Page 15 of Oyster

“No. You’re not treading on toes. I’m single. And if the weather clears up, then I’ll even bring a picnic.”

I accompanied her to the door.

“Do you really prefer rugby? I mean, it’s so violent, non?” She shuddered, pulling a face. “And the players are so… big. Us footballers are much more stylish and prettier, don’t you agree?”

She batted her eyelashes. This was the person the media never saw, ridiculous and coquettish and funny. “Some of them are,” I agreed. “Pretty players like you are the only reason a good friend of mine ever watches football.”

She raised a slim finger. “I dispute that you carried me, by the way. On the beach. I’ll acknowledge that youassistedwhen I may have staggered a tiny bit over some terribly uneven ground. But you didn’t carry me. I would have remembered that.”

“La petite danseuse always stays on her feet, yes?”

“Exactement.And as well as having a rotating collection of supercars, I’m a demon at FIFA. I don’t have a favourite food.”

CHAPTER 6

Nerves had plagued me as I’d driven over, which I put down to not wanting to come across as gauche and provincial in the presence of a megastar. I needn’t have worried; they melted away at the sight of Éti, tapping her toe and checking her watch. Someone else was nervous too.

If she’d had a tail, it would have been wagging when we met at our prearranged rendezvous under the pines. As I signed her stupid form without even reading the small print, I complimented her on how pretty she looked. I hadn’t intended to, the words simply popped out, but her corresponding smile could have been a substitute for the sun. Maybe it was the way she was dressed, or her tumble of hair loose around her shoulders and the touch of makeup. Or perhaps it was something in the way she moved and spoke, but I soon forgot that three days ago I’d considered the handsome woman next to me to be a male soccer star named Étienne.

Well, almost. Soccer was a highly competitive sport. I was swift to find out that kicking a pebble down the beach was, too. And an athletic young woman dressed in a flowing red dress and spangly gold trainers was thrashing me at it. Needless to say, there was no sight of the intimidating reserved Éti. This onewas all smiles and playfulness. As if she’d decided to trust me, drawn a line, and was fucking enjoying herself. So, I parked my immediate worries and enjoyed myself too. An afternoon beach date with an attractive woman? Nothing not to enjoy there.

Another bruised pebble soaring into the sky reminded me. “Now you’re just showing off.”

Putain,she was good. Rotting fir cones were fair game too, as were twigs, seashells, even a bloated dead crab. She hoofed that poor fellow high into the heavens, chuffing with satisfaction as he smacked back into the sea with a satisfying plop. The few people we passed—other beach strollers, runners, and dogwalkers—hadn’t given her a second glance. With her hair loose, sunglasses, and a touch of lipstick, she was no different to any other young woman making the most of the early spring sunshine.

Okay, maybe a smidge. “Can’t you walk sensibly in a straight line, like every other normal adult enjoying a late morning meander?”

“I can, yes. But do I want to?”

For the next fifty metres, she trotted alongside me doing a ridiculous heel-to-toe walk, her arms out for balance as if I’d arrested her for being drunk under the influence. No way would solemn Étienne Salvador ever contemplate something as silly. I nudged her off her imaginary line, and she pirouetted away, laughing.

“I don’t go out very often, Nico! Not like this, anyhow. Not as me! I’m… I’m excited!”

“Tell me something I don’t know!”

Did it all seem a little crazy? Did I feel privileged? Like I was living in a dream that was going to come to an abrupt end when she said goodbye and drove back to Paris later? Yes, yes, and yes.

“I’m no doctor, but shouldn’t you be resting that hamstring, not kicking everything in your path?”

The heel-toe didn’t last long. She rounded it off with a spurt of backward jogging before resuming a more sensible walk interspersed with stone kicking.

“It’s much better. I did my usual workout routine this morning, and it was fine. I’m meeting the team physios tomorrow to be put through my paces, and, if that’s okay, I’ll be back to training with everyone else. We’ve got a couple of important games coming up—FC Nantes next Tuesday, then a Champions League match against Porto the week after. The boss says he’ll kill me if I’m not back for that one.”

That this surreal conversation was my reality hadn’t quite sunk in.

“So you’re driving back to Paris tonight?”

We reached the spot I’d earmarked for our mini picnic. I laid out a checked rug, and she flopped down on it with a groan. “Yeah. Don’t remind me. I need to set off in a couple of hours; my agent will be coming over to my apartment later this evening with his usual weekly list of crap for me to wade through.”

Even sprawled on a picnic blanket, she radiated fitness and energy, restless knees jiggling and busy fingers creating swirls in the sand. While pretending to concentrate on unloading the picnic, I admired her spare frame. Not an ounce of excess flesh anywhere; her belly like an ironing board, and no doubt as firm. Her arms were toned to perfection, and, though she was not as tall as me by three or four inches, and slighter, I didn’t fancy my chances in a wrestling match. Kicking off her trainers, she wiggled her pink toes in the damp sand. I’d noticed her pretty, shapely feet when they’d imitated little ice blocks the other night; today her toenails were painted a matte black.

“What have you brought me then?” she asked, craning her neck to see into my rucksack. “I’m starving.”

I handed her a thermos and two plastic cups and plates, then prized the lid off a little polystyrene cooler box packed withcrushed ice. “Now is not the moment to inform me you have a shellfish allergy.”

“No way.” As she whipped off her sunglasses, her eyes sparkled. “I adore seafood. Especially when I have it here on the island—it doesn’t come any fresher.”

Her eyes widened even further when I held up a big oyster. “Waouh! These are from your farm, aren’t they?”

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