Chapter Six #4
There’s an intense discussion that quickly becomes heated.
Old Albert is quite the conspiracy theorist and vocal about his beliefs, no matter how farfetched they are or how backwards they might be.
Zephyr accuses the grumpy grandpa of being a misogynist, while Lucinda concludes that Mr Christie deserved to be framed for murder if he was riding on the great author’s coat tails and having an affair.
‘I bet he took most of her money too,’ Lucinda snarls.
‘Probably, as was the custom back then,’ I say while feeling a pang for Agatha.
‘Men lose in marriages all the time! And as for claiming I’m a misogynist, this will blow that out of the water.
I’ve heard theories that Dostoevsky’s wife Anna wrote his books.
Change my mind.’ The phrase is incongruous with Albert’s age, one I’d expect more from the YouTube generation.
Surprisingly, it makes me chuckle, more so when old Albert folds his arms across his ample belly with a smirk on his face.
Does he spend a lot of time scrolling online conspiracy-theory forums and has picked up the lingo so he can enjoy the lively debate he creates?
‘Fake news, false!’ Zephyr says, her eyes wide with astonishment as she dog-ears her book, as if the inanimate object has no feelings whatsoever, which it doesn’t, but still.
Mother would tell me not to admonish her, that it’s her book and she can dog-ear the pages if she must, and so I suffer quietly and don’t mention how readily available bookmarks are. But it’s hard.
Zephyr’s rebuttal is still ongoing when I pull myself back to the melee.
‘The man was a genius and yes, his wife may have heavily influenced his career, she was his editor, his memoirist and efficiently handled the management of his career, and let’s be honest, probably his entire life, but the writing was all his. ’
‘Gen Z,’ old Albert says with a grunt. ‘Can quote Dostoevsky but can’t change a tyre.’
Zephyr’s eyes flash with challenge. ‘OK, boomer.’
I bite down on a smile, even though it’s not the most considered response it’s quite appropriate in the circumstances.
Old Albert chuckles and Zephyr accepts the win with a regal eyebrow raise.
Tiago motions to Thomas who hasn’t yet uttered a word.
I did ask for Thomas to be excluded from the icebreaker but maybe he’s loosened up now?
The thin, middle-aged man has hollowed-out features and sad eyes, as if he’s going through a rough patch.
His elbows are propped up on his Crimean War hardback which is stuffed with a smaller novel – is he using it as a bookmark?
I try not to judge, at least he is using a bookmark.
Thomas clears his throat. ‘Matthew Shardlake from the Shardlake historical mystery series is the best character by far. He’s a lawyer turned detective who is often ridiculed due to his physical limitations but he doesn’t let that stop him. They’re set in Tudor times.’
The group chatter away about the series. Lucinda adds it to her Goodreads account.
‘And what’s the novel you’re using as a bookmark?
’ I ask. ‘Or do you read two books on the go?’ Bookworm behaviour fascinates me.
Bibliophiles who read three books at once.
One for the living room, the bedroom and the handbag.
I’d love to be that kind of reader but I’m strictly a one-book woman or the stories become muddled in my mind.
I always have a copyedit on the go too so it’s best to keep my reading singular.
A blush creeps up Thomas’s neck, made more obvious due to his pale complexion. ‘Just a bookmark.’ He moves the hardback from the table to his lap. The discussion continues about the estimable Matthew Shardlake, but it becomes white noise to me.
Why is Thomas blushing? Why hide the hardback from view? I add yet another mystery to my mental list.
Lucinda’s ‘gardening’ cut
Thomas’s ‘bookmark’ book
Really, I’m going to need a dedicated notebook as my list of Porto mysteries expands. I’ll find one as soon as I get home.
While I’m thrilled how well the icebreaker is going my head pounds from all the chatter, the back and forth. A bit of calm is needed so I can reset.
Tiago sends a lingering glance my way before he says, ‘Shall we read for a bit, gang, eh? Come back to our favourite characters later?’ I’m so relieved I almost want to hug him, and I’m not the hugging type.
‘Yes, let’s get on with reading.’ Old Albert nods. ‘It’s almost impossible for me to think of a single character that I admire most, and that’s not because there are so many to choose from, it’s because I simply can’t remember any of them. Memory like a sieve, these days.’
With that, laughter burbles from the group.
The book club duly settle down to read. All except Lucinda who takes a notebook and pen from her handbag and angrily scrawls a long list of notes.
At this point I’m concerned her pen is going to snap in half from how tight she’s holding it.
What is fuelling this barely contained rage?
I don’t like to guess but there’s nothing wrong with observing, is there?