Page 61 of Oyster

“Sure, will do.”

He side-eyed me as the celebrations began to wind down, helping himself to more cheese. “I’m not used to you seeing someone more than once. Did you even know how to behave on your second date, Nico?”

What the fuck? Bereavement clearly hadn’t robbed him of his ability to take the piss. “I can’t have been too terrible; she’s put up with me over the last few months. And I haven’t exactly been at my best.”

“Got yourself a good one, by the sound of things, then.”

“I have.”

Throwing the fans a final wave, Éti jogged back into position to play out the closing minutes of the match. Most of her hair had escaped her band, and she was still grinning from ear to ear. I knew that tousled, flushed expression well. Whenever she stayed on the island, I woke to it every morning. “No complaints from me. She’s great.”

“Well, just make sure you look after her. Don’t go taking her for granted.”

What was this? Twenty questions? “Um… is this relationship advice part of the counselling service too?”

“No, not really.” Shaking his head, he patted my knee again. It felt weird. I contemplated moving to the armchair. “I’m just checking you’re doing it right, son. When you’ve got a good one, you hold on to them. Never know how long you’ll have together.”

Ah merde. His voice broke on the last part, eyes brimming with tears. How swiftly in the aftermath of bereavement the pendulum of joy could swing to sadness. I hadn’t spotted it on the way down, and neither had he until it was upon us. We’d had ages to get used to my mum’s terminal cancer, but even a very drawn-out death was sudden at the end. Like an earthquake, there one minute, gone the next. But the aftershocks? They hung around a while, and we never knew when they would hit.

I stayed on the sofa. “We look after each other, Dad. I want you to meet her soon. She’s been… she’s been great through all of… everything.”

Everything. Another handy euphemism as we struggled to say the words out loud. Nevertheless,everythingencompassed them. He made a noise somewhere between a sniff and a chuckle, then blew out his cheeks. “Didn’t think I had any crying left in me. Seeing Zoë tonight, so much like her, set me off.”

Aware we were having the first meaningful chat alone since my mum’s death, I grabbed him some tissues from the bathroom. “I don’t know what to do with myself, half the time,” he said on my return. “I keep turning around wanting to tell her something, and she’s not there.”

The irony of grief in a nutshell: the person he most needed for comfort was the person no longer able to offer it. “I know, Dad. But you’re doing great. Really great.” It was my turn to give him a knee pat, and we sat in silence, both watching the screen and the jubilant celebrations as the referee blew the final whistle but seeing nothing.

As he finished crying, I waited him out and then stayed quiet for a little longer as he sat in that grey emotionless limbo between feeling wrecked and pulling yourself together. On the screen, two stories played out: one jubilant team dancing the conga in front of the home fans, the other sunk to their knees, heads down.

“Nice of you to give Max your tickets. And I never said at the time, but thank you for moving back in and staying around to help. It meant a lot to me and your mother. I know you’ll probably want to head out again soon.”

“Yes, but I won’t go far. My girlfriend has asked me to move into her place here on the island. It’s less than a mile from the farm, off the La Couarde road, you know, one of the places in amongst the pines.”

“Very posh! Hopefully I’ll get a glimpse of her in a minute. The award presentation will be just above the players dugout.”

Putain. Now was as good a time as any, wasn’t it? Seeing as we were being touchy feely and all. And if not now, when? As Éti broke away from her teammates to shake hands with an inconsolable City player, I took a fortifying breath and pointed at the screen.

“There she is.”

“Where? Where? Pause the telly.”

“I don’t need to. You know what she looks like.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do, actually. It’s… um… listen, Dad. She’s… she’s Étienne Salvador, although her correct name is Éti.”

In a million years I could not have devised a better sequence of words to render him speechless. For the shortest sliver of time, his grief took second place.

“Remember that woman we spotted drunk on the beach that morning? Sitting in the sea, and I went and helped her safely home? That was her. That was Éti Salvador. Hardly anyone knows, but when she’s not hiding her true self, when she’s in private, Éti is a trans woman.”

The players had begun lining up to receive the trophy, not that I was watching. My dad’s facial contortions were far more amusing. “So, I’m going to be living at her place, a mile up the beach,” I added, as if that explained everything. “She won’t be there constantly, obviously—she’ll be splitting herself between here and Paris. And for what it’s worth, she’s more than great. She’s the love of my life.”

Ten minutes later, and so astonished, he still had nothing to say. I didn’t think I’d ever cut myself a piece of Port Salut cheese again without remembering this profound moment. On the screen, pundits were endlessly marvelling over the goal. Even the taciturn Man City manager begrudgingly admitted he’d seennothing like it. Yet, for all my dad noticed, I could have switched to the cookery programme on the other channel.

And then Éti was thrust in front of the camera, squashed in between Ruiz and Fabien, still breathless and swigging from a water bottle. As she praised the excellent performances of the coaches, the managers, her teammates, and the fans, my dad’s head swivelled from the screen to me and then back to the screen. After she’d finished, Fabien threw his great long arm around her and kissed the top of her head. Teasing about how she’d forgotten to mention her own exhilarating performance, Ruiz slung his arm about her from the other side, and kissed her too, on the cheek.

Somehow, that roused my dad from his stupor, and he gave me a nudge. “Are you happy, Nico, with these other blokes being quite so familiar with your girlfriend?” He pointed his finger at Ruiz. “Eff off, mate. She’s taken!”

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