Page 6 of Oyster

The villa was single storey, and we reached a bedroom. Hers, by the look of it. Discarded clothing lay strewn across a huge bed littered with cushions; a dressing table overflowed with female flotsam and jetsam. It reminded me of my younger sister Zoë’s room, albeit twice the size. A towelling robe and a set of comfortable flowery pyjamas hung from the back of a chair. At the far end was another door.

“Is the bathroom through there?”

Once she nodded, I picked up the nightwear. “Why don’t you go and clean yourself up. Take these with you.”

“Are you leaving?” The fingers around my bicep squeezed tighter.

I hesitated. Being in this stranger’s house, let alone her bedroom, felt wrong. But then so did abandoning someone who, a quarter of an hour earlier, could barely stand.

“Not yet. Not if you don’t want me to. I’ll light the fire and make some coffee. Okay? You can shout if you need me.”

As I coaxed a flame, then spooned instant coffee into two mugs, I listened out for the thump of a head connecting with unforgiving enamel. A sleek coffee machine stood on the counter, far too complicated to attempt at this time of day. I added a generous spoonful of sugar to Éti’s mug, then retrieved the milk from the fridge—a huge steel thing, empty except for a few yoghurts and some protein shakes.

Éti emerged, a white towel twisted around wet hair, her face scrubbed cleaned of make-up. Still ashen, but even more recognisable without hair obscuring her features. She leaned against the doorframe. Her grey eyes were glazed over, as if still not one hundred percent sure where she was and how she’d landed here. And who the heavily tattooed man dressed in waders might be, making himself at home in her kitchen.

“How’s the cut?”

“Just a scratch. It’s stopped bleeding.”

“Great. Why don’t you sit yourself over by the fire. I’ve made coffee. And then I… um… I think I’ll leave you to it.”

With a mute nod, she sat, pulling a blanket over herself, drawing her knees up to her chest and snuggling under it. The shower had revived her. Not only did she smell better, of something fresh and floral, but her movements were more fluid too. After handing her the mug, I picked up the pill container and scooped the scattered ones back into it. The vodka I’d already tidied away.

“Do you have any more of these?”

“No.” She sounded quiet, defeated.

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

Tucking the container into my pocket, I paused, reassessing her. She seemed calm. “Are you going to do anything stupid if I leave you? And are you sure there isn’t anyone I can call?”

“What, like a journalist? You’re going to do that anyhow, aren’t you? Right after you leave here?”

“No.” I frowned. “Why would I?”

She harrumphed. “You mean whywouldn’tyou? You’re one phone call away from the biggest news story of the year.”

In my defence, it was the end of a long night shift. Realization crept up on me. “Oh.” I shook my head. “I wasn’t planning on it, no.”

She shrugged. “Whatever. You do you, mate. I’ll pay them off, anyhow. Ah, merde,my head hurts.”

The vulnerable, sleepy person I’d helped into the house had switched to sullen, grumpy even. The morning after coming down was hitting. We’d all been there, too, with or without the extra chemical layer of pills. I considered my duty done.

“Right. I’m off. Erm… take care and… um… good luck, I guess.”

My short walk home took me past my best friend Florian’s salt flat. March was too early in the season to harvest salt full time, but there was still plenty to do. And I needed to touch base with normality before putting my head down for a few hours. My night shift had been weird, to say the least. And Florian had known me my entire life—he filled my silences and tolerated my dourness. I found him halfway up a step ladder, repairing the tin roof of his ancient shack, singing along to the radio.

He threw me a big smile. “Ça va?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

I didn't need to ask how he was. He was so happy right now he sparkled, from the spring in his walk to the healthy, recently-fucked glow on his handsome face. In his own quiet way, Charles, Florian’s English lover, was mad as a box of frogs, but Florian and he seemed made for one other. Lucky guys.

He jumped down. “All good here, too. Coffee?”

I was already wired from the fancy super-strength stuff I’d drunk while waiting for my new friend to emerge from the shower. But sleep would elude me no matter what today, so I nodded a yes.

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