Oyster (Island Love #2)

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Joy and sorrow. The dichotomy of my existence summed up in two words but barely scratching the surface of the helter-skeltering emotions in between.

Although no one voiced as much, I sensed my mother fading—we all did. More lost afternoons napping in a chair, from a woman who six months ago thought nothing of flipping a row of oyster pouches before dawn. Half a dinner scraped into the bin after everyone had left the kitchen. An achy hip not cured by rest; hollowed eyes not improved with sleep.

And yet, even with death’s stealthy advance on our home, my heart sang. I was drunk in love with a person idolised by millions yet known by none.

éti returned to Paris for a fortnight. On the small screen in our living room, with my dad and my brother and sometimes my teary sister, I watched la petite danseuse spin and twirl like a ballerina. Two goals against Monaco, one from a penalty, keeping PSG comfortably out of reach at the top of Ligue 1. Then the opener against Liverpool in the Champion’s League—an unstoppable free kick in the first few minutes from ten metres outside the box, leaving the famous reds scratching their heads before the meat of the match had even begun. A perfunctory post-match interview afterwards, étienne through and through, from the way she nimbly skirted questions regarding a disappointing return to her muted goal celebrations, to her modest insistence, as always, that it had been a team effort.

While éti’s dancing feet entertained the world, my soul danced to a new rhythm of its own: late phone calls stretching into the night, sudden intense text exchanges. Talking about everything and nothing, éti’s scathing review of a Michelin-starred restaurant one minute (bland and uninteresting fare compared to oysters with me on the beach), and an analytical dissection of Real Madrid’s midfield weaknesses the next. And in the dull, endless spaces between her calls, her texts, the silly jokes and the lines of red heart emojis, I fell even deeper.

“I read somewhere that every good friend was once a stranger,” announced Florian from the doorway of the oyster shed. “And some strangers used to be good friends!” He invited himself in. “I’ve missed you, smelly boy.”

Irreverent and teasing, in the way of close male pals, but Florian’s eyes told me it wasn’t a casual visit. Wading through a pile of invoices, I was glad of the excuse to stop as he pulled up a chair.

“I saw your dad at L’Escale last night,” he said. “Well into his cups.”

I nodded; in the small hours, I’d heard him stumble upstairs. “He needs it, Flor. My mum’s the one who tells him to go. To escape and forget it all for a few hours.”

“How is she?”

“Worse.” I focused back on my computer screen, unable to meet his gaze. “The pain in her hip—where the fucker has spread—keeps her awake at night. They’ve started her on some stronger painkillers that knock her out during the day.”

“He’s drinking a lot.”

“I know. I’m hoping it will stop after she… afterwards. Zo? and Max are going to need him.”

“And what about you?”

I shrugged. “I’m okay. A bit knackered. Sorry I’ve not been around much. Work’s been busy, and I’m trying to help at home, and not neglect my… ah… girlfriend.”

The word didn’t trip easily off my tongue. I needed to practise saying it aloud more. Florian’s sea-green eyes sparkled. “Ah, so she’s been elevated to girlfriend status now? Have you issued her with an oxygen mask? The atmosphere is pretty rarefied up there.”

I threw a pen at him. “Yes. I officially have a girlfriend.”

“Does this unique, amazing woman have a name?”

“éti.” Confirming that out loud was an unexpected pleasure.

“éti!” Florian clapped his hands. “That’s so cute! And éti’s the reason you’ve been neglecting your good friend, non? She’s keeping you up at night?”

“Sort of. She likes to talk.”

“What, after sex? Charles is the same way, too. He’s in his own little world all day, doing some arty shit and then bang! A quick fuck against the shower wall before bed and I can’t shut him up! I’m conking out three seconds later, and he’s replaying each glorious thrust.”

My eyes watered. “It’s aah… a bit too early in the morning for that visual, Flor. And sadly, no. Not after sex. We’re taking it slow. We talk. She lies in her bed, and I lie in mine.”

“Sounds as if one of you is in the wrong place.”

Didn’t I know it. “She lives in Paris, which is a bummer, seeing as it’s over three hours away on the train. She gets here every couple of weeks or so. Her schedule is kind of… hectic.”

“Ah, so you’re sexting. That can be fun.”

Did an in-depth discussion regarding PSG’s corner kick strategy in the build-up to a match against Marseille qualify?

“Well, next time she comes across to the island, I want to meet her. Bring her over for supper with me and Charles.”

I winced. Florian was an excellent cook, and him and éti would get on fabulously. “Ah. A bit tricky, as she’s not out. As trans. With her… um… work, or family, or… or anyone, actually.”

“Okayyy,” he answered. “That must be tough on her.”

“It is.”

“Well, you could ask her anyhow. It’s not like Charles or I would spill the beans. A fancy Parisian girlfriend, eh? No wonder I haven’t seen you at all. We obviously don’t move in the same social circles these days.”

éti had forty-eight hours on the island, and we were going to spend every single one of them together. And when I say together, from the second I walked through the door, she attached herself to me like a mussel reef to a rock with no intention of letting me prise her away. Fortunately, I didn’t want to, because pressed against hers was where my body belonged. Every lean, firm inch of her. And still it wasn’t close enough.

“How can I miss you not being in my apartment in Paris when you’ve never even been there?” For a brief second, her lips left mine. She still hadn’t yet mastered the art of kissing and talking, but she was working on it.

“I feel like I have,” I answered, and she giggled into my mouth.

Last night, I’d had a guided video tour, complete with running commentary. I was now very familiar with the contents of her freezer (boxes of individually designed nutritious dinners for one), the precise location of her wicker laundry basket (in the cubby between her bathroom and bedroom), and her preferred brand and model of vacuum cleaner (anything but a Dyson). The contrast between the Parisian place and her bolthole on the island couldn’t have been starker. The luxurious apartment was the property of a wealthy professional footballer named étienne Salvador, and it showed in the matching black leather sofas and the surround-sound monster TV. And in éti’s voice, too, as she guided me around the open plan space without a shred of enthusiasm. At two a.m., I’d had to call it an evening; my eyes were drooping. I might have even begun dreaming about tractors.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” I added, inadequately. She’d not left my thoughts.

If possible, she clung to me even more. I ran my hands up her arms, over her shoulders, skimming my fingertips over the twin bumps of her bra straps before slipping down to her narrow waist and then lower still, to cup her solid arse. She hummed with pleasure. If she felt my growing erection prodding her belly, she didn’t comment. I could feel hers, not that I planned to draw attention to it. Instead, I sneaked a delicious bottom pinch, making her squeal.

