Page 73 of Oyster

With the cameras switched off and with the great and the good ensconced on a table as far from ours as the banqueting room allowed, decorum, class, poise, and filters flew out the window, replaced by childish fun. Rich footballers knew how to party—that was no surprise—but, more than that, they knew how to embrace change. And how to make me feel welcome, not that much was expected of me.

Now it was all over, I was happy enough basking in my girlfriend’s glory. To watch her relax, safe for now in the bosom of her accepting teammates. To let her low laughter soak into my soul, to take a cool dip in her steadfast eyes each time they flicked up at me, to drown in her chipped-tooth smile. To plot peeling her out of her shimmery dress once we were alone and claim her as mine all over again. Perhaps we could sneak away soon, after the cheese course. Was the guest of honour allowed to do that?

“That part of the evening will have to wait, I’m afraid,” offered Fabien, giving me a cheeky wink. “I saw you. You’re undressing her with your eyes.”

I blushed. “I can’t believe how accepting you all are.”

Fabien shrugged. “It’s not a big leap, to be honest. I think as soon as she told me, things clicked into place. It feels right for her. Natural, like she’s always been a woman. We just never noticed until she pointed it out. Dubois said the same thing.”

“How do you think the headlines are going to spin it tomorrow?”

Fabien’s brow pinched. “Mixed, I should think. But I spoke to the boss earlier, and the club are going to take a supportive line. Maybe an opportunity to appeal to a younger, more liberal generation. We’ll see. But as long as your Éti carries on putting away goals and bringing us trophies, if she can stomach the abuse from the terraces, then I think she’ll be okay.”

Dinner drew to a close. The whole circus was almost over. And we’d survived. “You never told me there would be fucking dancing!”

“I’m la petite danseuse! Of course there is. And we have to have the first dance.” Éti smiled at me, fluttering those damn eyelashes. “And, anticipating that reaction, are you surprised?The winner always takes to the floor first. It’s tradition! Like at a wedding.”

“Who did you dance with last year? And the years before that?”

“With my mother.” She pulled a face. “And Fabien’s wife. Now, take my arm and lead me out. No one expects very much. We just stare lovingly into each other’s eyes and shuffle around a bit until everyone else joins in.”

The first part came easily; I was an expert at the second too. Holding onto my arm, in a much more relaxed manner than several hours earlier on the red carpet, Éti sashayed towards the dancefloor on her high heels like, well, a dancer. Whereas I tried not to appear like I was on my way to the guillotine. Pulling myself together, I plastered on a smile. How bad could it be?

What I hadn’t accounted for was a stray champagne cork lying in wait for us in the middle of the shiny dancefloor. I spotted it about the same time as Éti zoned in. She twitched with anticipation. Ah, merde.

“No, sweetheart.” I hissed. “Absolument non. Everyone’s watching.”

“But can’t I just…”

“No! Pretend it’s not there.”

“But…”

“You’re wearing stilettos.”

“I know. Aren’t they gorgeous?”

“Everyone’s watching!”

“Yes, but I… it’s… I could just hitch up my…”

Putain, I was wasting my breath.

Call it instinct, call it years of relentless practise, call it a seasoned reflexive impulse out of her control. Whatever; I might as well have been trying to hold back the tides. Some things were meant to be.

“Do you reckon I could take out one of those chandelier bulbs if I get the angle right?”

I snorted. “And the FIFA president if he moves about a foot to the left. Right on top of his shiny bald head.”

Laughter welled in my throat as next to me, my love that came without warning, my darling Éti and this year’s uncontested winner of the prestigious Ballon d’Or, paused in front of the lonely little cork and released my hand. Ignoring the romantic music, the interested audience, and the heckles of her friends, she contemplated it, her gaze flicking up to the chandeliers above our heads, taking in the portly FIFA president on the way back down, and then back to the cork. As if deciding where to place a penalty. With a dainty touch, she pinched the sides of her dress, inching it up little by little, until the sparkling fabric rested above her knees.

“Now, angel?”

I caught a flash of chipped incisor and grinned back. “Now and forever, my sweet.”

Beautifully balanced, neither staggering nor falling, Éti Salvador, the world’s greatest soccer player, drew back her high-heeled foot, took aim, and booted the cork high up into the rafters.

EPILOGUE

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