Chapter Seven
I’m first to leave book club because long goodbyes feel almost Sisyphean with their repetitive nature, and I don’t need that on top of everything else. One farewell is more than adequate. The book club is meeting again in exactly seven days, there’s no need for extraneous chitchat.
Outside Pastelaria História I stop in the shade to double check I’ve got all my accoutrements: phone, keys, book. A man in a blue beret knocks into me and quickly apologises as he steps into the pastelaria.
I’m about to set off with a smile firmly in place, a smile that’s not even dampened when Tiago taps me on the shoulder.
‘Can I walk you home?’ he asks with a shy smile.
I find myself unable to process his motivations on the spot. Still, I have a firm rule that I don’t give out my address to people, mostly because it can lead to surprise visits. ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’
His cheeks flush as he kicks at the pavement. ‘Right, umm, can I have your phone number?’
His job, the app development, means he’s got experience in tech, so my answer is firm. ‘No.’
Once again the guy bites at his lip. Is it doubt or something else? Mannerisms are not my strong suit. ‘No?’
‘When a woman says no, it’s not to be questioned, Tiago.’ Walk me home. Get my number. Should I be worried? He could be anyone.
‘Sorry, you’re absolutely right.’ He slips his hands into his pockets as he studies his feet.
He spends an inordinate amount of time staring at his shoes.
It could be he’s nervous, or it could be he really loves his footwear.
How can I distinguish between the two? I drop my gaze to his Converse sneakers to see what all the fuss is about.
They’re a little scuffed, worn in and exactly what I’d expect a techy type to wear, alongside his slouchy attire as if he’s holding on staunchly to his teen boy era.
‘Did you wear slouchy clothing when you ran your company?’ I ask, curious.
‘Slouchy – ah, yeah, I guess. I don’t care much about fashion …’
‘I can see that.’ How to soften my bluntness? Ah! ‘You dress like you work at Facebook or Google.’
He laughs, a short quick spray. ‘The ultimate in tech bro attire. Is that your way of saying I look scruffy, but you’re trying to be polite?’
‘Yes.’ How does Tiago read between the lines so well? I haven’t experienced that before, well, aside from my interfering mother who knows what I’m thinking before even I do most times.
A small chortle escapes him, even his laugh is adorable, which strangely puts me on high alert because it could all be fake. Men lie.
‘I like a person who speaks their mind, there’s never any guesswork and you always know where you stand. You’re amazing, Vi. Can I call you Vi?’
‘No, thank you.’ He thinks I’m amazing? Can I take this at face value? Jury is still out with Tiago.
‘Oh, I, OK.’ His eyes twinkle with mirth. Mirth, or mischief, hard to tell which.
‘Will that be all?’ Why is he prolonging this?
That strange sensation is back, my stomach somersaults and I find myself short of breath.
Am I falling ill? Or is anxiety manifesting differently, wily beast it is.
Could this strange sensation be hope … happiness?
It’s been such a long time since I experienced real joy, I’ve forgotten what it feels like.
There’s no time to ponder this strange series of events because Tiago is still asking questions of me.
‘It’s just so good to have someone other than my family to chat to. I guess I hadn’t realised how much I missed hanging out with people, real life people, not names on a screen.’
I compromise. ‘You can walk some of the way with me.’ Look at me go! Not being so concrete in my rules and regulations. Mum would be jumping for joy right now, if she was here and her ankles were up to it.
We quietly wander the cobblestoned street. Tiago points out colourful blooms at a florist. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’
The way he searches my face as if he really cares for my answer makes me hesitate telling him I find the killing of flowers brutal. ‘They are … colourful.’
Thankfully a bird squarks above and his attention is diverted. Tiago mentions he was once into birding, a hobby that seems at odds with someone who can’t keep still or quiet.
‘How did that go?’ I ask.
He grins and wrinkles his nose. ‘Not well. Didn’t have the patience for it.’
As suspected.
Tiago slings his hands into his slouchy trouser pockets as we walk past a port wine cellar doing tastings on outside tables under the shade of patio umbrellas.
Tourists often presume port is made in Porto, as the name suggests, but it originates from the Douro Valley where the grapes thrive on its steep terraced vineyards.
Porto has always been the export hub for vinho do Porto.