“My friend Florian has invited us to dinner tonight. I’ve told him about you.”

Anticipating another squeal, I smothered it with my mouth. “Don’t panic. I haven’t told him all about you, obviously. I haven’t shared the irritating way you sprinkle random emojis, of which I don’t know the meaning, into every text. Or that you reject the last third of every single cup of coffee because the temperature is no longer to Mademoiselle’s satisfaction.”

“I don’t like the last bit! It’s too strong as well as too cool.” She nuzzled into my neck. “Does he know who I am?”

“Of course not. But if he did meet you, he would never tell anyone. I trust him with my life. And his partner, Charles, well…”

How did I describe Charles? “He’s… um… not like normal people. He used to be a hotshot businessman in London, but now he paints, and he’s very clever, and his brain does this thing where it assigns everything and everyone a colour. And—at risk of denting your enormous ego—he’ll have heard of étienne Salvador, because who hasn’t? But I’d bet the oyster farm he wouldn’t recognise you if you sat opposite him at dinner.”

“Waouh . Astonished face emoji .”

She tilted her head on one side, considering. “So, what have you told Florian about me?”

Her lips pursed in a pout, cuter than any computer-generated smiley. I planted a kiss on them and gave her bum another squeeze. “Um… that you pull silly faces like the one you’re doing now? And that you have the most perfect bottom and I want to sink my teeth into it?”

While she blushed, I pinched it again, screwing my face up, pretending to think. “Oh… and that you are the first girl I’ve ever wanted to invite to meet my friends. Is that enough?”

If I could bottle her slow smile, the one that bit by bit revealed the famous chipped incisor like the ultimate prize, then I would, gladly.

“Okay then, when are we going? And what shall I wear?”

While Florian was busy scooping his chin from off the doormat, Charles, wearing a frilly apron over his sensible middle-aged outfit, ushered us in. As predicted, he didn’t have the foggiest who éti was, which seemed to thrill and affront her in equal measure. Within minutes, they were gabbling away in English, which was kind of maddening and yet another string to add to my megastar girlfriend’s not inconsiderable bow.

“I didn’t know your English was that fluent!”

“ Si.” Her smile was disgustingly smug. “Spanish, too. And conversational Mandarin.” She rolled her thumb against her forefinger, the universal sign for money. “It’s good for my media work. I’ve had language tutoring ever since PSG signed me up as a sixteen-year-old.”

Even Charles seemed impressed. Or as far as I could tell, seeing as they’d switched back to English, the fuckers. He led éti towards one of his large oil paintings of Florian, leaving me seconds away from the wrong end of my best friend’s rare temper. Florian manhandled me into the kitchen. He splashed some wine into a glass, knocking it back in a single gulp. A stunned silence followed.

“Don’t be cross I didn’t tell you.”

“I’m not. Why would I be? You did the right thing not outing her to me. To anyone, in fact.”

From the living room, Charles had moved on from pictures of Florian in various stages of undress and was discussing a recent surrealist exhibition they’d both visited in Paris. I couldn’t work out who was enthusing more.

“He still hasn’t got a fucking clue who she is, has he?”

“No. Waouh.” Closing his eyes briefly, Florian shook his head. “Waouh.”

“Putain, don’t you start. At least now you understand why I’ve been keeping quiet about it.” I poured him another glass, myself too, and offered it up. Pushing him into a chair, I ordered him to drink. “I have a feeling you’re going to need this.”

Unusually, Florian was still lost for words.

“I’ll fill in the gaps for you. Yes, éti is the woman I met on the beach, and yes, she’s trans, and yes, this would be a big deal if word got out.”

“You know it won’t come from me,” he answered promptly.

“I do. That’s why we’re here. She wanted to meet my friends. And I wanted my friends to meet her.”

He rubbed at his eyes, as if it would help make sense of things. “I don’t know where to start, Nico.”

“By being pleased for me? By giving me tips on how to be a great boyfriend?”

He smiled at that. “You know how, connard. Be yourself.”

Before Florian could interrogate me, further Charles and éti returned to the kitchen. Charles’s arm was draped around éti’s shoulder. “She’s a sunny yellow,” he beamed. “She can stay.”

A peculiar statement unless you were familiar with Charles’s synaesthesia.

“That means you’ve passed Charles’s brain test with flying colours,” I translated for a bemused éti. “Literally. Yellow is one of the highest accolades. Unless you’re Florian, of course, who wears his very own silver halo.”

Charles tapped me around the head. “I’m sad to say, éti, that your boyfriend here, Nico, is beige. A sickly drab beige. Come and sit down, my dear. Let me pour you a drink.”

éti slipped her cool hand into mine. “You okay?” I whispered, as Charles fussed around her. “Tell me if it becomes too much, and we can go.”

“It’s amazing,” she whispered back, her eyes darting around Florian’s cluttered cosy kitchen. “Being here, like a normal person on a Friday night. With your cool friends. I love it.”

“How are things at home, Nico?” queried Charles as he brought a basket of bread to the table. “Your mum okay?”

éti was cooing over Florian’s haphazard yet effortlessly stylish décor; thankfully her attention was elsewhere.

I shot him a tense look, praying he’d get the message. He was so supportive; they both were. But tonight was perfect; why spoil it? “Fine,” I answered, then, hoping I hadn’t sounded too rude, added, “Thank you.”

Two glasses of wine to the good and Florian was back to his usual charming and way-too-handsome self. “The real acid test,” he said, stirring a pot of something ambrosial, “is whether you can tell the difference between my island salt and powdery supermarket shit.” He sprinkled some of his beloved crystals into the pot. “Love the dress, by the way, éti. Really brings out your eyes. Wasted on Mr Romantic here.” He threw her a cheeky wink.

“For your information, Mr Romantic has already complimented her on it,” I growled.

No, that was not my girlfriend batting her lashes at my best friend. “Thank you. I was experimenting. I took apart two Yves St Laurent dresses, then sewed them together differently. I’m going to do it to a couple of Chanel numbers when I find the time. Unpicking designer dresses teaches me how to make them better myself.”

A niche hobby reserved for one with gazillions in the bank. Grinning from ear to ear, Florian passed her a tiny bowl of salt.

“Most hosts offer their guests olives or peanuts, Flor.”

He ignored my sarcasm. “My salt is much better. Isn’t it, éti?”

“Absolutely.” éti sweetly curled a lock of hair around her fingers, the little minx. “Though I don’t need to try it. I take sacks back to Paris with me. I hand it out to my friends.”

