Page 3 of Oyster

She pointed to a gap in the low dunes. A dense row of pine trees lay beyond, sheltering the secluded holiday homes of the rich and famous from prying eyes. A private sandy path snaked down the beach from each one. That figured, although I was surprised her husband or partner, or friends, hadn’t realisedshe was missing. Maybe they were all comatose, sleeping off the night’s excesses.

“I’ll see you safe inside,” I said, as much to myself as her. From her swaying, she’d never make it unaided. Of equal importance, I needed my stinky coat back.

The sky lightened as we weaved up the shallow sandy incline towards the dunes. Purging her guts roused the woman somewhat. She kicked at a stone, cheering as it soared up into the air.

“And she scores!”

Pleased with herself, she did it again, effortlessly sending this one even farther. “Yess! Goal! Ouch! Merde!” She hopped on one foot, swearing. “Did you see that one? Better than Ronaldo!”

To be fair, it was impressive, even more so barefooted. As was the next attempt, somehow cleverly balancing the pebble on the front of her left foot before flicking it up a metre or so, then catching it mid-volley to launch it into the stratosphere. The sort of trick only drunk people pulled off. She’d feel the bruises when she sobered.

“Steady, sweetheart. Let’s concentrate on walking, shall we? Leave the soccer skills to Ronaldo.”

“But I am better than him,” she said, sounding mulish. “Much better.”

As if to prove it, she took a swipe at another. “Ow! Better than Ney-mar.” She sang out the name while she kicked up another, doing the clever balancing thing before this one soared too. And another, chanting famous footballing names with each kick. “Better than Mbappé, ow! Better than Mess-i, fuck! Better than Benze-ma, better than…”

She spoiled it by tripping over a jutting rock. If I hadn’t grabbed her, she’d have landed flat on her face.

“Whoopsie! Pretend that didn’t happen.” She dropped her voice to a theatrical whisper. “And promise me you won’t tell Ronaldo!”

“Only if you stop that nonsense and concentrate on what you’re doing.”

I tightened my grip on the back of my jacket. For the next few paces, she dipped her chin, focusing on the sandy ground, again, deliberately fluffing her hair around her face. Perhaps she or her husband were famous—lots of low-key celebs and politicians chose the island as a retreat. Less glitzy than Monaco or Antibes, they could swan about incognito most of the time, especially out of high season, like now.

“Be careful here, Éti. The ground is very uneven. You’ll rip your feet open.”

“No, I won’t. Everyone knows I have very fa..fancy footwork.” Tripping over another rock, she chuffed a low husky laugh. “Like a… dancer. That’s what I am, you know. I’m a fancy pantsy dancer.”

I smiled. We were a long way off dancing. Stone kicking must have worn her out because by now I was near enough carrying her. Although slight of build, her firm body was heavier than I expected. “More like staggering and falling than dancing.”

She held up a finger. “Staggering, yes. I accept staggering. But not falling. I always stay on my feet.” She gave a brisk shake of her head. “Beurk.I’ve got sick in my hair.”

Hell, we’d all been there. Despite wishing I’d used my older-brother prerogative on Max—he’d be back in the warm shed by now with coffee brewing—I found myself smiling again.

The narrow path through the dunes ended at an unprepossessing wooden latched gate, hanging ajar. Through the shadowy garden beyond, a low villa squatted, the interior lit up like the Eiffel Tower. Two glass doors leading in from the terrace were wide open too. Good. At least the other residentsappeared to be home, and I’d soon be absolved of responsibility for the young woman. Together, we negotiated the hurdles of a covered swimming pool and sharp-edged patio furniture. Even with my jacket, she was shaking again, her teeth chattering ten to the dozen.

Steering her through the glass doors, I headed for the nearest horizontal surface. “Who’s at home with you, Éti? Let me sit you somewhere comfy. Then I’ll go and wake them up.”

“Demons,” she drawled in a dramatic fashion, draping herself across the sofa. Her head lolled back, thick brown locks hanging over her face. “Just little old me and all of my demons.”

“Ah.”

That put a different spin on things. As did the detritus surrounding her semi-comatose body. Half a bottle of vodka, Grey Goose no less, but more alarmingly, a little trail of white pills strewn between the bottle and an upturned plastic container.

My plans for a sharp exit evaporated. We laughed about it now, but I’d led my parents a very merry dance in my teens and early twenties. Always in trouble at school, I got my first tattoo at fourteen—done by a mate. A grinning skull smoking a joint, halfway up my left forearm. Predictably, my mum went ballistic and threw me out of the house. Though only for about six hours, until she started panicking that I wouldn’t come back, that it would get infected, and I’d wind up in hospital.

But the tattoo had been merely the start. The following year, as if tormenting her with tattoos, dodgy haircuts, and piercings wasn’t enough, I discovered girls. Girls, and more girls, and late nights spent drinking on the beach, endeavouring to be cool to attract girls. Once, after sneaking under a tarp with a mate for a crafty joint, I was arrested and cautioned for almost setting a whole bloody yacht on fire.

Scroll on a decade, and that lanky wild kid who kept his mum awake at night? Who nicked a bottle of whisky from the village shop, crashed his moped, and gave her premature grey hairs? He was long gone. And he’d taken his suspect morals with him.

Nowadays, twenty-eight-year-old Nicolas La Forge of La Forge Oyster Farms still had the tattoos, and he was still lanky, and he still hadn’t found a girl special enough to settle down with. And his proud, hardworking mum and dad had brought him up too well to ever turn his back on someone in distress.

“Hey. Éti. How many of these have you taken?”

“None of your onions. Go away.”

With a groan, she shifted, trying to turn on her side and curl into a tight ball.

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