Chapter Nine
I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s a miracle I’m on my way to Pastelaria História today.
Mother put the ‘O’ into overbearing this afternoon; beside herself with excitement that I have quite possibly made five friends all at once.
The woman then had the audacity to ask if she could join me at book club!
When I declined, she asked if she could at least sneak into the pastelaria pretending to be a customer so she can later put a face to a name when I share the group’s exploits with her.
Clearly, I told her in no uncertain terms that she would be most unwelcome.
I’m half expecting to glance out the window of the pastelaria to find Mother peering through two crudely cut eyeholes in a newspaper.
Honestly, the woman desperately needs a hobby of her own, and I plan on suggesting that to her at dinner this evening.
Take last night for example, my poor mother was bent over her phone, grinning away like it’s become a lifeline to her.
When I quizzed her about what was so amusing she said she was checking her step tracker to make sure she’d hit ten thousand, and she claims I’m the one who has to make real friends!
My nerves are shot so it’s understandable that I’m not paying attention when I trudge up the cobblestoned street, gasping for breath (why does this hill get harder to climb each visit?).
I’m busy looking at my feet, willing them to persist, when I run into a person who comes to an abrupt stop.
‘Oof!’ We tumble to the cobblestones in a heap of flailing appendages.
‘Ouch!’ I cry out, embarrassed that I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings, only to find myself starting into the depths of Tiago’s eyes.
Mortifyingly our limbs are spaghettied around each other.
It’s rather intimate to have a person’s body pressed up against my own.
My white shirt is dusted with street grime and I hate to think of the fate of my skirt as I sit in a puddle of what I hope is run-off from the air conditioning unit that hums nearby and not anything worse.
‘Sorry, Viviane. I forgot my phone and went to turn and there you were.’
‘Here I am. A mess.’
Tiago shakes his head; his floppy hair is more golden in the bright sunlight. ‘Not at all. You look lovely. New shirt?’
The man must be a details person because this shirt is almost identical to my other white shirt except the buttons are gold instead of white. ‘Yes, it’s a new shirt, and I meant I’m a mess because of our tumble, not because of my grooming standards, which are above reproach.’
‘I can see that. My mistake.’
By the shape of his mouth, he does seem apologetic but it was not his fault, not entirely.
‘This shirt wasn’t even on sale.’ I’m usually quite the frugal shopper.
Girl math, a term that is wildly illogical, yet, one I can still support.
Whatever I save on necessities I can funnel towards books, hence making the books half price.
It makes sense and inspires me to hunt out better deals so I can reap bookish rewards.
‘Let me buy you another shirt.’ I raise a brow. ‘Oh, that was unfeminist of me, wasn’t it?’ he asks.
‘To be determined. I’m going to have to go home and change, and by then there’ll be no point returning.
’ I’m strangely upset about the thought of missing book club.
‘Goodbye, Tiago,’ I say but realise we face the issue of unspooling our body parts.
‘Can you move your leg, please?’ My cheeks flush, when it dawns on me how entwined we are – I haven’t been this close to a man for a long time.
I have a checklist that is rather thorough, when it comes to relationships.
Not that this is a relationship, no! It’s just an unfortunate intimate way to fall.
‘Sorry, yes, sure, allow me.’
‘And your other leg.’ My voice sounds husky, like a smoker; what’s that about?
We extricate ourselves and he holds out a hand to help me up.
Begrudgingly, I take it, because the effort required to stand is considerable.
I’ve probably broken a bone and I’m too full of adrenaline to feel it.
My heart thrums so loudly, I’m sure Tiago can hear it beating a rhumba through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I take some deep breaths to steady myself but it’s not working, I’m still on high alert, stomach seesawing.
‘Don’t go home though, I’d hate to be the cause of you missing book club.’
Upon standing, I find the damage doesn’t seem as severe.
‘Fine.’ I don’t want to disappoint Tiago or apportion too much blame even though it is partly his fault.
