Page 8 of Oyster

“You’ve got a lady friend waiting out front for you,” announced Max, with a sly smile. “She asked me if Nico worked here, the tall, good-looking guy with the tats? I said no, obviously. But I told her if she was searching for my lanky older brother with sweaty feet and a serious wind problem, then he’d be finished by ten.”

I threw an oyster that hadn’t made the cut at him. A half-hearted retaliation, because he’d not only spoken for the first time all shift but actually made a joke. We’d started at four a.m., low tide, and without my dad, who’d stayed at home because my mum was having a rough night.

After shimmying out of my oilskins, I made myself presentable over the small bathroom sink.

One hundred times more poised than the other night, Éti was dressed for either cool weather or camouflage. I guessed a mixture of both. Thick black tights covered her slim legs, ending in sturdy black boots. A chunky padded jacket reached down to her thighs; she’d covered the top half of her face with a pair of oversized sunglasses and the lower part with a soft woollen scarf leaving no more than the tip of her nose and upper lip peeking out. The morning breeze blew her (clean and dry) hair across her face. She could have been any attractive young woman wrapped up for a chilly morning stroll.

“We need to talk,” she stated. No red slash of lipstick today, merely soft pink blush set in a harsh line.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Do you mind coming back to my place? For practical reasons.”

I glanced up and down the path separating our oyster sheds from the beach. Already, a few cyclists were out and about. “No problem.”

We walked the short distance in tense silence, entering the villa the back way via the beach path, like before.

“Coffee?”

“Yes. Thanks. Milk and no sugar.”

Picking an upright chair facing the garden, I took in the room. I hadn’t paid much attention before, too busy absorbing the unexpected mindfuck of preventing a drunk international superstar from drowning in six inches of water. The villa wasn’t as big as some, but she had a great view through the pines, and it led to a stretch of beach only accessible over a mountain of slippery rocks without a direct route from one of the exclusive properties, like hers. On the beach side, the lounge and kitchen formed a single big airy room, with glassed windows from ceiling to floor. Simple, maybe, but the place was worth a couple of million at a guess, from the location alone.

The décor was also straightforward, but tasteful, and by that readexpensive. An entire flock of sheep must have contributed to the fluffy white rug in front of the fireplace, for instance; soft throws to match had been thrown everywhere. If my mum were here, she’d coo over the embroidered silk cushions softening the sofas. I’d already discovered the kitchen was sleek and state of the art the other night. There wasn’t much in the way of pictures on the walls, but what there was appeared to be the real thing. The absence of photos, awards, trophies, medals, or cups was interesting.

“Here, take this.”

After handing me my coffee, she carried hers over to one of the sumptuous sofas and, with a graceful movement, foldedherself into it. Slipping off her boots, she tucked her feet underneath herself, cuddling one of the cushions in one hand and her drink in the other. Another pretty dress, this one a dark floral design, had been hidden under the big coat. Like her villa, the whole effect was calm, pretty, and feminine. She cleared her throat.

“First of all, I’d like to apologise for my behaviour the other night. And to thank you for taking care of me. In retrospect, I can appreciate I was lucky you came along when you did.”

“You don’t need to. Honestly, it was no bother. No trouble. Think nothing of it.”

I cringed. Even I thought I sounded ingratiating. Was I in awe of her? Mon dieu, yes. A little intimidated, too, although trying not to show it. But her odd mix of composure and vulnerability disconcerted me. The whole fucking situation disconcerted me, to be honest. If, a week ago, someone told me I’d be sitting here, sharing my midmorning coffee withle petit danseur, I’d question their sanity. I mean, she was a big fucking deal.

“I do, though, Nico. And believe whatever you wish, but I can assure you that my behaviour the other night was an…” she searched for the right word... “an aberration.”

“Glad to hear. I’ve been worried. That you might have done it again.”

She tilted her head on one side, sweeping her thick dark hair over her shoulder, considering me. On the one hand, we both knew that, with a single phone call, I could make her life unpleasant in the extreme. On the other, her current self-assurance, sipping her coffee like she’d invited a friend over to catch up on the gossip, reminded me of her status. Éti had a presence. She knew her own worth. She also knew she’d unsettled me by bringing me back to her luxurious home. I feltlike I was being interviewed, subtly highlighting the yawning chasm separating her life from mine.

“Thank you for your concern. But you don’t need to worry. I… can’t promise, but I don’t think I will do it again. Something happened to upset me, that’s all, and my reaction was… let’s say… disproportionate.”

Mon dieu, how I wanted to pry. The vodka and pills were just the start of it. Despite one of the most recognisable faces on the planet, very little regarding this person’s private life ever made the pages of the newspapers, and it wasn’t for lack of interest, that’s for sure. She declined requests for interviews, thus opened herself up to endless world media speculation, although they’d not even come close to unearthing this.

She gave a wry smile. “Truth be told, my recollection of the other night is… um… a little hazy.”

I relaxed a touch. “I’m not surprised.”

With another faint smile, she raised her eyebrows. “But I remembered that you were kind and thoughtful. And I think, but I need to check first… and it might sound strange, but before we go any further... can I…clarifywho you think I am?”

Fans, journalists, and commentators alike raved about Éti’s poise under pressure, amongst her other attributes. About her ability to step up when it mattered, her leadership qualities, her fearlessness. But for the briefest of moments, as familiar steely grey eyes locked onto mine, I glimpsed a flash of rare hesitation. An acknowledgement that, however great the gulf between our circumstances, the one holding all the cards, with the path of her immediate future at my whim, was me. An ordinary oyster farmer.

Notwithstanding, I acknowledged she was right. I had been kind. If my mum’s hideous cancer journey had taught me one single lesson, random kindness from strangers was grossly underrated.

So, I would be kind and thoughtful again.

“I know who you are,” I replied. “Éti.”

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