If that was a lie, it was a very smooth one. If you asked me, salt was all the same, an unsolicited opinion I shared with Florian at regular intervals. “So, Florian,” she continued, smiling up at him—again. “You are Nico’s oldest childhood friend? Tell me all I need to know about him.”

Putain de merde. From my perspective, the evening deteriorated from there. Over one of Florian’s delicious fish suppers (because not only was the guy as handsome as the devil, he also fucking rivalled Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen), my former best friend regaled my avid new girlfriend with all my failings, starting with my extensive collection of Lego Star Wars models and ending with… ah merde… the infamous octopus tattoo. I swear teasing and insulting me helped him sleep at night.

“She doesn’t know about that, yet.” I glared at him.

“Ah, you’re hiding it from her? Mon dieu, that’s sweet. Not a secret you’ll be able to keep for much longer, though, mon ami.”

Yep, I had a ridiculous tattoo draped around my nether regions. With a couple of well-chosen, innocent-sounding questions, my friends could pinpoint the precise level of sexual relations attained with any particular girlfriend at any particular time. Fuck my life.

“And the tattoo on his back?” Florian continued, throwing me a wicked grin. “Have you seen that one yet, éti? Near his left shoulder, that says ‘the world is your oyster’? Except the tattooist was stoned and spelt oyster wrong? That one was done when he was sixteen. The first words he’d ever had inked—until then, he’d just had a few little pictures.”

Had Florian saved all his stories up? Because they were tripping off his tongue like he’d prepared for an exam. Now my girlfriend would know I was stupid as well as a Lego nerd. Naturally, éti was agog.

“He’s exaggerating about the Lego,” I said firmly, staring at my friend. “Don’t listen to him.”

éti’s fingers caressed my nape. Leaning closer, she whispered in my ear. “I’m loving all of his tales about you. They make me like you even more.” Her eyes flicked down to my mouth. “And the octopus sounds intriguing.”

Now I had a stiffy as well as a ruined reputation as a cool man about town.

“So, we went to this tattoo parlour in La Rochelle,” Florian began with a broad grin. “We’d invited a couple of girls along he was trying to impress. We were what, Nico? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

Yep, he’d saved the best until last. “Seventeen,” I said through gritted teeth.

“He wanted the name La Forge and the date the company started written on his other shoulder,” Florian continued. “We choose a font; the guy puts the stencil on and begins work. Nico sits there like a champ, very brave, giving one of these girls all the chat. The tattoo only takes about 45 minutes, and then, when he’s done, the guy holds up a mirror. What do you think? he says as Nico cranes his head around to admire himself. Immediately, your boyfriend goes pale, starts to sweat, and sits down again, like he’s going to pass out. It’s backwards! he says. You’ve written it backwards! Which was around the time Nico learned how mirrors worked.”

Putain. I covered my face with my hands. “I was stressed! It hurt.”

“You were about ready to die on the spot of embarrassment.”

And I was all over again.

“I shall kiss every letter,” said éti, laughing. The hand in mine squeezed tighter; she gazed at me like millions of adoring fans gazed at her. Flor could have begun recounting when I pissed myself sitting on the teacher’s lap in kindergarten, and I swear it wouldn’t have mattered.

Thankfully, it wasn’t all one-way traffic. And by that, I mean éti joined in too. Once Florian pointed out to Charles that my girlfriend was kind of a big deal, then he had a zillion polite questions, and éti had a zillion funny answers and a whole library of amusing and self-deprecating anecdotes herself.

So by the time it came around to collecting the empty plates, sharing the washing up, and then collapsing onto the sofas in the sitting room, Charles beamed at éti as if he’d found his new bezzie for life, Flor’s eyes darted between both of them like a proud mother hen, and I sat there in a haze of red wine and love for everyone, wondering how the hell I’d got so damned lucky.

With the sort of discreet gesture, not at all discreet after glugging three more large glasses of vin de table, Florian dragged me back into the kitchen to help him clear up, leaving the new besties to discuss rich people things. As soon as the door closed, he gave me a tipsy hug.

“Putain, she’s adorable, Nico.”

“I know.”

“So pretty, too. What’s she doing with you?”

I asked myself that a hundred times a day. éti Salvador, the love that came without warning. Dive bombing the emotional wasteland of my heart and shaking it like a maraca. “Fuck knows. She’ll come to her senses soon.”

That earned me another tipsy hug. “Je rigole, mon ami. I’m teasing. She can’t take those beautiful big grey eyes off you. Or her hands. Smitten, smelly boy. The lovely lady is totally smitten.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can hide her from everyone. She’s lively. She has a big personality. She wants to explore everything, try everything.”

“A bit of a handful, non?” Florian shrugged. “Embrace it! She must be the reason God gave you two hands. So, when is she declaring your amour to the world? At the end of the soccer season?”

“Eh?”

“I said,” he repeated, still smiling at me, “when will she be presenting her handsome oyster fisherman to the general public? And coming out as trans? Like you said, she’s a big character—not someone who will be able to keep her happiness to herself.”

I hadn’t ventured out tonight seeking a discussion regarding my future, but a discussion was happening, regardless. As ribbons of anxiety made themselves known in the pit of my full belly, my joyous mood cooled somewhat. “She’s managing very well so far,” I replied stiffly.

“Come on, Nico.” Florian tutted. “Don’t be na?ve. You can’t sneak around forever, stealing a few hours here and there in her little love nest and hiding her away from everyone—including your family. Cuddling on the sofa and sex is great, when you get around to having it, but, you know, every now and again you’re going to have to leave the house. And what about the media? They’ll discover it eventually. They always do. The narrative needs to come from her, not from some journalist keen on making his name.”

The fucker was right, as usual. With such an emotionally packed present, I hadn’t contemplated the future, and I didn’t know how much éti had either. Our relationship was brand new. Never mind sex, we’d done nothing more than kiss. It was too fresh to be exposed to the media, and éti deserved to out herself on her own terms when she was good and ready.

Images tumbled through my mind of cameras flashing, crowds yelling, people hurling abuse at her. Headlines screaming her name. But alongside them were pictures of us holding hands across a table in L’Escale, éti hidden behind her dark shades, or picking out fruit in the market, even buying makeup in a goddamned beauty store.

“I don’t know what the time ahead holds, Flor. We haven’t discussed it.”

He drew in a long breath. “All I’m saying is that you and éti need to make sure you dictate it. Not PSG, not the fans, and not social media.”

