Chapter Five
Wednesday afternoon arrives, and I find myself suffering the most curious sensation. A seesawing gut that I’d usually associate with long-haul flights or unavoidable commutes on the Porto Metro at peak hour, where the risk of sweating bodies pressed against me is high.
I walk at a brisk pace, hoping that physical exertion will scatter the strangeness away.
Could it be that part of me realises making friends will end awkwardly, just like always?
Or is it that there’s a chance I’ll be playing nurse to a dead man when Tiago inevitably consumes almonds, because he’s too busy talking to pay attention to what’s on his plate?
I mull it over. Yes, these worries could be the cause of my trepidation, and rightly so.
My interfering mother also made a fuss about what I was wearing, suggesting that my regular attire of white shirt and black knee-length skirt might be considered a little too formal for a café catch-up and that I might be confused for a waitress.
It’s the outfit I trust most, and what’s wrong with wearing clothes that are considered formal?
Detective Amber Quill is never seen in athleisure wear, no matter if she’s scampering over muddy fields or investigating at a remote cabin in the woods.
Clearly, I know Amber is not real, but still, she’s aspirational, like so many other fictional friends that I and other bookworms hold in high regard.
Mum’s next audacious suggestion was for me to wear red lipstick as if I’m some kind of femme fatale (necessary for silent reading?
I think not!). Then she started on my hairstyle.
Admittedly, I’ve had the same sleek black bob and blunt fringe since my early twenties, but according to my greatly missed Manchester hairdresser, the style flatters the angular shape of my face.
In the end, stubborn as Mum and I both are, we got into quite the debate over it until eventually she capitulated.
No wonder my cortisol levels are at an all-time high, after holding my stance on such matters with a woman who really should know by now that I won’t be changing anytime soon.
Especially after the great upheaval I’ve been through.
I arrive at the base of Rua dos Mercadores with just over fifteen minutes to spare, which gives me ample time to climb the hilly cobblestoned street.
The sun beats down, so I stick to one side, delighting in the cool snatches of shade.
As I trek up the undulating hill, the pastelaria comes into view and, despite it being earlier than the agreed time, there’s Tiago sitting at my table by the window, his nose pressed in a book.
As I inch closer, I’m delighted to note it’s book four in The Quill Chronicles. I’d recognise the cover anywhere.
Still, why is he here so early? I hang back from a safe vantage point for reconnaissance.
Like the previous visit, the pastelaria is quiet, the lunch rush well and truly over.
There are a few people milling about inside, some read newspapers, others gaze wistfully into the ether, cake forks dangling in their hands.
Then there are the chatty types, hands flying through the air, punctuating their words.
There is a man wearing a jaunty blue beret, chatting on his phone, rubbing his temple as though the call is a painful one.
And then there’s Tiago, absorbed in his book.
Still, for a change. It shouldn’t matter that he’s early, yet it makes me feel like I’ve lost a modicum of control.
There are certain rituals that need to be done in order for this silent reading meet-up to go smoothly.
Ideally, I’d like to have already ordered so there’s no pressure if I can’t make up my mind.
I’d like to choose the seat that gives me the best view of the exit, in case I need to make a hasty retreat.
Little things that give me a sense of order in a disorderly world.
Before I can shuffle through the intrusive thoughts, Tiago clocks my presence and waves.
I have two options.
1. Run.
2. Don’t run.
His waving becomes almost comical. Excessively exuberant. I didn’t think people could actually ‘light up a room’ but Tiago sort of does. He’s got this vibrancy about him, his eyes reflect his joy. I’ve never seen that in a human before. Now the term ‘puppy-dog eyes’ finally makes sense.
I must hover too long because he bounds out, golden-retriever energy at the ready.
I clutch the straps of my handbag tight.
I’m not sure he’s a very good candidate for a friend.
Boisterous people suck the lifeblood from me.
The only thing stopping me from bolting is the fact that he has exceptional taste in reading material.
‘Viviane! It’s so good to see you. Book four, wow!
It’s the manor handyman, isn’t it? What on earth would he need a vat of hydrofluoric acid for if not dissolving body parts?
I mean, a manor handyman surely has no need for such a chemical, especially one so corrosive it has the ability to disintegrate teeth! ’
I relax my grip on the straps of my handbag.
