Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Two days later, my bedraggled drunk mermaid paid me a visit. In a way, I was glad to see her. The whole breaking-dawn episode had been outlandish, almost as if I’d dreamed it. And unfinished, because I had questions. The glaringly obvious ones, of course, but also more fundamental. Was she okay? What had she done after I left? Did she resume drinking? Should I have gone back later to check up on her? I’d contemplated it, but, mon dieu, éti wasn’t some random woman indulging in a melancholic solo bender. She was really big fucking news. Who the hell did I think I was, sauntering up the garden path to pay her a social call?
I’d scoured the internet since, of course. The person the world thought it knew was everywhere, like, 200 million followers on Instagram everywhere. But drunk and lonely éti, with her pretty white sundress, delicate bangles around her wrists, and slim bare feet with pastel-painted toenails, was nowhere to be seen. As far as social media was concerned, that young woman I’d helped along the sand, who’d kicked pebbles into the night sky and drawn rare laughter from me, might as well have been a ghost.
I didn’t notice her at first, which made it sound like I had girly groupies hanging around the oyster shed 24/7. If only. Don’t get me wrong, I was popular enough with the ladies. The whole tattooed, scruffy, rough-and-ready vibe going jived with plenty of local women and rich tourists alike. Even if, as Florian swore, I was moody as hell and forever spritzed in eau de dead poisson . Hence why very few made it past a second date.
“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 read expensive . 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, folded herself 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 with le 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 felt like 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… clarify who 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.”
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. “?a 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 you think you 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 danseur de Paris 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 fucking loved soccer. 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.”
“Nope. I swear. Soccer is a total mystery to me. Don’t know my bicycle kicks from my nutmegs.”
And then I winked at her—putain, I winked at her, like she was any other woman, and we were mildly flirting. Christ knows what came over me. Nerves, I guessed. I was a nobody oyster farmer in the presence of fucking soccer royalty.
Moreover, she fucking giggled back! Like she was any other pretty tourist letting Nico, the grubby, good-looking oyster guy, flirt. The hand gripping the cushion in her lap loosened.
“Can I ask why you aren’t in Paris, getting ready for the game? Don’t PSG have a big match against Lyon tonight?”
“I thought you didn’t follow soccer?”
As we kept the banter going, her hesitant smile widened. She had a chipped incisor, from a collision with a goal post in a memorable Champions League final two years ago, against Real Madrid. So famous that bloody tooth even had its own Instagram account. éti scored the winner, but never had the tooth fixed; at the time she’d vowed to keep the damage as a reminder of one of her greatest goals.
“Mon dieu, non. My younger brother is a huge PSG fan. But not me. Definitely not me.” I played along, still flirting, relieved some of the awkwardness had drained away. We’d both been on edge from the second I walked out of the oyster shed.
She rubbed underneath her thigh. “I’m missing that game and the one after. I tweaked a hamstring.”
Hence the painkillers for her poorly, poorly leg .
“Nothing major,” she continued, “but the club wanted to keep it quiet, so they reported I have gastric flu. If I have an injury, even a minor one, it drops the share price.”
“You’re kidding me.”
She shook her head. “’Fraid not. When it boils down to it, I’m nothing but a valuable commodity to them. A number followed by lots of zeros.”
“Well, I hope the gastric flu improves soon. Although I’m not sure half a bottle of vodka is a suitable cure. PSG needs Salvador in the team.”
“Is that your younger brother’s opinion?”
“Of course! I mean, from the odd moment here and there I’ve watched… um… I suppose Salvador’s having a pretty decent season.”
She managed another small smile. As étienne, she must receive much bigger compliments all day every day. “I shan’t tell étienne you said so. Your secret is safe with me.”
“As is yours with me.”
Her eyes dropped to her untouched coffee. “Ah. I was coming to that. It’s the reason why I needed to see you again.”
I waited for her eyes to fix back on mine. When they did, all traces of sweet teasing had gone. The chipped incisor vanished, replaced by a thin-lipped frown. The expressive eyebrows stilled. “And I’d appreciate if you didn’t fuck with me because I need to get this wrapped up as soon as possible. If you name your price, Nico, I’ll triple it.”