All of a sudden, I felt remarkably sober.

We strolled back to éti’s in the dark, cutting through to the beach and along the empty shore. Not a soul to be seen in either direction. In between éti chattering, kicking at stuff, and swinging on my arm, we stopped to kiss.

“I demand to be shown this octopus tattoo that Florian teased you about. As soon as we get in the house. I need to count its legs very carefully.”

“Florian has a big mouth,” I grumbled. “I’ve a good mind to pour a gallon of food colouring in his muddy pond and turn all his salt purple.”

“He’s swoony.”

“He is not!”

“Is so! And he’s promised me a private tour of his salt flat.”

Hah! I knew exactly how that invite ended for Charles. Suffice to say, he learned a hell of a lot more than how to harvest sea salt. “I’ll be coming along.”

“He said you can’t. Your smelly oilskins scare away the tourists.”

I made to grab her, and she skipped out of reach. Refusing to subject myself to the indignity of failing to catch her, I stayed put. An impatient soul, she came dancing back soon enough and slid her arms around my neck.

“I have something very important to tell you, Nico.”

“Is it that your boyfriend is the most wonderful Frenchman you have ever laid eyes on?”

“Nope. Although he is, even when he’s a titchy bit grumpy.”

I’d been teasing, not fishing for compliments, but I’d take it. “I’m never grumpy.” Her eyes, the same fathomless grey of the dark ocean behind her, turned solemn.

“I’m in love,” she announced.

“What, with Florian? Hate to break it to you, but that’s not an exclusive club. You should see the ladies gathered around his salt flat in the height of summer.”

“Non, connard. Not with Florian. I’m in love with you. With you, Nico.”

With me. My heart thieved an extra beat. “Really?”

“Yes. Because when I’m with you I’m always éti, éti, éti. You have never seen me or treated me as anyone but. You never got my pronouns wrong; you never made me feel anything less than a woman. And you make me totally forget about being that other person.”

“Because you aren’t.”

“That’s right. I’m not. But shall I tell you something else, Nico?” Her eyes, like lightning flashes tonight, sparked with happiness. “You are unique.”

“Hardly.”

“Yes, you are. Listen: people across the world clamour to touch that other person’s hand. They jostle and fight and think they love them, when what they really love is that cardboard cut-out’s footballing skills, because they don’t know PSG’s number ten at all. And living every day like that can be frightening and wearing and frustrating, even if it is occasionally fucking amazing. But then I spend an evening in a cosy little kitchen with you and your friends, and you’re like, what, my éti? A megastar? That fucking space cadet? Nah, she’s just my new girlfriend and she’ll help with the washing up. And it is so, so cool. I want to do it all over again. Because you never remind me I’m different. That it’s okay to be myself and totally at ease.”

A dizzying sense of pleasure washed over me. Not merely infatuated with my lip piercing, my flicky-flacky hair, or my tats. Turned out she’s in love with my scintillating personality. Who knew?

“But I still reckon I should buy one of Charles’s pictures of Florian naked for my bedroom wall, don’t you?”

Before I could grab her and kiss the hell out of her, she sprinted off cackling with delight, like a child let loose amongst a bank of autumn leaves. I didn’t bother giving chase—the woman clocked one hundred metres in under eleven seconds.

“Mbappé is quicker than you!” I hollered at her back as she zigzagged down the beach, dribbling past a row of imaginary defenders. “Just saying.”

Her answering laugh was lost on the wind. “Tant pis! I’ve scored eleven more goals this season!”

“I hope you trip over a rock and fall flat on your face!” I yelled.

“I hope you fall into a vat of rotten oysters!” she yelled back.

As she scampered into the distance and I jogged to catch up, the silly giddiness taking root in my belly surged through my chest, welling into a huge uncontrollable smile. Maybe Florian was right. We wouldn’t be able to hide for much longer. Not if éti enjoyed being normal so much. And now she’d met my friends, my family was next. Perhaps my mum, if she was well enough for it. And éti wouldn’t be a footballer forever. Perhaps she could wait until she hung up her boots. Perhaps I’d have to begin regular weekend trips to Paris. I hadn’t a fucking clue what the future would hold; but as long as she was in it, if I had to, I’d willingly suck in every breath of pure ocean air and some polluted Parisian shit too.

Ahead in the distance, the old Baleines lighthouse stood sentry, eleven seconds between each dazzling flash—a rate unchanged since I was old enough to time the gaps. On my right, the tide tamely turned, lapping at the shore like a thirsty kitten at a bowl of milk. And on my left, éti, the love that came without warning, her cheeks flushed and hair spiralling like crazy, leaned against the little garden gate, cool as you like, as if she hadn’t sprinted a few hundred metres up the beach.

Could the future really be this simple? Me, my girl, the beach, the tides?

“What kept you, slowcoach?” She smiled, the wide chipped grin splashing me with hope and joy like a molten beam of sunrise. I’d never willingly torn my eyes away from one of those.

We pushed through into the house, mouths breathlessly glued together and stumbling around furniture. Not bothering to turn on the lights, I found myself pinned against an unyielding stainless-steel fridge. Cold metal cooled my palms tucked behind me, fighting a desire to explore éti’s body uninvited. Her own hands had permission to explore everywhere, and she took advantage. Tangling them in my hair, running down my sides, burning a path up my chest. Buttons on my shirt fell apart under her nimble fingers; my dick swelled and thickened around a palm pressed against the denim of my jeans. And mon dieu, how I wanted that hand there.

“You can undo those buttons too,” I breathed. “If you like.”

As if I’d started a timer, her fingers scrabbled, tearing my fly apart and slipping inside the slit of my boxers.

“?a alors , ” she gasped as her hand closed around me, cool and smooth and surprisingly assured. “I like.”

She gave a couple of tentative pulls, then changed her grip. “You want it slow and soft or fast and hard?”

Fuck me, I didn’t know there was an à la carte menu. “Either is good. You choose.”

Thrusting her solid thigh between mine, she brought me off with long, measured strokes. In control, from root to tip, the other hand gripping my hip and holding me in place. Unashamedly, she rubbed herself up against me.

“Are you sure you’ve never done this to a guy before?”

“Never.”

“I’m close already,” I panted. “You are so good.”

“I’m good at everything. You should have realised by now.”

The sound of my desperate moans filled the dark room as, on spongy legs, I sagged down the side of the fridge. My head slammed back against hard stainless steel while her hand worked the length of my shaft, reducing me to a needy mass of want. Her wide grey eyes levelled with mine. “?a alors, you feel amazing, Nico. You have a very nice cock.”

