone in here's been singing it non-stop.'

‘Just give me half a day—'

Andy's voice was sharp. ‘Ray, I'm not going to tell the client they can't have the track they love.'

The teenage girls were spilling out of Starbucks in a squealing throng. ‘I'm sorry,' Ray began, ‘but you can't—'

But Andy only heard the first two words. ‘Apology accepted. Where are you anyway? The zoo?'

While Richard was studying the Japanese menu, Claire had a chance to study him. Short blond hair. Neat nose. Nice mouth. He looked like Rob Lowe's younger, blond brother. His light blue cotton shirt was the exact colour of his eyes. She caught herself thinking of Shane's dark eyes instead. She had spent an hour getting ready and now here she was, trying to sabotage the evening before it had even started.

‘So …' Richard looked up and smiled at her. ‘I'm a horologist. I hope that's not going to be a problem.'

Claire smiled right back. ‘Isn't it a bit early in our relationship to be admitting that?'

‘Very funny. I'm into clocks and watches. My granddad used to have one of these.' He rolled up his sleeve. ‘It's a Rolex Submariner. Water resistant to a thousand feet. Unidirectional rotating bezel.' He shook his head. ‘I lost you at “unidirectional”, didn't I?'

‘You lost me at a thousand feet,' Claire shot back.

The waitress arrived with the wine list.

‘What wine do you recommend,' Richard asked her, ‘with a sushi plate?'

‘I don't,' she said frostily. ‘Japanese food and wine don't mix.'

He handed back the menu. ‘Good advice. I'm Richard and you are …' He smiled at her broadly.

‘Your waitress for the evening,' she said, then her icy expression dissolved. ‘Naomi.'

‘Beer OK with you, Claire?' Claire nodded. ‘Two Sapporos, Naomi.

‘Anyway, my granddad left me some money in his will so I decided to buy a Rolex for myself. I was seventeen. I got the bus up from Wexford in my school uniform and headed into Weir's on Grafton Street.'

‘That was a pretty brave thing to do when you were seventeen.'

‘There was this manager tearing strips off a guy my age because he hadn't polished a display cabinet so I waited till he was free and I went over and asked him to show me the Swatches. Then I said I'd maybe look at something a bit more expensive. So he showed me the Timexes and then the Omegas and then the Tag Heuers.' He topped up Claire's beer glass. ‘Finally I asked to see the Rolexes. He thought I was having him on. You should have seen his face when I said I'd take this one.'

Claire laughed. ‘He thought he'd sold a guy who came in for a Swatch a Rolex. You must have made his day.'

‘Didn't cost me anything to do it. Anyway, enough about me. What makes you—'

‘Don't say it!' Claire groaned.

He grinned. ‘Tick?'

He was easy to talk to. Light and funny, and Claire began to enjoy herself.

He chatted about his family home in Wexford. His bohemian mother and his strait-laced father and his two wild younger sisters. ‘What about you?' he asked, when they were sharing a slice of very un-Japanese cheesecake. ‘Does your family live in Dublin?'