Page 5 of Oyster

Which afforded me an unobstructed view of her face.

Merde.Her face.

Merde.

A face exceedingly familiar to any French person not living under a rock. Familiar to a huge chunk of the rest of the world too.

Merde, merde, merde.

No, it couldn’t be. My heart stuttered. Putain de merde.

“You… you’re…”

The words dried on my tongue as I stared and stared at her, unable to tear my eyes away. No, it couldn’t be. No way.

Le petit danseur.

Between us, the oilskin jacket lay half clutched in my hands and half around her shoulders. “Mon dieu, you’re…”

Speech deserted me. Defiant, le petit danseurstared back.Le petit danseur.The fuckinglittledancer. A fancy-pantsy dancer. Staggering not falling. Always staying on their feet. Even when those feet were bare, shooting at pebbles, soaring them high into the sky.

The grey eyes alone, matching the fathomless hues of the ocean at dawn, were enough. And the slender winged brows above, possessing a language all of their own. I hadn’t needed to see the soft slope of the nose or the curve of full lips above haughty, almost proud cheekbones. If scraped from that high Gallic forehead and tied back in a neat band, the trademark mass of thick hair would have been recognisable in an instant, too. Less so hanging in damp strings over a woman’s shoulders and drenched in seawater and vomit.

My tongue swelled, too clumsy to form the right shape. “I… I know you. Putain, you’re…”

“Éti,” she growled back. Twin storm clouds of grey flashed at me, all playfulness, all drunkenness gone. Challenging me to disagree.

“I’m É-ti,” she repeated, pronouncing the two syllables more clearly than any of her drunken ramblings. “É-ti.” Her mouthwas a blurry smear of red lipstick. “You don’t know me. You think you do, but you don’t. No one does. I’m Éti, okay?”

CHAPTER 2

With her harsh gaze padlocked onto mine, we stared at each other.Le petit danseur. Caught out. By me, a total stranger. Brittle, scared, and ready to flit.

But not broken. Hidden in there was the same indefatigable courage the French nation worshipped most Saturday afternoons. A courage refusing to crumble without a fight.

And with absolute certainty, the gaze told me something else. The existence of this pale, trembling woman, chin held aloft as she faced me down, was a guarded secret no one was ever meant to uncover.

I desperately wished I hadn’t.

I was the first to blink. This close, the sweetish-sour stench of half-digested alcohol and vomit was becoming difficult to ignore. As was my urge to escape and forget this whole episode had ever taken place.

“Okay, Éti. Here’s what we’re going to do.”

Little by little, I peeled away the rest of my jacket, speaking to her like I might to a cornered animal. “I’m going to walk with you to your bedroom and help you find some warm and dry clothes. Then I’ll make you a hot drink, light the fire, and, if you are feeling better, I’ll leave you alone. Okay?”

She nodded, her head dropping, defeated by the effort of facing me down.

“Are you sure there isn’t someone I can call? Who can come over and take care of you?”

“No.” The resolute defiance again. “No one.”

Her hand curled around my bicep, she leaned on me as we shuffled to the back of the house. She limped and swore.

“I’ve cut my foot.”

“I’m not surprised. Some of those broken shells are sharp. Do you think you are awake enough for a shower?”

She nodded. Could I leave now? How did those painkillers mixed with alcohol work? Were their effects on the way down or on the way up? Plenty were still scattered across the table. And what if she had lied about how many she’d consumed? When had she taken them? Would she down a load more as soon as I left?

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