Page 59 of Oyster

“Nothing! Just asking, that’s all.” He took a tiny sip, hardly making a dent in the bottle.

“Okay.”

He didn’t speak again until the handshakes and huddles were over. Zoë wafted down the stairs for a night out, her first since saying a final goodbye to our mum. Dressed to the nines in a thigh-hugging skirt and with the smudgy, smoky eyes thing. Fabulous, in other words, a volcanic mix of brittle confidence and naivety that only teenage girls could pull off. Seeing her dressed up again, making an effort like she used to, was thrilling. But ah merde, my hackles rose. I knew how teenage lads’ minds worked. Should I say something? Was her choice of outfit any of my business? It shouldn’t be anyone’s but hers, yet testosterone-fuelled horny teenage brains didn’t always work that way.

My dad tensed. Seemed he was on the same page. There was an awkward pause while we both met her fragile but defiant stare; the slightest wrong move and she’d fly off the handle. How come I always fell so drastically short when confronted by this girl-woman-child? My mum would have known exactly what to do, what to say.

Our dad ended the stand-off, his drawn features breaking into a gentle smile. Seemed he’d been paying close attention to his wife’s expertise in navigating three tricky teenagers after all.

“Don’t you look smashing, love! Hey, Nico, you could learn a lesson or two from Zoë on smartening yourself up.”

Rich, coming from a guy with nothing in his wardrobe except tatty jeans and an array of identical fisherman’s jerseys. “Speak for yourself!”

“Andshe’s got somewhere to be on a Saturday night! Not like you, you sad loser.”

Cheeky bugger. Zoë’s stiff shoulders eased. She smoothed down her skirt and rolled her eyes at him. My dad’s foot pressed down on mine with intent. Getting the hint, I took up the baton.

“You scrub up well, Zoë. But honestly, you didn’t need to go to all that effort for us two.”

“God, you’re so original, Nico.”

“Not going to tell us who the lucky fella is, though,” teased my dad, playing along.

“Or girl,” I interjected. Éti and Flor would have been proud of me.

“OMG, you know I’m just meeting Sabine and Isabelle and bunch of friends.”

Blushing hard, she shot us both a reproving stare straight out of her mother’s repertoire, bringing an unexpected pang to my chest.

From the way his voice cracked, my dad hadn’t missed it either. “Have you got enough money, love?”

“Yeah.”

Dad fished a twenty euro note out of his pocket anyway and handed it over. “Just in case.”

“Have you got plenty of charge on your phone?” I added.

“Yes, of course! I’m seventeen, not ten! Stop fussing.”

“If you need a lift home, or you’ve had enough of everyone, give us a call,” said my dad. “Me or Nico will come and get you.” He indicated to his beer bottle. “I’m not having another one.”

She tottered from the house, stopping to switch on the cheerful porch light as she breezed past.

As luck would have it, the match had started, saving either of us from speaking for a few minutes. Which was just as well because the thing with the bloody light had us both struggling. Not much had happened in the soccer, both teams sizing up the other. Éti made a couple of passes, nothing extraordinary, but thrilling to me, nonetheless.

Blowing out a long breath, my dad rubbed his face. “Christ, she’s the spit of your mother at that age. I hope she’ll be all right.” He checked the time. No more than ten minutes had gone by. I’d been thinking the same.

“I’m sure she will,” I reassured. “It’ll do her good, going out.”

“I never used to fuss about her like this.” He stared fixedly at the telly. “I had an appointment with that counsellor woman in the week, the one your mate Charles recommended. I’ve seen her twice now. She said worrying about everyone more than usual was normal after a… a bereavement.”

Ah. That explained a couple of things. If I made a list of the least likely people to agree to see a counsellor, my dad would top it. But somehow, my mum’s sister and Charles had persuaded him. And the early results were promising, even if the experimental leg pat made us both uncomfortable.

“She sounds like she knows what she’s talking about,” I said cautiously.

“Yeah. I’m going again this week.”

With the shadow boxing out the way, both on the sofa and on the telly, we focused on the soccer for a while, which was hotting up. Against the run of play, a nippy City midfielder sprinted for the penalty box, unanticipated by his teammates. Meyer, thehefty German playing at left back for PSG, sliced across him. With no one to pass to and running out of options, the City player tried a dummy, failed, lost possession then swallow-dived to the ground like he was auditioning for a role in Swan Lake. The referee’s arm shot up, and so did my dad out of his chair.

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