Not that nice, apparently, because she skidded to an abrupt stop and stepped away. I gasped with shock. What the fuck?

She gave her other palm an obscene, fat lick.

“Ambidextrous,” she informed me, smugly. “I think I’ll be even better with this hand.”

The bubble of laughter welling in my throat died as she proved correct. Ah merde . Suddenly, I was grateful for the solidity of the fridge at my rear and the strength in her thigh. Chills licked up my spine, and I groaned against the hot skin of her neck, my balls squeezing tighter with every stroke. Her ragged breath mixed with mine, her own arousal pressed up against my hip.

“Oh, God, I’m coming, éti, I’m… pute… that’s…”

She made a noise deep in her throat, sounding so raw and hungry and fucking sexual. Before my brain had time to warn either of us, I spilled into her hand and over onto her dress. Still pulsing, I staggered towards her, reaching out for support.

“No, no, Nico, just a sec… I need to…”

Head down, she backed away. Colour rose up her cheeks; her hand moved to cover her groin. “Ugh, I need to see to something.”

Rustling clothing, a running tap, the flush of the toilet—mundane sounds bringing me down to earth as swiftly as if someone had chucked a bucket of water over me. In a hurry, I put myself back together, then looked up to find her hanging in the doorway, less red in the face, but uncertain, upset, chewing on a nail. Light years removed from the woman who, moments before, had so confidently emptied my balls.

I held out my arms. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Wrapping her close, I pressed a kiss into the top of her springy curls. “You okay?”

I felt a little nod. “Yeah, sorry about that. Just, you know. Hating my shitty body. The usual stuff.”

I squeezed her even tighter. “You don’t have to hide away to do that, éti. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” I huffed a laugh. “You just made me do the same thing, but all over the front of your dress.”

“I know. But I’d rather it didn’t happen that way. To me, anyhow.”

“It’s a sign you were turned on, that’s all. That we turn each other on. It makes me happy that us being together like this has that effect on you.”

“I know that too, but some days I want rid of it all.” She buried her face even further into my chest. “There are days when makeup isn’t enough. Dresses and painted toenails aren’t enough. I turn all the mirrors to face the wall. And I hate my… my junk. All hanging out.”

My heart clenched. I wished I could make it better for her, but how did I begin? I’d just had one of the best orgasms of my life, and hers had brought her shame and tears. “I can’t begin to understand how that feels, éti.”

“I know. No one does.”

“I wish I did so I could say the right thing. But I want you to know that I don’t care that you’ve got it.”

“I might get rid of it one day. After my career’s over. Investigate taking hormones, too.”

At a total loss how to comfort her, I swallowed. Smooth platitudes had no place here. “Well,” I said eventually, “I hope whoever is in your life when that moment comes will support you whatever you choose.”

Her hold on me tightened. “I hope that person will be you, Nico,” she whispered. “So much.”

If I had my way, I’d wrap her up between now and then and never let her out of my sight. “So do I, my sweet.”

Time ticked by, both of us reluctant to let go of the other. Mon dieu, what a heavy conversation. Tonight had thrown up a few of them.

As the kitchen clock pinged the hour, I untangled her, stepping back. “Listen, sweetheart. I don’t know about you, but when I’ve had a three-course dinner, followed by a sprint along the beach and a whole-body orgasm, I need a moment to recover. Why don’t you put on those cute flowery pyjamas and go and warm up the bed for me? I’ll lock up, give you a head start.”

And me a moment alone too, an opportunity to check my phone. I’d not checked in for hours. Max promised to call if he had any concerns, about either parent, but twenty-year-old blokes weren’t known for their reliability. No messages; I sighed with relief.

“My sister would adore rummaging through this lot.” I unbuttoned my shirt, removing it for the second time that evening and laying it over the back of a chair while absorbing the sheer amount of stuff hiding every square inch of the dressing table. Creams, lotions, tubes, tubs, sticks, brushes—pots crammed with brushes. Some were big enough to paint the ceiling. Necklaces and bracelets too, ropes of fat pearls (no doubt real) draped over the edge of the mirror, a three-tiered jewellery box spilling open and littered with sparkles, and the huge fucking diamond ring just lying there, like a fat glittery snowball. I recalled the night I first met her, finding the doors to the terrace hanging wide open.

“You really should set the burglar alarm, you know. Or invest in a safe.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” agreed éti, not giving a shit, propped up in bed on a mountain of pillows. And anyhow, she was staring at me, not the treasure trove. I pulled my shoulders back and puffed out my chest a little. “You’re lovely to look at, Nico.”

I rolled my eyes. “You spend your days surrounded by professional athletes. I’m ordinary in comparison.”

“Not to me.”

Feeling my face colour, I fondled the pearls. “There’s enough stuff here to open a beauty parlour.”

She grinned, wide and lazy. “Yeah, I know. To be honest, I don’t know what to do with most of it. It’s not like I grew up dipping in and out of girlfriend’s bedrooms, practising on each other. It’s mostly a result of watching YouTube videos late at night, then getting carried away with my credit card.”

“Is that after you’ve bought the designer dresses for cutting up or before?”

She hugged her knees. “I like pretty things—don’t judge me!”

I unbuttoned my jeans, also for the second time that evening. “Zo? could show you some makeup tips; she’s amazing. We’re always telling her she should do some of those online tutorials herself.”

Divesting myself of my trousers, I turned to her, in nothing but my boxers, still sitting low on my hips from my previous undressing. Whereupon she fucking clamped a hand over her mouth and laughed her socks off. Not an effect I was used to having on the ladies. I didn’t work out, but I had some muscle covering my long, lean bones. I had a manual job. Nothing to be ashamed of.

“I get it now!” she snorted. “The octopus! Seven legs.”

Florian. I cursed him. The most annoying, infuriating, yet trustworthy human on the planet. Diving on top of éti, I straddled her hips, making her shriek even harder. Holding both her wrists, I tugged them up above her head, even if she was wriggling about like a worm. Bloody hell, she was strong, I think she let me win in the end, or was giggling too much to resist.

“I don’t think you and he need to spend any more time together. Double trouble.”

I dropped wet kisses into her laughing mouth before blowing a raspberry on her neck.

“Let me see it again.” Pushing up, she rolled me off her. “I need to count these legs.”

Now I was being straddled. Yes, for sure she’d let me win. Note to self: heavier lifting at work. Bulk myself up.