‘I really cannot say.’ It’s not the handyman, who was once a glass etcher before he gave that up for his live-in position at the manor.
Tiago has missed the paragraph describing the etched-glass front doors of the manor, and how the handyman made them as a gift for the homeowners after they admired some of his previous work in other buildings in town.
Although if you don’t know that hydrofluoric acid is used for glass etching, then it’s an obvious clue to miss.
‘Got to be him. Always skulking around, he is.’
I lift a brow in a way that I hope comes across as mysterious. ‘Only one way to find out.’
‘Yes, shall we?’ He offers me his elbow like we’ve travelled back in time to an era where men are chivalrous.
It’s not awful but I hardly know the guy, so I pretend not to see his proffered body part and continue into the pastelaria to take my seat, at my table, with a good view of the door so I can hightail it if necessary.
‘Oh, I was sitting … never mind,’ Tiago says. ‘You sit there. I’ll sit opposite.’
‘You’re early.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t have much on at the moment.’
He touched on this before. Tiago seems like the type of person that needs to have a purpose. Annoyingly, I’m intrigued. ‘You mentioned that you were on a sabbatical of sorts, but I get the feeling you’d rather be … working?’ His energy seems pent up, somehow. Like he needs an outlet.
He grins. ‘That obvious? I developed an app called GameCore where players link their gaming consoles and it stores all their data. It records a gamer’s achievements, leaderboards, winning streaks, quests.
It tracks weekly playtime, compares stats, has a battle board where users can challenge high scorers, that kind of thing. Gamer nerd stuff.’
‘Interesting.’ I’m impressed, but does that only heighten screen time addiction for these gamers? It would be churlish to ask, so I do my best to zip my lips.
‘Thanks! I lived and breathed it but recently sold the company. Now I’m lost with what comes next. I worked so hard for so many years, and it’s so strange to wake up and not have a thing to do all day. What do you do for work?’
Should I be giving out personal details so early into this tenuous friendship?
I’m taken again by his demeanour, so open, so eager.
Really, it could be an act. You see it all the time in fiction, the happy-go-lucky next-door neighbour who steals mail.
The inept co-worker who moonlights as a corporate spy.
I’ve left the question dangling too long, so against my better judgement, I blurt, ‘I’m a copyeditor. ’
‘Wow!’ His eyebrows, like thick expressive caterpillars, shoot up. ‘Which publisher do you work for?’
My hackles rise. Why would he need to know that? ‘It’s confidential.’
‘Oh, sorry, totally understand. You must – ah – love words.’ He rests his chin on his hand and stares openly at me as if I’m fascinating. I’m not quite sure what to make of it.
‘I’m fond of storytelling. Stepping into other worlds is the best escape from a rather dull reality. Punctuation helps stitch those worlds together.’
‘Copyeditors, the unsung heroes of literature, eh?’ His grin is vaguely of the cheeky variety even though his comment is accurate.
‘Yes, exactly. Authors and structural editors have their gifts too but without copyeditors books would be harder for the reader to navigate.’ Confusion settles on his face for some inexplicable reason.
‘Think of it this way, without copyeditors, books would be like the most exhilarating rollercoaster ride, and on page two, you discover the bolts that hold the machine together have not been tightened. Down goes the rollercoaster, exploding into a fireball as it hits the ground. All because the bolts were overlooked.’
‘Oh.’ Clarity dawns on his dancing features.
I toy with the strap of my handbag to settle my nerves. ‘We, and I speak for the copyediting faction here, provide a sense of clarity, of readability.’ For me personally, literature and copyediting have helped me navigate language conventions. As a child, I processed language in the literal sense.
It all came to a head at a Christmas performance when my role as an elf was thwarted because a parent helper told me to get out on stage and break a leg.
Whose leg, I wasn’t quite sure. However, the parent helper was a person in authority and so I figured that I’d been assigned a task and …
I’ve never been back on stage since. After that debacle, mother fostered in me a love of reading, while we worked through the complexity of language, and that opened up the world to me in ways that previously made little sense.
Of course, I quickly learned that ‘break a leg’ means good luck, and I have always wanted to reach out to the other little elf and apologise for my gaffe.