Page 33 of Oyster

I needed something to distract myself from the pressure building in my dick. “Shall I tell you an interesting story about baby oysters?” Putting my hand over hers, I interlaced ourfingers. “Well, first of all, they aren’t called baby oysters. When the larvae are big enough to latch onto something, we call them spats.”

“That’s quite an ugly name.”

“Spats are quite ugly creatures. I must take you down to the spat racks and show you them sometime.”

“Ça alors,that will be a romantic date.”

I tugged another clump of thick hair. “Anyhow. They all start life as baby boy spats. Every single one. But then, some of them, over time as they grow bigger, realise they aren’t supposed to be little boy oysters any longer. And they grow up to be very happy girl oysters instead.”

The fingers circumscribing the shellfish tattoos on my belly stilled. In fact, the rest of Éti stilled too, as she stared hard at her hand.

A single tear trickled down her cheek, unchecked.

Another tear chased after the first. I thumbed them both away.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You haven’t.”

“Oysters are also sex-crazed horndogs, by the way—they’re the most fecund creatures on the planet.”

She snorted through her tears, and I opened my arms wide. Tucking her under my chin, I kissed her soft curls. For a while, we lay that way, her hair tickling my nose. I stared at the ceiling, watching the shadows fade as daylight crept across the room. I’d have to make a move soon; I hadn’t yet checked my phone. My dad would wonder where I was. Or, rather, wonder why I wasn’t at work. At twenty-eight, I’d lived away from home for years, until recent events, so my nighttime comings and goings were no one's business. Nonetheless, he still expected me to turn up to work on time.

“Thank you, Nico,” she whispered. She tilted her head, and soft lips landed on my cheek. “I told you oyster farmers were cool.”

The complicated individual using my chest as a pillow noisily blew her nose on a tissue. I even found that adorable. Mon dieu, I was in so deep my feet no longer touched the bottom. I should have been floundering, panicking, fighting for air. So why did I feel as if I was breathing more freely than ever?

CHAPTER 11

Joy and sorrow. The dichotomy of my existence summed up in two words but barely scratching the surface of the helter-skeltering emotions in between.

Although no one voiced as much, I sensed my mother fading—we all did. More lost afternoons napping in a chair, from a woman who six months ago thought nothing of flipping a row of oyster pouches before dawn. Half a dinner scraped into the bin after everyone had left the kitchen. An achy hip not cured by rest; hollowed eyes not improved with sleep.

And yet, even with death’s stealthy advance on our home, my heart sang. I was drunk in love with a person idolised by millions yet known by none.

Éti returned to Paris for a fortnight. On the small screen in our living room, with my dad and my brother and sometimes my teary sister, I watched la petite danseuse spin and twirl like a ballerina. Two goals against Monaco, one from a penalty, keeping PSG comfortably out of reach at the top of Ligue 1. Then the opener against Liverpool in the Champion’s League—an unstoppable free kick in the first few minutes from ten metres outside the box, leaving the famous reds scratching their heads before the meat of the match had even begun. A perfunctorypost-match interview afterwards, Étienne through and through, from the way she nimbly skirted questions regarding a disappointing return to her muted goal celebrations, to her modest insistence, as always, that it had been a team effort.

While Éti’s dancing feet entertained the world, my soul danced to a new rhythm of its own: late phone calls stretching into the night, sudden intense text exchanges. Talking about everything and nothing, Éti’s scathing review of a Michelin-starred restaurant one minute (bland and uninteresting fare compared to oysters with me on the beach), and an analytical dissection of Real Madrid’s midfield weaknesses the next. And in the dull, endless spaces between her calls, her texts, the silly jokes and the lines of red heart emojis, I fell even deeper.

“I read somewhere that every good friend was once a stranger,” announced Florian from the doorway of the oyster shed. “And some strangers used to be good friends!” He invited himself in. “I’ve missed you, smelly boy.”

Irreverent and teasing, in the way of close male pals, but Florian’s eyes told me it wasn’t a casual visit. Wading through a pile of invoices, I was glad of the excuse to stop as he pulled up a chair.

“I saw your dad at L’Escale last night,” he said. “Well into his cups.”

I nodded; in the small hours, I’d heard him stumble upstairs. “He needs it, Flor. My mum’s the one who tells him to go. To escape and forget it all for a few hours.”

“How is she?”

“Worse.” I focused back on my computer screen, unable to meet his gaze. “The pain in her hip—where the fucker has spread—keeps her awake at night. They’ve started her on some stronger painkillers that knock her out during the day.”

“He’s drinking a lot.”

“I know. I’m hoping it will stop after she… afterwards. Zoë and Max are going to need him.”

“And what about you?”

I shrugged. “I’m okay. A bit knackered. Sorry I’ve not been around much. Work’s been busy, and I’m trying to help at home, and not neglect my… ah… girlfriend.”

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