Sitting back on her haunches, hardly short of breath after our tussle while I was panting like a run-down hare, she traced the wave tattoo. Her sharp brows knitted together, memorising the shape of it. Shavings of golden light from a lamp behind shimmered through her curls, like she’d run through a shower of stars. I could stare up at her the whole night.

“I’m falling in love with you, too,” I whispered. “Just so you know.”

Unthreateningly as possible, I rested my palms on each of her pyjama-clad lower thighs. Mon dieu, how I longed to touch her properly. To pleasure her, like she had pleasured me. “Is this okay?”

With the hint of a smile, her eyes flicked to them, and she nodded. Leaving the wave tattoo, her fingertips travelled lower, halting above my hip.

“Here’s one octopus leg.” Her voice was soft and loving. “And these must be numbers two and three.”

She leaned forward to brush her lips against the tip of each ridiculous tentacle. The design, done years ago, rose from the centre of my groin, chaotic, overblown, and a source of endless amusement for the likes of Florian. The epitome of youthful folly and the only one of my tattoos I regretted.

Numbers four and five spiralled up from the waistband of my boxers, each garish orangey-blue tentacle ending on my hip bones. éti’s lips lingered on them, her hair falling in a featherlight cascade across my belly.

Numbers five, six, and seven curled down from my groin and peeked out from each of my outer thighs. Also recipients of her tongue’s lavish attention.

Leaving leg number eight. Thicker than the others and leaking through the fabric of my boxers as she shuffled back to graze her mouth along its length. With a mischievous peek upwards, she eased down my underwear. An exploratory kiss landed on my tip, accompanied by a hum of pleasure.

“?a alors, Nico. Your cock is even nicer this close.”

Another experimental kiss, this one halfway down my length. Holding me firmly in one fist, she contemplated my erection, working out how best to tackle it. How to be the best at sucking cock, to add it to her list of accomplishments. I could have told her that even a bad blow job was still better than, say, the most beautiful sunset at the end of a perfect summer’s day, or the sound of spring water burbling down a mountainside. But then she licked up one side, from the very base to my swollen head, and swirled her tongue in my slit. She darted a glance at me from under her lashes, and every sunset ever risen nestled in the pit of my belly, along with every laughing stream, every cute kitten, and every first sip of fucking beer after a long day humping oyster pouches. In a word, éti with her lips around my cock was the most beautiful sight and sensation in the whole fucking universe.

Naturally, being éti, her mouth then abandoned my cock. She threw me a bashful grin, her lips glossy and swollen. “Would you mind closing your eyes and thinking about someone who does this better?”

“I’d be staring at nothing but a blank space, my sweet.”

Smirking, she swapped hands, because, yeah, ambidextrous, and bent to her task once more. “You have a never-ending well of smooth lines, Nico, you know that?”

Before I had chance to reply, she encased my dick in a heavenly wet warmth. A swelling symphony of sensations coursed through my bloodstream as, with an achingly soft touch, she hollowed her cheeks and sucked. I whimpered. Each backwards glide on sensitive flesh, each exquisite dip of her tongue into my slit, and each warm exhale feathering across my groin brought with it a fresh flood of heat, an incendiary mix of innocence and determination.

My rush of orgasm caught us both by surprise.

“éti, you might want to… éti, sweet, I’m… “

In a surge of pleasure, the energy left my body, shooting out my dick, taking my brain and ability to communicate with it. With no time to duck, some she swallowed, coughing and retching. The rest hit her square in the face, glazing it like a donut. Her spluttering laughter broke through my post-orgasm whiteout.

“I’ve got octopus ink in my eye. Beurk . "

Putain , this woman wielded joy like a scalpel. Catching my breath, I pulled her face up to mine, wiping it with my thumb before kissing her senselessly. “Could have been worse,” I panted. “In senior school, my friend Jerome got shot in the eye with a BB gun.”

“So romantic , Nico.”

I cleaned us both, me quickly and her with much more tenderness because I couldn't keep from touching her. Then we settled down again. éti’s cool fingers combed through my hair. “I’ve had years, Nico, when I thought I’d never get to experience this.”

“What? Being blinded by spunk?”

“Yeah.” Chuckling, she wrapped a lock around her fingers. I’d have trimmed my flicky-flacky hair by now, but I sensed she liked it longer. “Amongst other things. I buried it alongside all my other hopes and aspirations. In my cemetery of dreams.”

That roused me from my post-orgasm haze. “You have a cemetery of dreams?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. I don’t think so. I don’t.”

Mon dieu, we were going to have to exhume them, one faded vision at a time. “I was beginning to wonder whether I’d get to experience this, too,” I admitted.

“What, shooting spunk over your girlfriend’s face?”

“Spunk on the face, yes, probably. Girlfriend, no. I’ve been to bed with plenty of women, but I haven’t ever experienced the 'going steady' thing.” I’ve never fallen in love.

“Why not?” Her eyes strayed to my hair as she wound it between two fingers. “I want to know. Tell me what makes Nico La Forge of La Forge Oyster Farms tick.”

I sighed. “Truth be told, I’m not sure. Nice girls came and went, and I never… nothing stuck, you know? Sex was great, but the idea of settling down… made me run a mile. I wasn’t ready. But also, I think I confused settling down with simply settling. Settling for ordinary.” I side-eyed her. “And then you came along and…”

“And what?”

“And now I can see a life less ordinary. With you. And I don’t mean because you’re trans or even because you’re famous. Although it won’t be necessarily easy, at least not while you’re still playing soccer. But when I’m with you, you make me feel like my life has purpose, not just farming oysters and going to the pub. Like meeting you was what I was waiting for.” When I kissed her lush mouth, I felt her smile against me. “It’s a life I want to grab with both hands.”

Both tired, but after two weeks apart, not ready for sleep. We had too much to say to each other. éti especially. As I’d commented to Florian, she loved to talk. Pretending to be someone else day after day after day could do that to a person. Most of her secret hoard of thoughts she spilled within five seconds of careering into my arms or blurted them down a phone line the second I answered her calls. Tonight, however, she put them on hold, but they ran amuck now, over all things: politics; soccer (obviously); food (again, obviously—her next meal was never far from her mind); her physio; her sewing patterns; other road users on the long drive from Paris; my oysters. Funny, childish, filthy, and observant things, but, most of all, brutally honest.

She was so busy offloading two weeks’ worth of pent-up opinions, she failed to notice my thumb circumscribing her left nipple through the silky fabric of her pyjama top... not until she paused for breath anyhow.

