Page 34 of Oyster

The word didn’t trip easily off my tongue. I needed to practise saying it aloud more. Florian’s sea-green eyes sparkled. “Ah, so she’s been elevated to girlfriend status now? Have you issued her with an oxygen mask? The atmosphere is pretty rarefied up there.”

I threw a pen at him. “Yes. I officially have a girlfriend.”

“Does this unique, amazing woman have a name?”

“Éti.” Confirming that out loud was an unexpected pleasure.

“Éti!” Florian clapped his hands. “That’s so cute! And Éti’s the reason you’ve been neglecting your good friend, non? She’s keeping you up at night?”

“Sort of. She likes to talk.”

“What, after sex? Charles is the same way, too. He’s in his own little world all day, doing some arty shit and then bang! A quick fuck against the shower wall before bed and I can’t shut him up! I’m conking out three seconds later, and he’s replaying each glorious thrust.”

My eyes watered. “It’s aah… a bit too early in the morning for that visual, Flor. And sadly, no. Not after sex. We’re taking it slow. We talk. She lies in her bed, and I lie in mine.”

“Sounds as if one of you is in the wrong place.”

Didn’t I know it. “She lives in Paris, which is a bummer, seeing as it’s over three hours away on the train. She gets here every couple of weeks or so. Her schedule is kind of… hectic.”

“Ah, so you’re sexting. That can be fun.”

Did an in-depth discussion regarding PSG’s corner kick strategy in the build-up to a match against Marseille qualify?

“Well, next time she comes across to the island, I want to meet her. Bring her over for supper with me and Charles.”

I winced. Florian was an excellent cook, and him and Éti would get on fabulously. “Ah. A bit tricky, as she’s not out. As trans. With her… um… work, or family, or… or anyone, actually.”

“Okayyy,” he answered. “That must be tough on her.”

“It is.”

“Well, you could ask her anyhow. It’s not like Charles or I would spill the beans. A fancy Parisian girlfriend, eh? No wonder I haven’t seen you at all. We obviously don’t move in the same social circles these days.”

Éti had forty-eight hours on the island, and we were going to spend every single one of them together. And when I say together, from the second I walked through the door, she attached herself to me like a mussel reef to a rock with no intention of letting me prise her away. Fortunately, I didn’t want to, because pressed against hers was where my body belonged. Every lean, firm inch of her. And still it wasn’t close enough.

“How can I miss you not being in my apartment in Paris when you’ve never even been there?” For a brief second, her lips left mine. She still hadn’t yet mastered the art of kissing and talking, but she was working on it.

“I feel like I have,” I answered, and she giggled into my mouth.

Last night, I’d had a guided video tour, complete with running commentary. I was now very familiar with the contents of her freezer (boxes of individually designed nutritious dinners for one), the precise location of her wicker laundry basket (in the cubby between her bathroom and bedroom), and her preferred brand and model of vacuum cleaner (anything but a Dyson). The contrast between the Parisian place and her bolthole on theisland couldn’t have been starker. The luxurious apartment was the property of a wealthy professional footballer named Étienne Salvador, and it showed in the matching black leather sofas and the surround-sound monster TV. And in Éti’s voice, too, as she guided me around the open plan space without a shred of enthusiasm. At two a.m., I’d had to call it an evening; my eyes were drooping. I might have even begun dreaming about tractors.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” I added, inadequately. She’d not left my thoughts.

If possible, she clung to me even more. I ran my hands up her arms, over her shoulders, skimming my fingertips over the twin bumps of her bra straps before slipping down to her narrow waist and then lower still, to cup her solid arse. She hummed with pleasure. If she felt my growing erection prodding her belly, she didn’t comment. I could feel hers, not that I planned to draw attention to it. Instead, I sneaked a delicious bottom pinch, making her squeal.

“My friend Florian has invited us to dinner tonight. I’ve told him about you.”

Anticipating another squeal, I smothered it with my mouth. “Don’t panic. I haven’t told him all about you, obviously. I haven’t shared the irritating way you sprinkle random emojis, of which I don’t know the meaning, into every text. Or that you reject the last third of every single cup of coffee because the temperature is no longer to Mademoiselle’s satisfaction.”

“I don’t like the last bit! It’s too strong as well as too cool.” She nuzzled into my neck. “Does he know who I am?”

“Of course not. But if he did meet you, he would never tell anyone. I trust him with my life. And his partner, Charles, well…”

How did I describe Charles? “He’s… um… not like normal people. He used to be a hotshot businessman in London, butnow he paints, and he’s very clever, and his brain does this thing where it assigns everything and everyone a colour. And—at risk of denting your enormous ego—he’ll have heard of Étienne Salvador, because who hasn’t? But I’d bet the oyster farm he wouldn’t recognise you if you sat opposite him at dinner.”

“Waouh.Astonished face emoji.”

She tilted her head on one side, considering. “So, whathaveyou told Florian about me?”

---