Page 47 of Oyster

He winked at my brother. Even Zoë’s mouth quirked up at the edges. My dad dribbled a liberal amount of mignonette over an oyster before popping it in his mouth. “How did you get on with that bed up at the north end today, Max?”

“Finished the whole section. I’m doing the one at Ars tomorrow.”

I zoned out, feeling hungry after all. Across from me, my mum rested her head back against the sofa cushions and closed her weary eyes. Zoë nibbled on a corner of bread, and Max steadily demolished a slab of Comté cheese. Ribbons ofconversation flowed around. Zoë chuckled, and my dad teased Max, while my mum had the most peaceful expression on her face I’d seen for a very long time. I stared at the rapidly diminishing heap of shellfish.

All of a sudden, I craved a second course. Of fillet steak, oozing with blood. And langoustines. And lobster and honeyed pancakes. And a side order of frites, Éti's forbidden treat, a golden layered Jenga pyramid of them in the centre of the table. A cheese platter, too, boasting the finest selection France had to offer: half a wheel of brie, melting off the plate; a pungent, aged camembert, so smelly it made your eyes water. Followed by a dish of caramel ice cream as big as a grapefruit, sprinkled with Florian’s fleur de sel and guarded by a precarious mound of profiteroles, dripping in chocolate so rich and velvety that, Medusa-like, they added kilos to everyone’s weight just from staring at them.

Because I’d wanted this meal to never happen and now, I wanted it to never end. I wanted our plates to stay full, our bellies to still be empty. I wanted Zoë to carry on bitching and whining about her friend Isabelle until well into the night. I wanted Max to needle me about lifting bigger pouches and then demonstrate by stripping off his top like he used to and proudly flex his growing biceps. I wanted my mum to stop gazing at my dad like no one else mattered, and I wanted my dad to stop pretending everything was all right when we knew his heart was screaming in pain.

And as much as I wanted any of that, I wanted my beautiful Éti, my rock, my joy, by my side. My love that came without warning.

CHAPTER 13

Any closer to the pitch and I’d be listed on the team sheet as first reserve. No young Hollywood starlets keeping the seats warm this week, merely a couple of world-famous former PSG players and their wives seated on my right, and at my rear five handsome sheiks, huddled together, deep in conversation. Anxious at my presence being scrutinised or even challenged, Éti had reassured me all kinds sat in the VIP seats—scouts, agents, investors, competition winners, as well as family and friends. I would be unremarkable, she reassured; I’d be left alone. With that comforting thought, I flicked through the match programme, awaiting the game to begin.

To my left, a ripple of activity alerted me to the even more well-known figure of PSG’s captain and number-one goalkeeper, Fabien Pépin, easing his way along the row, stopping to shake hands and exchange backslaps and a few words with fans and friends in the row behind. Very cool. Max would be jealous as hell. Two identical little boys, miniature versions of Fabien and dressed in matching number ten Salvador shirts, trailed in his wake, chattering to each other and sucking on lollipops. Quelling my inner fanboy, I switched my attention to the teams warming up below. In my periphery, one of my footballing idols arrangedeach of his sons before arranging himself on the seat next to me. And then held out one of his fucking enormous goalkeeping hands.

“Hi, you must be Nico, right? I’m Fabien. Good to meet you at last.”

“Oh, right. Um… hi. Yeah, Nico.”

My face prickled into a blush. Oblivious, Fabien carried on. “Étienne said you might come up on the train to watch. He’s been wanting me to meet you for a while.”

I was stunned. And overawed. And also experiencing my default emotion on hearing Éti’s name: pleasure. A combination rendering me dumbstruck.

“You’re in for a good game today,” he added, like I was a person of some importance. “Marseille are only four points behind us and won their last three matches. That new German manager has turned them around.”

I gulped through a dry throat. “You’re not playing today?”

Fucking idiot. Of course he wasn’t. He was sitting in the stands with his kids, dressed in a suit.

“Boy number three arrived yesterday morning.” Fabien cast a proud eye over numbers one and two, then chuckled. “The wife says we’re building our own soccer team! The club have given me the weekend off. So I thought I’d bring these two scallywags along, keep them out of the way of the missus and the mother-in-law for a few hours.”

He ruffled the hair of the nearest boy beside him, excitedly waving to one of the reserve players in the dugout, who waved back.

“Congratulations,” I got out.

He inclined his head before performing a modest little wave himself as, ah, merde, the big-screen camera panned around the stadium. Hovering over the players' area, it then zoomed in on him, television commentators all over the world no doubtoffering the same explanation why he was missing the game. Yep, there it was, my anonymous, scruffy, and now beetroot-red mug being beamed around the globe too, as I chinwagged with France’s number-one goalkeeper.

Within seconds, my phone buzzed. And then again, and again, as, one by one, the patrons of L’Escale did a double take. Speculation about the identity of my mystery girlfriend with access to the best seats at the match—thanks, Max—would abound well into the night, the truth as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.

“Thanks. Though my wife has done all the hard work. You’re an oyster fisherman, aren’t you? Étienne says yours are the best he’s ever tasted. They must be good—he’s a very fussy eater.”

An image of Éti, lips coated in lemon juice, laughingly planting a sloppy kiss on my mouth, flitted through my head. I pushed it to the back of my mind. Did he know? Surely not. He deadnamed Éti for a start, and he used the wrong pronouns.

So, what had he surmised? That I was gay? That Éti was gay? Or that I was nothing more than an island friend?

As the match kicked off, and with sweat pouring down my back, I found myself having a pleasant chat toel capitanoand proud new father about our nation’s love of quality seafood and the best white wines to pair with oysters. Fabien was a charming and enthusiastic companion, funny too. I could easily imagine him drawing out Éti’s playful side and was glad she had a good friend up in Paris, even if she couldn't confide her whole truth in him.

As Fabien had predicted, the game was close. PSG’s substitute goalkeeper put them on the backfoot early on, fumbling an easy save to let the ball roll through his legs into the back of the net. Next to me, Fabien swore, briefly clutching his head in his hands before shouting encouragement at his junior teammate.

“I’d have missed that one, too.”

I disagreed, but his modesty and support made me warm to him even more. “Poor Matthieu. No matter how many great saves you make, they only remember the ones you miss.”

The error, however, fired Éti up. Making a couple of searching runs, she danced through the midfield, leaving defenders in her wake. Éti didn’t have the flashiness of tricksters like Ronaldo and Ibrahimovic—she didn’t need it—but her stunning simplicity was equally menacing. As a hapless Marseille player brought her down in a desperate two-footed tackle, leading to a yellow card, his teammate had his hands on his hips, wondering what the hell had just flown past him.

Fabien laughed. “I feel your pain, buddy!” He turned to me. “Trust me, Nico, chasing Salvador around feels like when you're twelve years old playing football with your sixteen-year-old brother and his buddies. The guy didn’t stand a chance!”

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