Page 36 of Oyster

Two glasses of wine to the good and Florian was back to his usual charming and way-too-handsome self. “The real acid test,” he said, stirring a pot of something ambrosial, “is whether you can tell the difference between my island salt and powderysupermarket shit.” He sprinkled some of his beloved crystals into the pot. “Love the dress, by the way, Éti. Really brings out your eyes. Wasted on Mr Romantic here.” He threw her a cheeky wink.

“For your information, Mr Romantic has already complimented her on it,” I growled.

No, that was not my girlfriend batting her lashes at my best friend. “Thank you. I was experimenting. I took apart two Yves St Laurent dresses, then sewed them together differently. I’m going to do it to a couple of Chanel numbers when I find the time. Unpicking designer dresses teaches me how to make them better myself.”

A niche hobby reserved for one with gazillions in the bank. Grinning from ear to ear, Florian passed her a tiny bowl of salt.

“Most hosts offer their guests olives or peanuts, Flor.”

He ignored my sarcasm. “My salt is much better. Isn’t it, Éti?”

“Absolutely.” Éti sweetly curled a lock of hair around her fingers, the little minx. “Though I don’t need to try it. I take sacks back to Paris with me. I hand it out to my friends.”

If that was a lie, it was a very smooth one. If you asked me, salt was all the same, an unsolicited opinion I shared with Florian at regular intervals. “So, Florian,” she continued, smiling up at him—again. “You are Nico’s oldest childhood friend? Tell me all I need to know about him.”

Putain de merde. From my perspective, the evening deteriorated from there. Over one of Florian’s delicious fish suppers (because not only was the guy as handsome as the devil, he also fucking rivalled Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen), my former best friend regaled my avid new girlfriend with all my failings, starting with my extensive collection of Lego Star Wars models and ending with… ah merde… the infamous octopustattoo. I swear teasing and insulting me helped him sleep at night.

“She doesn’t know about that, yet.” I glared at him.

“Ah, you’re hiding it from her? Mon dieu, that’s sweet. Not a secret you’ll be able to keep for much longer, though, mon ami.”

Yep, I had a ridiculous tattoo draped around my nether regions. With a couple of well-chosen, innocent-sounding questions, my friends could pinpoint the precise level of sexual relations attained with any particular girlfriend at any particular time. Fuck my life.

“And the tattoo on his back?” Florian continued, throwing me a wicked grin. “Have you seen that one yet, Éti? Near his left shoulder, that says ‘the world is your oyster’? Except the tattooist was stoned and spelt oyster wrong? That one was done when he was sixteen. The first words he’d ever had inked—until then, he’d just had a few little pictures.”

Had Florian saved all his stories up? Because they were tripping off his tongue like he’d prepared for an exam. Now my girlfriend would know I was stupid as well as a Lego nerd. Naturally, Éti was agog.

“He’s exaggerating about the Lego,” I said firmly, staring at my friend. “Don’t listen to him.”

Éti’s fingers caressed my nape. Leaning closer, she whispered in my ear. “I’m loving all of his tales about you. They make me like you even more.” Her eyes flicked down to my mouth. “And the octopus sounds intriguing.”

Now I had a stiffy as well as a ruined reputation as a cool man about town.

“So, we went to this tattoo parlour in La Rochelle,” Florian began with a broad grin. “We’d invited a couple of girls along he was trying to impress. We were what, Nico? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

Yep, he’d saved the best until last. “Seventeen,” I said through gritted teeth.

“He wanted the name La Forge and the date the company started written on his other shoulder,” Florian continued. “We choose a font; the guy puts the stencil on and begins work. Nico sits there like a champ, very brave, giving one of these girls all the chat. The tattoo only takes about 45 minutes, and then, when he’s done, the guy holds up a mirror.What do you think?he says as Nico cranes his head around to admire himself. Immediately, your boyfriend goes pale, starts to sweat, and sits down again, like he’s going to pass out.It’s backwards!he says. You’ve written it backwards! Which was around the time Nico learned how mirrors worked.”

Putain. I covered my face with my hands. “I was stressed! It hurt.”

“You were about ready to die on the spot of embarrassment.”

And I was all over again.

“I shall kiss every letter,” said Éti, laughing. The hand in mine squeezed tighter; she gazed at me like millions of adoring fans gazed at her. Flor could have begun recounting when I pissed myself sitting on the teacher’s lap in kindergarten, and I swear it wouldn’t have mattered.

Thankfully, it wasn’t all one-way traffic. And by that, I mean Éti joined in too. Once Florian pointed out to Charles that my girlfriend was kind of a big deal, then he had a zillion polite questions, and Éti had a zillion funny answers and a whole library of amusing and self-deprecating anecdotes herself.

So by the time it came around to collecting the empty plates, sharing the washing up, and then collapsing onto the sofas in the sitting room, Charles beamed at Éti as if he’d found his new bezzie for life, Flor’s eyes darted between both of them like a proud mother hen, and I sat there in a haze of red wine and love for everyone, wondering how the hell I’d got so damned lucky.

With the sort of discreet gesture, not at all discreet after glugging three more large glasses of vin de table, Florian dragged me back into the kitchen to help him clear up, leaving the new besties to discuss rich people things. As soon as the door closed, he gave me a tipsy hug.

“Putain, she’s adorable, Nico.”

“I know.”

“So pretty, too. What’s she doing with you?”

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