Page 26 of Oyster

“Do you likemoules?”

“Yes, but we could just…”

“Followed by the moules frites,please. For both of us.”

“With extra frites,” hissed Éti, her face buried behind the menu. She needn’t have bothered. Frankly, in her oversized sunglasses with frizzy curls obscuring her features, I doubted even her mother would recognise her. “And more bread andbutter. As well as the extra frites. I’m never normally allowed them. I promise I’ll do a hundred sit-ups later to atone.”

Nodding to the waitress, I added, “And some extra bread and frites, thank you.”

After she’d gone, I turned back to an innocent Éti. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yes.” She beamed. “Absolument. But I’m growing on you, non?”

“Indeed. Like a troublesome verruca.”

She giggled, and with no further need for the menu, put it down. And picked up a knife instead, testing the sharpness before slathering butter over a hunk of bread.

“Do you get the chance to eat out often?” I asked as she lined up another hunk. “Or… um… eat at all?”

Popping the morsel into her mouth, she tipped her head to one side, curls dancing. “Yes, all the time, but not like this. My PA, Rebecca, books out a whole restaurant or at least a private room. And there tends to be an entourage. It’s never spontaneous, you know?”

She shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but I’d have liked to have seen her eyes. “And because everyone’s watching, I always feel obliged to order the fucking green salad or something, and sparkling water. Inside, I’m fantasising about the cheeseburger and deep-fried onion rings washed down with a glass of Bordeaux.”

Another doorstop of buttered bread disappeared. Wordlessly, I passed mine across to her. “Tant pis, I’m used to it. It comes with the territory. I’m also used to sitting with my back to everyone.”

“Trust me, you’re not missing much today.” I pretended to peer over her shoulder. “Although… no… it can’t be…” I gave a mock gasp. “No. I mean, I know we get our fair share of celebsaround here, but merde, I think… I think Timothée Chalamet has just walked in.”

“Putain de merde. Where, where?” Éti craned her neck in time to see a couple of pensioners take their seats. “You fucker.”

I grinned broadly. “Never mind. You’ll just have to look at me, instead.”

Our cheese soufflés arrived, and Éti attacked hers with gusto. Half vanished before I’d even tasted my first mouthful. Between swallows, she dropped her sunglasses down her nose to stare at me. A very fucking sexy manoeuvre, although I sensed she didn’t know it.

I rubbed at my mouth, praying I didn’t have melted cheese dangling. “What are you doing?”

“Looking at you. Like you told me to do. It’s either you or the plain brick wall behind you. And you’re a fraction more interesting.”

“I’m flattered, truly.”

A cute divot appeared between her expressive eyebrows. “Nico, what’s it like to kiss someone with a lip piercing?”

A promising line of conversation. I ran my tongue over the ring through my lower lip. Most of the time, I forgot it was even there. “If the other person has a tongue bar, fraught with peril. It’s wise to check first, because if things became heated, it could rip out. And take half my lip with it.”

“Beurk.”

God, she was fun to tease. “Fortunately for me," I added, “you don’t appear to have one.”

That kept her quiet for a few minutes.

Having demolished the soufflé, Éti made short work of the moules, picking each one out at lightning speed and tossing the empty shells into the bowl between us like it was a race to fill it. Sparkling in the lemony early afternoon sun, a clusterof diamonds sat adjacent to the plain gold band on her middle finger, matching the enormous ones in her ears.

“You… um… have quite the appetite, don’t you?”

“So would you if you’d run 10.2 km in ninety minutes last night and burnt around 1500 calories,” she answered smartly. “Did you see me sprint the length of the pitch—twice—only for Dubois to foul that ugly Porto defender as soon as I got there? Both times, the connard!”

Hoovering up another moule, she screwed up her nose in disgust. “I have a nice enough breakfast on match days, toast and eggs or whatever. And then I’m allowed pasta or potatoes or something just as dull and yellow around three hours before kick-off. But from then on, and at half time, I’m simply a girl, standing in front of packets and packets of stinky energy gels and wishing they were steaks. I deserve a medal after every match for remaining alive!”

I tried not to smile as she pouted adorably. The desire to put my own lips on hers was stronger by the second, which both thrilled and scared me in equal measure. “You could save some of your energy by not pulling that ridiculous face. Why didn’t you grab some food afterwards?”