“Shh,” I said as she opened her mouth to object. I kissed her on it to make sure. “Tell me that doesn’t feel nice.”

“It feels amazing,” she breathed.

As her nipple sprang erect under my thumb, her hips shifted. I withdrew my hand, sliding my fingers between the buttons onto warm skin. “Shh,” I said again. “I think it feels nice, too. I want to do it. But if you prefer me to stop, just say the word.”

I cupped the muscular mound of her breast and gave it a gentle squeeze. It did feel nice, satiny, and firm. If my balls hadn’t been so comprehensibly drained, twice, my dick would be sitting up and taking notice too. I dragged my tongue along her jaw, down to the inviting shadow behind her ear.

“Don’t stop.” A needy moan accompanied her plea—more of a low velvety growl and, mon dieu, there was nothing like it. Her hands lay at her sides, twisting the sheet. A slight rhythmic lifting of her hips rustled the duvet. Leaving a trail of kisses behind, my lips abandoned the sweet shell of her ear and strayed down the column of her neck, pausing at another inviting hollow, and then another. I tugged apart the top two buttons.

Putain, I’d have liked to keep going. Undone, unveiled, uncovered. Thrown aside every impediment to her, naked beneath me. Marked every inch of her silky body with a kiss, blanketed it with mine, whispered her name and her beauty.

I sucked a nipple into my mouth, caressing the other, and another whimper escaped her throat. More rustling, a frantic hand moving below and a pained noise from parted lips above, eyes squeezed shut under shivering dark lashes. Her head tossed on the pillow.

“Let go, éti,” I whispered. “Relax. Let it happen.”

“I’m sorry, Nico. I need to touch myself. I need to come. It’s too good.”

“I know, sweet. Don’t be sorry. Do what you have to do.”

“Oh, God.”

I sucked harder, pulling the tight bud of her nipple into my mouth. Ragged, greedy breaths split the still quiet of the night as her elbow jerked under the duvet. Like a bow string, her body tensed, tight muscles corded under my palm. And then, with a high-pitched sigh, it was over, and I didn’t care whether I was allowed to hug her or not, not stopping to ask. I crushed her against my chest, every bit of her flesh not covered by fabric squashed up against me. The manoeuvre screamed she was improbably mine and wasn’t getting away.

She responded with a sound somewhere between a groan of relief and mortified displeasure. “Beurk. You’re smearing it. I’m all sticky.”

I smiled to myself in the dark, picturing her disgruntled face. Muffled against my chest, the following giggle was as cute as the snuggly pyjamas she huddled in. She made another uniquely éti sound of annoyance.

“Sorry for… needing to do that.”

“Don’t say that! You can be, or do, anything with me, éti. You know that. And I want to turn you on. Like you turn me on. We’re going to learn how to do this together, okay?”

She tipped her head up to gaze at me, flushed, a little bashful maybe, but with a very satisfied grin spreading from ear to ear. “I feel fucking amazing. I didn’t realise sex made you feel so good afterwards. Like I’m stumbling off a roller coaster with wobbly legs. And the rush of excitement—it reminds me of when I banged my tooth against the goalpost, playing against Inter Milan.”

I snorted with laughter. “That’s a compliment?”

“The very best.”

I gave her a sharp poke in the ribs. “Sooner or later, I’d like to bang you against a goalpost.”

“But not in front of the Inter Milan home fans, non?”

The new dawn brought a new éti, all washed clean and shiny again, in a different set of pyjamas. We were going to have to talk about that at some point, but for now, I let it pass. Because at an unseen moment over the course of yesterday evening, I realised I fucking loved her like I’d never even come close to loving another human being, no matter what.

“Am I going to wake up every morning to you staring at me?”

éti considered it. “I hope so, one day. Shall I tell you when I knew I could trust you?”

“What, now this minute?”

“Yes, it’s important.”

I’d have appreciated a coffee and a piss first, but they were going to have to wait. Who could resist those imploring eyes?

“Let me guess. Was it, by any chance, after I signed your form?”

“Nope. Before. The day I came to the oyster sheds. Before we had even gone back to my house. I mean, of course I offered you the money anyhow, and tried to persuade you to at least give it some thought. But I could just tell you’d never take it.”

I laughed drily, my throat in need of lubrication. “It’s nice you believe that about me, sweet. But I’m not as pure as you think. I did consider it, for a minute or two.”

She was unimpressed. “Is that all? Most people would contemplate for much longer. But I saw something in your face at the oyster shed. And remembered when you helped me on the beach. A kindness. A concern for other people. You have it now, while you’re eyeing up your phone and hoping I don’t notice.” She handed it to me. “Don’t worry, no one’s tried to call you. I’ve already checked. So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong with your mother, or shall I have to guess?”

A little pause while she raised her eyebrows at me. Ah. I hadn’t been as discreet or as sunny as I’d thought. Charles’s gentle enquiry last night, as we’d sat down to eat, must have given the game away. I’d shaken it off as casually as I could, accompanied by a warning glare, but éti caught wind of it.

I hauled myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I need a strong coffee before this conversation, éti. And a piss.”

“?a alors. Still so romantic.” She scrambled off the bed. “I’ll bring you caffeine.”

Staring into the pan, I conducted my business in the bathroom. What had I hoped to achieve by hiding it from her? The cancer wasn't going to disappear. I couldn't disguise a hospital admission or a death or a funeral. Nor was éti going to run away in terror, horrified at the possibility of supporting her new boyfriend through a grieving process, the man she’d admitted she was falling in love with .

I washed my hands and brushed my teeth, then gave myself a dirty look in the mirror. Basically, I’d been a dick. éti had confided her everything in me, the whole baguette, and I’d thrown down a few measly crumbs in return.

I slunk back to the bedroom, where she waited on the bed, a mug of coffee in hand and a tender smile on her face. One of us was an adult in this relationship, and it was the pampered soccer princess. I hauled myself back under the covers.

“She has breast cancer. She’s dying.”

That bald statement. Spoken aloud, for the first time, with a wave of nausea. It wouldn’t improve with repetition. It wouldn’t lessen. It wouldn't know any limits. A man could get fat on it.

“Oh.” éti contemplated her coffee for a few beats. “Why didn’t you tell me? All those times you checked your phone? When we were in the restaurant and at Florian’s? On the beach even? You were talking to me, your lips were moving, but I knew your head was somewhere else. There has been a part of you closed off.”

And still she wanted me . “You weren’t supposed to notice.”

