Page 35 of Oyster

Her lips pursed in a pout, cuter than any computer-generated smiley. I planted a kiss on them and gave her bum another squeeze. “Um… that you pull silly faces like the one you’re doing now? And that you have the most perfect bottom and I want to sink my teeth into it?”

While she blushed, I pinched it again, screwing my face up, pretending to think. “Oh… and that you are the first girl I’ve ever wanted to invite to meet my friends. Is that enough?”

If I could bottle her slow smile, the one that bit by bit revealed the famous chipped incisor like the ultimate prize, then I would, gladly.

“Okay then, when are we going? And what shall I wear?”

While Florian was busy scooping his chin from off the doormat, Charles, wearing a frilly apron over his sensible middle-aged outfit, ushered us in. As predicted, he didn’t have the foggiest who Éti was, which seemed to thrill and affront her in equal measure. Within minutes, they were gabbling away in English, which was kind of maddening and yet another string to add to my megastar girlfriend’s not inconsiderable bow.

“I didn’t know your English was that fluent!”

“Si.”Her smile was disgustingly smug. “Spanish, too. And conversational Mandarin.” She rolled her thumb against her forefinger, the universal sign for money. “It’s good for my mediawork. I’ve had language tutoring ever since PSG signed me up as a sixteen-year-old.”

Even Charles seemed impressed. Or as far as I could tell, seeing as they’d switched back to English, the fuckers. He led Éti towards one of his large oil paintings of Florian, leaving me seconds away from the wrong end of my best friend’s rare temper. Florian manhandled me into the kitchen. He splashed some wine into a glass, knocking it back in a single gulp. A stunned silence followed.

“Don’t be cross I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m not. Why would I be? You did the right thing not outing her to me. To anyone, in fact.”

From the living room, Charles had moved on from pictures of Florian in various stages of undress and was discussing a recent surrealist exhibition they’d both visited in Paris. I couldn’t work out who was enthusing more.

“He still hasn’t got a fucking clue who she is, has he?”

“No. Waouh.” Closing his eyes briefly, Florian shook his head. “Waouh.”

“Putain, don’t you start. At least now you understand why I’ve been keeping quiet about it.” I poured him another glass, myself too, and offered it up. Pushing him into a chair, I ordered him to drink. “I have a feeling you’re going to need this.”

Unusually, Florian was still lost for words.

“I’ll fill in the gaps for you. Yes, Éti is the woman I met on the beach, and yes, she’s trans, and yes, this would be a big deal if word got out.”

“You know it won’t come from me,” he answered promptly.

“I do. That’s why we’re here. She wanted to meet my friends. And I wanted my friends to meet her.”

He rubbed at his eyes, as if it would help make sense of things. “I don’t know where to start, Nico.”

“By being pleased for me? By giving me tips on how to be a great boyfriend?”

He smiled at that. “You know how, connard. Be yourself.”

Before Florian could interrogate me, further Charles and Éti returned to the kitchen. Charles’s arm was draped around Éti’s shoulder. “She’s a sunny yellow,” he beamed. “She can stay.”

A peculiar statement unless you were familiar with Charles’s synaesthesia.

“That means you’ve passed Charles’s brain test with flying colours,” I translated for a bemused Éti. “Literally. Yellow is one of the highest accolades. Unless you’re Florian, of course, who wears his very own silver halo.”

Charles tapped me around the head. “I’m sad to say, Éti, that your boyfriend here, Nico, is beige. A sickly drab beige. Come and sit down, my dear. Let me pour you a drink.”

Éti slipped her cool hand into mine. “You okay?” I whispered, as Charles fussed around her. “Tell me if it becomes too much, and we can go.”

“It’s amazing,” she whispered back, her eyes darting around Florian’s cluttered cosy kitchen. “Being here, like a normal person on a Friday night. With your cool friends. I love it.”

“How are things at home, Nico?” queried Charles as he brought a basket of bread to the table. “Your mum okay?”

Éti was cooing over Florian’s haphazard yet effortlessly stylish décor; thankfully her attention was elsewhere.

I shot him a tense look, praying he’d get the message. He was so supportive; they both were. But tonight was perfect; why spoil it? “Fine,” I answered, then, hoping I hadn’t sounded too rude, added, “Thank you.”

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