Page 9 of Oyster

Her mouth dropped open in surprise, and I shrugged. “I’m a simple fisherman, Éti. On this island, we take people as I find them. Live and let live. If you tell me your name is Éti, that you are a woman named Éti, then that’s who you are.”

Some of the tension in Éti’s posture eased. Raising a dainty hand, she fanned herself. “Ça alors, I think I’m in love.”

With the dry humour, a gamut of emotions rolled across her face, settling on a modicum of relief. No wonder. I was a lot of things—an unpredictable stranger for starters. Ordinary, unpolished, fickle, a bit of a loner, and very poor boyfriend material. But not cruel and not a narrow-minded bigot. Who was I to judge?

“Listen.” I leaned forward in my seat. “Of course, I recognised you. Your… your face is kind of famous.” No elaboration required; those solemn eyes below expressive brows were plastered across advertising hoardings in every city throughout Europe. Max’s bedroom wall still boasted posters of her, even though he was pushing twenty. On the soccer calendar hanging on the back of the oyster shed door, she starred as both January and August.

Far from thrilled, Éti shifted in her chair. “Nico. Listen. You’re very gallant and well-mannered, that’s obvious. But let me rephrase. I need to be doubly sure. Why don’t you tell me who the famous name is that youthinkyou have recognised?” Her brittle tone was insistent, fearsome gaze below brows set in two tense lines boring straight into mine. “No bullshit.”

“Okay.” I picked over my words. “I recognised a famous person, a soccer star, named Étienne Salvador. A person the world believes you to be. After I carried you into the house, I recognised you as Étienne Salvador. In your professional soccer career, you are a man named Étienne Salvador.”

As her hand gripped the cushion tighter, the skin on her knuckles stretched a shiny white, she twisted away. All her fears confirmed. Exposed to a stranger and terrified. As her grey eyes turned watery, she squeezed them closed in a desperate effort to compose herself.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I realise that this…” I made a vague gesture encompassing her dress, her makeup, her… fuck, I didn’t know,womanliness, “…this isn’t public knowledge.”

On a deep exhale, she shook her head. “No, it isn’t. I… I knew you recognised me anyway, but… hearing you say it.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, like she might retch. “Mon dieu. What have I done.”

“Éti, listen to me.” I leaned forward again, almost reaching out a comforting hand but unsure of its welcome. “I said I know who you are. I didn’t say I was going to act on that knowledge. And I haven’t told a single soul about what happened the other morning. I promise.”

“Yet.” As she opened her eyes, a tear fell, then another. She blinked them away. “I’ll pull myself together in a second. Just… it’s… hard.”

“Take your time.”

She flapped her hands in front of her face, cooling it down. After a few minutes, she brought the mug up to her mouth and took a shaky sip, before blowing out another long breath. Her wet eyes met mine.

“Thank you for… for being so understanding and sensitive. I don’t imagine many people would be quite as accepting.”

I tried to give her my most reassuring smile. As soon as I finished my drink, I’d leave, vowing again I’d never mention the whole episode to anyone. “I’m not going to make trouble for you. As far as I’m concerned, Étienne Salvador is just some guy on the telly living the life that ordinary blokes like me can only dream about.”

“Hah! Étienne Salvador.” She spat out the name. “French football’s poster boy.Le petit danseur. My dashing alter ego. If only they knew.”

She mimicked the oily, slick tones of a well-known sports commentator. “Étienne Salvador,le petit danseurdeParis St-Germain. The youngest soccer player ever to represent France on the world stage when just seventeen years, nine months, and twenty-three days. Winner of three Champion’s League trophies, six league trophies, and one World Cup. Twice FIFA world footballer of the year. Leading goal scorer this season and, yet again, the clear front runner for this year’s prestigious Ballon d’Or, having already been nominated for it five years running and collected the trophy for the last four of them.”

She treated me to a cool stare. “Did I miss anything?”

Nope, that just about summed it up. With one exception, if we were being picky. Étienne Salvador was more than the front runner for the Ballon d’Or. He was the sole runner. The annual international award, soccer’s most coveted trophy, was his to collect—no one else in world football came close. Alongside Zinedine Zidane and Michel Platini, le petit danseur had already reserved a place in history as one of the greatest footballers ever to pull on France’s blue shirt.

A fresh wave of adulation swept over me. I should be asking for an autograph or a signed photo or something. The soccer star was a national fucking treasure. A one-to-one meeting with Étienne fucking Salvador? A cosy cup of coffee in a front room? A fantasy come true for most soccer fans.

But now was definitely not the time. Because here, in this house, under this roof, this person was not Étienne Salvador. Not today, anyhow. I pushed my inner fanboy aside; the best I could do was to endeavour to put her at ease.

“No, that sounds about right. Étienne is quite good, non?”

“He’s incredible,” she corrected, immodestly. “Better than Ronaldo in his heyday.” A small smile crept across her face as she must have remembered. I smiled in return.

“And better than Neymar?”

“Much.”

A fraction more at ease, I smiled again and pushed the detente a little further. “I don’t really follow soccer. I prefer rugby.”

I fuckinglovedsoccer. My dad, Max, and I were glued to it every weekend.

She grimaced, as if I’d insulted her parentage.

“Allez les Corsairs,”I added, naming the popular local rugby side’s nickname, compounding the lie. Her smile widened.

“You’re teasing me.”

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