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “It’s not what you want to hear at the beginning of something new, is it?”

“Putain, Nico, of course I’d have wanted to be aware.”

“You say that, but you’re… you have a lot on. I didn’t want to be another…” I searched for the right word. “Pressure maybe?”

“Pressure?” She made a scoffing sound. “Have you seen my life? I’m a fucking spoiled footballer who’s never done a proper day’s work ever! A diva! I don’t know what pressure is! étienne Salvador only has to imagine a cheese sandwich, and someone has cut one into perfect triangles and placed it in his hand.”

“Yeah, but… “

“No buts! What were you going to do when she… she deteriorates further? Say, um… sorry, éti, can’t make it this weekend, I’ve got to stay at home and wash my hair?”

When she put it like that, I felt foolish. I was foolish. “I know, I should have told you.”

At least éti didn’t say she was sorry. Sorry had begun to grate, no matter the underlying excellent intentions of the person saying it. I never knew how to respond. It’s not your fault, or it’s okay; you didn’t give her the cancer never seemed appropriate.

“How long has she got?”

Searingly honest, as usual. éti lay down alongside me, head propped on an elbow. Making a pillow of my arms, I stared up at the ceiling. The familiar band of pain in my chest returned; as if she knew it must be there, éti shifted to rest her head on it.

“Not long enough.” I weaved my fingers through the silky ends of her hair. “Days, weeks if she’s lucky. Or unlucky. It’s spread and hurts. Her belly swelled up this week—she had some fluid drained off. Her liver is failing. She’s not eating and she’s sleeping on a bed in the sitting room because she can’t climb upstairs anymore.”

“Was the cancer discovered too late to do anything about it?”

I let out a long exhale. “Sort of. Mostly, it’s a very aggressive version. The gene runs in the family. She’s had check-up screening every year for as long as I can remember. We always knew when the time for the mammogram swung around as she’d start being tetchy, you know? Losing her rag over nothing, when normally she is pretty even-tempered. And then afterwards, once the letter arrived giving her the all-clear, she and my dad would act silly around each other.”

“They were having great sex, probably.”

I made a face. “Probably.”

“Anyhow. Last year, we knew we had bad news without even opening it. Because the envelope was so thick. Too thick for the usual sheet of paper saying no problem, see you next year . And although it said, don’t worry, most women recalled for further tests don’t go on to have anything wrong , we knew. We just all fucking knew.”

Unloading felt good. éti remained silent. Preferable to meaningless platitudes. She knew everything now. I wouldn’t say a weight was eased because my mum was still dying of cancer, and no amount of sharing would lighten that burden. But, nonetheless, I felt relieved. Florian had asked who was caring for me, and now I had someone who would. Even if this bed and éti’s arms were no longer a refuge.

“Is there anything I can do? Financially, I mean. To… um… make things more comfortable?”

I managed a weak smile. “No. But thank you. She’s getting great care. The specialist nurse comes to the house twice a week. The hospital is excellent, too.”

“If you think of something, then you only need to ask.”

I knew that, but the room temperature had inexplicably increased by a few degrees. I focused on the blurry ceiling, or tried to, until the stinging in my eyes receded. And a little voice in my head pointed out that, actually, I hadn’t told her everything.

“I’m scared,” I admitted, not turning to meet her gaze. Terrified was more accurate. “Not just about her… dying. But of when… when she’s gone and what happens then.”

“What do you mean? That you won’t be able to cope?”

“That, as a family, we’ll implode. We’re all living under the same roof, but we’re like a bunch of strangers. We’re ordinary people, éti. An ordinary, busy family. We don’t discuss feelings or any touchy-feely stuff with each other. We just get up and go to work or school or the pub or whatever. And that used to be fine because we didn’t need to. Or, if we did, then my mum was always there for a hug and some practical advice, and my dad would nod and agree with her. And now, we don’t know how to behave. We don’t know how to talk to each other.”

I lifted my shoulder in wordless half shrug. Demonstrating my point to a tee. “But we’ll get through,” I added.

“Hey, don’t be like that.” éti’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “We’re a team now. Share this with me. Tell me more about them. Tell me everything bothering you.”

I took a cleansing breath. Putain, where did I start? With Zo?, feeling powerless to support her, knowing me and Max and my dad could never fill the chasm my mum’s death would leave behind? About her own inherited cancer worries, which we’d have to address at some point?

Or Max, red-eyed and too thin, skulking around the house like a wraith? What was he thinking during his extended silences? Was he depressed? More than depressed? Suicidal?

Then there was my dad’s dizzying descent into alcoholism. How long would it take for him to pull himself together after she’d gone? What if he never did? Could I run the business without him?

“Max and Zo?, they need me. My dad needs me. He’s burying his head in the sand—or in a beer glass, anyhow.” I blinked a few times, swallowing down the lump of sawdust lodged in my throat. “My mum and dad have been together since they were fourteen. He’s falling apart, barely functioning. He doesn’t know a life without her.”

“So, he’s leaving everything up to you.”

“Yes. I’m running most of the business and figuring out how to help Max and Zo?. At the moment, the job is fine. The guys who work with us are pulling their weight. But with Max and Zo?, I’m fucking next to useless. I understand why my dad’s struggling to cope, but… but…”

“So, when she’s gone, they’re going to all be leaning on you even more, yes?”

“Yes. I don’t want to… romanticize my mum—she’s just an average woman. But she’s been the lynchpin of our family, and when she dies, I’m petrified we’re going to fall apart altogether.”

I chanced a look at her then. And wished I hadn’t. So much tenderness and care shone in her big grey eyes that mine threatened to overspill.

“I’m scared I’m not the right man for it, éti. To pick us all up afterwards. To keep the show on the road. I’m just a guy who likes his work and enjoys a beer with his mates and enjoys watching the footie on the telly. I’m not what they’re going to need. I’ll fail them all.”

“Oh, Nico.” éti sighed. “Come here.”

She kissed me, hard and determined, as if trying to pour her strength into me. “You should trust yourself more,” she said after we broke off. “You tripped into my life and scooped me up then accepted me for everything I am, like the strongest person I know. I can’t think of a better man for it.”

Cupping my face in her smooth hands, éti brought my mouth to where she wanted it. We kissed again, the kiss saying all the other things I found hard to explain. That she anchored me, that having her by my side might give me the strength to steer my little family through stormy seas, and that perhaps, with her by my side, I could be the man for it after all. That when I struggled, she’d pick up the slack. That after a bad day, she’d give me a better night. That we were both better together than apart.