Page 68 of Oyster

Fabien had neither hung up nor dropped the baby. He did pass him over to his wife, though, then leaned forward as he waited patiently for the pantomime to finish playing out at our end.

“Love, listen to me. He hasn’t hung up, and he isn’t shouting. If you opened your eyes, you’d see him smiling at you. He’s going to be fine about it. And very supportive. Trust me, I’ve met the bloke.”

“We could just pretend it was a big joke, Nico. Why don’t we do that?”

“Hey, GodmotherÉti!” hollered Fabien. “Listen to your boyfriend! Open your damned eyes and talk to your best mate! Otherwise, I’m going to come over with Godfather Ruiz and sort you out.”

With one eye half open, Éti peeked at the screen. “You still… still want me to be a godmother? Even though I’m… er… trans?”

“Of course I do. Now open your bloody eyes so I can see them properly!” As Éti cautiously peered up at him, Fabien stared into the camera. “Look at you, all dressed up so pretty! And you’ve got some smudgy crap on your eyelids too!”

“Gel eyeliner,” I murmured. Seemed me and Fabien had attended the same charm school.

“Yes. I have. I have done for a while, years, but not… ah… not in public. Dresses, too. Are you sure you’re okay with all this?”

“Jeez, Salvador! I’m your best mate. You’re like a brother to me.”

“Sister,” a female voice hissed off screen. “She’s your sister now.”

Mrs Fabien sounded like a very cool woman.

“I’m going to come out tomorrow night,” said Éti. “At the Ballon d’Or. But I wanted to tell you first. And you need to warn the team that… I guess it’s not going to be the usual dull affair.”

“Hey, at least it will guarantee they’ll all turn up! Of course, I’ll do that, and I’ll ring the boss, too, if you like. So you don’t have to.”

Éti sighed at mention of the boss and no wonder. Brashness and a hard nose were the PSG manager’s defining characteristics. “No but thank you. It’s my next call. I thought I’d practise on you first.”

Fabien’s voice softened. “Étienne, are you very sure? It will be huge, you know? Once it’s out, your life is going to change forever.”

“Éti, please, Fabien. And yes, I do. I want it to change.”

“Sorry,putain, that’s going to take some getting used to. Éti Salvador. It’s a cute name! Suits you, honey!”

I left them talking. And laughing. My girlfriend, giggling with her best friend, cooing at his new baby boy and talking babyclothes with Fabien’s wife. While she called the PSG manager too, I left her alone, then cuddled her close, smoothing out the pinched frown lines from her pale forehead. He had been accepting but not enthusiastic, which was as well as could be expected. His six-week break was going to be more eventful than he’d anticipated.

Éti’s parents were next. We sat less close together for this one, not even touching. We didn’t need to; her outfit and the presence of a young bloke on the sofa next to her confirmed this was the phone call they’d hoped would never come. I only glimpsed her mum for a moment, an insipid older version of Éti, her eyes filling with tears before her husband shooed her away.

“I’ll deal with this, Eleanor. Go and make us both a drink.” With his hands loosely clasped together over the tracksuit top covering his thin belly, M. Salvador sat at ease behind his solid kitchen table. The curve of his mouth and the jut of his chin hinted at superiority, the expression of a man used to having the world—and his only child—dance to his tune. A bully, in other words, and still keen-eyed and hungry, even now his every ambition for that child had been overachieved. He didn’t bother hiding his irritation.

“Oh dear. I thought you’d grown out of all this nonsense, Étienne.”

The tiny part of me that felt sorry for him at receiving Éti’s news out of the blue evaporated. Given the disdain dripping from those words, I was surprised she granted him even this simple courtesy. He made no effort to acknowledge my presence, making me glad we weren’t in the same room; the temptation to punch him would have been overwhelming.

“It’s Éti.” She spoke with a drained inevitability, enduring a necessary self-flagellation. I sensed it wasn’t the first time they’d had versions of this conversation. “I thought you and Mum should be amongst the first to know I’m going public at theawards ceremony tomorrow night. As a trans woman. Of course, I’d understand if you didn’t want to attend.”

With a dismissive groan, Mr Salvador ran a hand through his luxuriant salt-and-pepper hair. “Then you’re a bigger idiot than I’d realised, Étienne.”

Any respect I might have had for the man, for what he’d achieved, the support he’d given Éti over the years, took a hike. Skipping introductions, I barked, “I’d rather you didn’t speak to her like that!”

“It’s okay.” Éti placed a warning hand on my arm. “Let him say what he thinks.”

Like I wasn’t there, Mr Salvador calmly carried on. “Do PSG know?”

“As of ten minutes ago, yes. Although it’s not football-related, so I’m not sure it’s any of their business. I told the manager as a courtesy to him and the club, as I have a great deal of admiration for both.”

Mr Salvador harrumphed. “They’ll think it’s their business. As will the club’s lawyers. They pay your wages!”

“Yes, which is why I gave them that kindness,” Éti pointed out. Nonetheless, she sounded more unsure of herself. “My contract states my personal life shouldn’t bring the club into disrepute, nothing else. Warning him was a courtesy to give PSG time to get its statement prepared. I have good relations with the Board—I don’t want to spoil that.”

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