Free The Heart Whisperer by Ella Griffin Page B

month.’
    Claire smiled. ‘You’ve done pretty well yourself!’
    After Lorcan had told Claire she’d been cast in the hair care ad, Eilish had door-stopped him until he’d sent her headshot over to the ad agency and today she’d had a call to say she’d been cast too. So tonight they were celebrating with Aldi’s finest cava and Eilish’s notoriously decadent demerara meringues. But, first, they had to work their way through her Provençal onion tart and her salmon with sugarsnap peas and dill pistachio pastou.
    Eilish leaned over the cooker and peeked into a sauté pan. ‘Eatyour heart out, Nigella! But slow-cook it in Coke first, then dip it in seventy per cent chocolate and don’t forget to lick your fingers afterwards.’
    Claire’s phone rang halfway through the main course. It was Ray. ‘I don’t like Prosecco,’ he said. ‘Does that make me antisecco?’ There was a lot of clattering in the background. ‘Come upstairs. I’ve got a little surprise for you. Actually, it’s a sizeable surprise.’
    â€˜I’m over in Eilish’s.’ Claire put down her fork. ‘She’s made dinner to celebrate the hair thing.’
    â€˜You’ve eaten?’ Ray sounded disappointed.
    â€˜We’re eating now.’ Claire made a pleading face. Eilish rolled her eyes and then nodded reluctantly. ‘Do you want to come and join us?’
    â€˜No thanks. I have a … takeaway.’ There was a loud crash in the background.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    It was Ray’s takeaway. It had woken up and it was trying to get out of the sink.
    Ray needed to find something really special to celebrate Claire getting the hair ad, and as he was walking along Chatham Street it hit him. A lobster. There was only one left on the pile of crushed ice in the window of the fish shop. It was huge and blue-black with glassy eyes on stalks and rubber bands around its massive claws. A leg that looked as though it was supposed to still be attached lay nearby.
    The fishmonger picked it up and waved it at him. ‘They like to scrap,’ he said fondly. ‘Tell you what, as you’re a Smoke Covered Horse,’ he winked, ‘I’ll give you five euro off and I’ll throw in the leg.’
    He whistled the opening bars of ‘Wish You Were Her’ as he wrapped the struggling lobster up in newspaper and moved on to ‘Pretty Stupid’ as he tried to wrestle it into a plastic bag. ‘It’s a shame you fellas decided to call it a day. I was hoping for a reunion.’
    â€˜Never say never.’ Ray took out his wallet.
    â€˜Really?’ The fishmonger looked pleased. ‘That’s not what ChipConnolly said. I had him in here last week. He bought a lovely bit of hake.’
    â€˜Yeah?’ Ray tried to sound casual. ‘What did he say?’
    â€˜I said “Any chance of the Horses getting back together?” and he said “Over my effing dead body”.’ The fishmonger handed over the thrashing bag. ‘Maybe it was “Over my dead effing body” but you get the general sense.’
    The lobster had calmed down by the time Ray got it home, but while he was on the phone it had livened up again. It had torn its way out of the bag and managed to escape from the sink. It came limping towards Ray now across the draining board, one big claw held up, like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky.
    â€˜Got to go, Claire.’ Ray hung up, threw a towel over the lobster and shoved it into the freezer. He’d read somewhere that was supposed to slow its blood down. He poured himself a glass of Prosecco. What was he supposed to do with the bloody lobster now? He didn’t want to cook it, he felt too sorry for it. Could he keep it alive for the weekend and bring it back to the shop? What would he feed it? What did lobsters eat?
    â€˜Fish, clams, whelks and smaller, weaker