Chapter Five #2
‘I – uh – see,’ he says, with soft laughter in his voice, his smile widening. As far as smiles go, it’s rather wholesome. ‘So have you ever wanted to write a book yourself?’
‘Never.’ I eye the display fridge, spotting a bolo de mel, Madeira honey cake, and consider it.
As a rule, I prefer to eat alone in public.
Food can be so messy and managing to talk and eat simultaneously is tricky.
Mum has finally stopped inviting our entire extended family over for Friday night dinners and expecting me to participate too.
I’m more than happy to grace them with my presence, but not when they’re around the dinner table, cutlery clinking, laughter spurting, the endless drone of voices.
Which leads me to quite the conundrum today.
Do I risk ordering a slice of bolo de mel, which will no doubt crumble all over me and quite possibly lead to an embarrassing social faux pas if I were to exhale at the wrong moment, or be safe and order still water with a slice of lemon?
I understand the owners of Pastelaria História might frown upon me taking a table for the best part of two hours and not contributing much fiscally to their business.
Then there’s Tiago’s almond allergy to worry about.
A stray lock of hair falls across his cheek, and as he idly pushes it back, he exposes the curve of his jaw, his cute dimple on display. ‘I’m going to order some coxinha, can I get you something, Viviane?’
I double blink myself back to the question at hand. Coxinha. As far as I know that doesn’t have almonds in it, so now we only have to hope that the worktops are thoroughly cleaned after their almond-centric baking sessions, so there’s no risk of cross contamination for my unwitting tablemate.
‘I’ll have the same.’ Peer pressure is real.
Coxinha is just as hard to eat, if not more, because there’s a very real chance of third-degree burns if I don’t let the deep-fried dough ball cool enough, especially if it’s filled with cream cheese, which stays hot like molten lava.
It could leave a person pulling all sorts of unattractive faces mid-bite, fighting for their life if they’re not aware of what lies within.
Although it might be perfect since we’re not here to chat, we’re here to read, so if both hands and mouths, as well as eyeballs, are occupied, that sends a clear message to Tiago the time to talk is not nigh.
Except I’ll have to navigate the awkwardness of how we split the bill.
I’m a feminist and will never allow a man to pay, because it’s not fair and it would make me a hypocrite when it comes to believing in equal rights, and also, because I’m always iffy of their motivations.
Free food equals expectations of the nebulous kind. No, thank you.
While Tiago orders, I count up my coins to find I’m short.
Now we have the added muddle of using banking apps and giving away more personal information than I’m comfortable with.
Next time I’ll get here an hour early, so I’m not put on the spot in this way.
I may have to change my entire work schedule. This bears some careful thought.
When he returns, I hand him the coins. ‘I believe I’m two euro short. Do you use the Friend2Friend banking app?’
Tiago sits beside me. ‘For two euro? Don’t worry about it.’ He waves my protests away like they’re nothing.
Here we go, the slippery slope to being indebted to him. ‘I’m a proud feminist, and I won’t be beholden to any man.’
Surprise dashes over his features. ‘Yes. Rightly so.’
‘Please give me your banking details so we can move on.’ After that’s taken care of, I shake my book. ‘Well, the time has come …’
‘Ooh, is this a book club?’ a glamorous woman with meticulously applied make-up asks.
Her floral perfume, while delightful, is overwhelming, so I avert my face to gulp untainted air, and notice a large, jagged cut on her hand.
It’s out of place against her flawless style, against her immaculate outfit.
She hasn’t bothered to cover it with a plaster, and she’s wearing white.
The woman notes the direction of my gaze.
‘Oh, this! Gardening accident just before I made my way here. I must have knocked it again. I’m Lucinda by the way.
’ She takes some napkins from the cannister and presses them against the injury and continues chatting.
‘How are you enjoying the exploits of Detective Amber Quill? Don’t you just love her no-nonsense approach, the way she incinerates incompetent men with a glare?
’ I stare blankly at the woman. Yet another fan?
How can that be? ‘Are you not Portuguese?’ she asks, switching to English.
I have a terrible premonition that our silent reading club is about to be invaded by a third party, and my mind is stuck on a loop trying to figure out what the best way to deal with this is, when Tiago offers her his hand to shake.
‘We’re Portuguese! And yes, a book club!
Why not, eh? We don’t know each other, well, we didn’t up until a week ago.
I’m Tiago and this is Viviane, the person you can thank for orchestrating this, this …
Little Porto Book Club. You’re more than welcome to join us, Lucinda.
’ Tiago has the audacity to pull out a chair for her.
‘Porto. Book. Club?’ I can barely form words.
‘Wonderful! I’d love to join. By nature, I’m a homebody but my goal this year is to get out more.
To actually leave my house, my garden, in Miragaia.
I’m a huge fan of whodunnits too. It’s eye-opening, the various ways in which people can be murdered without making a big bloody mess.
Quite the education. I’m always learning. ’