We pass the boutique with the rambunctious one-eyed dog, who is taking an afternoon siesta in the window. It’s the first time I’ve seen the animal still as he sunbakes.
‘Now I stick to finding birds in the gardens around Porto.’ Tiago holds my gaze briefly then quickly looks away.
I lift a hand to shade my face from the sun, wishing I’d packed my hat. ‘I often visit the peacocks at the library gardens.’
‘We should go together one day. How about I give you my number?’ He stutters on the question, as if he’s jittery asking, and frankly, he should be. Silent book club is already wildly out of control.
‘Sorry, I go with my mother to the library gardens. The devilish woman insists on it.’ And I could never invite Tiago because my interfering mother would take one look at him and start humming the wedding march. Absolutely cannot happen.
Tiago gives a loose shrug. ‘Oh sure, well, instead we could just talk occasionally – or text even?’
About what? We’re very different people. Sure, we have Detective Amber Quill in common but not much else.
‘Do you want to bombard me with meme speak? Or send me those five-second short videos? Are you aware that they have been scientifically proven to damage young minds by hijacking dopamine which shrinks brains more than binge drinking?’ I’ll never tire of raising my concerns on the subject despite having a limited audience.
He double blinks. ‘They have? That’s terrible.’ A crestfallen expression settles across his features.
‘Isn’t tech your wheelhouse?’ I give him some serious side-eye. Now I have to worry about his brainrot as well as his almond allergy if he, who is in the biz, doesn’t know the damage he’s already done.
‘It is my wheelhouse, was. Now I’m not so sure, and that little nugget of information has given me a lot to think about actually.
’ The smile he gives is more wooden this time, as if he’s really taking my warning on board.
Unusual. When I’ve mentioned to my many cousins the damage five-second videos can do, they’ve all fallen in a heap laughing.
Why am I worried about Tiago’s brain health, specifically?
Is it that Tiago might need a friend like me, after all?
‘Books are superior in every way. Proven to help prolong the life of your grey matter, and the ideal companion in every situation.’ I’m not waxing lyrical either.
Books don’t judge. They’re a stalwart companion in times of need.
‘Perhaps, but books don’t make the best dining companions, do they?’
It’s my turn to laugh. ‘I beg to differ, Tiago. Books are the most wonderful dining companions and even better, they will never steal a spoonful of your dessert.’ Unlike my mother, who has her cake fork ready to swoop in the moment I’m distracted.
I’m disappointed he doesn’t laugh. Wasn’t that a witty comeback? Tiago stumbles as he walks, averting his gaze as if a sudden shyness has overtaken him. At times he’s effusive, and others he goes quiet.
We arrive at Rua das Flores, further than I’d planned to walk with Tiago, but now we’re here I’m keen to see if the old woman on the balcony is still hanging out washing and crying.
She is. My heart squeezes at the sight of her sadness.
Tiago doesn’t notice the woman and for that I’m grateful – her sadness should remain private and while I may witness it, I don’t interfere.
There’s no time to wander the gardens and catch sight of Chess Man who croons Portuguese love songs, and I don’t trust that Tiago wouldn’t just waltz up to the guy and ask to play chess with him.
We can’t have that. My trio of Porto mysteries are mine alone.
‘Would you like to join me for dinner? Doesn’t have to be tonight. Maybe tomorrow? The next day? Do you have much on? What about at the weekend?’
Is he lonely? Perhaps his family aren’t as suffocating as mine and visiting every chance they get.
This friendship is moving at a rate of knots that is much too fast. Still, there might be a genuine reason Tiago needs a dinner companion, and so I shouldn’t be too harsh.
Too blunt. He wants to step away from his screen and I should support that.
‘I’ll consider it, but the likelihood is low this week. I prefer organising my schedule well in advance so there are no surprises.’
He nods eagerly, as he rubs the back of his neck. ‘Great, so not this week but next maybe. There’s this new …’
‘I’ll choose the place, Tiago, if I make some space in my schedule.’ It’s self-preservation, choosing an establishment that fits the parameters of my needs, and not that I’m controlling. Should I explain this to Tiago?
He saves me from stewing in doubt by saying, ‘Great, I’d love that.’ He hands me a crumpled piece of paper. ‘Here are my details, email, WhatsApp, Instagram. If not this week, then we can schedule in advance, so you feel more comfortable.’
I take the crumpled paper. ‘I’ll consider it.’