‘I’ll stay but I’ll need to dry my skirt off in the bathroom.
’ The amenities in the café are hygienic and well maintained so it makes sense to tidy up in there.
‘Great! Let me buy you … or how about I sort your order, and you can send me the money back over Friend2Friend so your feminism remains intact.’
‘Unnecessary, but thank you.’
After I’ve fixed myself up as best I can I order myself a camomile tea to steady my racing heart, and join the group.
They are all chattering away about what they’ve been doing since last Wednesday, mostly activities centred inside their homes and generally book related like lengthy reading marathons.
Yes, the behaviour of an introverted bookworm is interesting, but aren’t we supposed to read in silence?
I make a point of opening my novel and reading, only occasionally throwing a frustrated glance their way.
Honestly, they chatter about the most inane things; Tiago’s fondness for Serra da Estrela cheese: Whatever the question, cheese is the answer.
Think about it, have you ever been sad eating cheese?
No, right? No! Old Albert’s rheumatoid arthritis: I wake with a morning stiffness …
in my knees. Lucinda’s compunction to malign men: Men are the reason instructions come with pictures, I mean how hard is it to listen to your wife?
And Zephyr: I’m not feeling wanderlust, more …
wanderlost, I guess, like only lowkey, but still.
Only Thomas stays quiet, eyes firmly on his page. His Crimean War tome must be riveting.
‘I have a suggestion,’ I say, blurting it before I can swim in doubt.
‘Why don’t we write diary entries about book club?
We’re all voracious readers, wouldn’t that be a helpful way to record our thoughts so we can use this time to catch up on our books?
Reading is such a lifeline, an escape when life gets hard.
Some books are so special they have the ability to shape who you are as a person, so I keep a diary about them, so I don’t forget the indelible change they made to my life.
We could do that here too. Just an idea …
’ Why am I sharing like this? I want to blink myself back to my apartment.
‘Ooh, I love that idea,’ Zephyr says. ‘I always wish I’d kept a diary of my travels, the sights, the sounds, the pulse of each place.
But I’ve never once thought of keeping a diary about how books made me feel.
Porto might be the place to start. And I can write about all of you.
Fascinating bookish friends I met on Rua dos Mercadores … ’
‘A diary, whatever next!’ old Albert grumbles. ‘Although I could jot down my thoughts without risk of being called “a walking time capsule” or “suffering from a nasty case of toxic masculinity”.’ He gives Zephyr a pointed look.
‘Eyeroll.’
‘Eyeroll?’ old Albert queries. ‘You don’t have to say the expression, you can get your face to do it, you know.’
‘Now, now, you two.’ Tiago jumps in as peacekeeper. ‘Viviane is on to something here. Write it all down. And let’s use this time to read, eh?’
Thomas studiously studies the page of his Crimean War hardback as if he’s going to be tested on the subject later. I know a case of selective hearing when I see it.
Eventually the club get the memo and books around the circle are raised. Finally, I can relax. Every now and then chatter resumes but for the most part we read in companionable silence. It’s only when Lucinda continues to aggressively sigh that my concentration breaks.
I risk a peek over the top of my book in her direction. The Agatha Christie novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd sits on the table unread, while she angrily scribbles on a notepad. Surreptitiously, I lean forward to make out what she’s writing and stifle a gasp. We have a Code Red. I repeat: Code Red.
Am I reading it correctly? Could a real-life murder mystery be playing out in little old Porto and I’m the one to bear witness to it?
I don’t know whether to feel exhilarated or alarmed.
Or both. I blink and refocus my gaze. The notepad either says: Six ways to kill my husband, or Six ways to kiss my husband.
Which is more likely? That is the question.
Are there six ways to kiss? Open-mouthed.
Closed mouth. A peck. A French kiss. A butterfly kiss.
A gentlemanly kiss of the hand. OK, so that is plausible.
And as for the other, I imagine there’s unlimited ways to kill husbands. Really, the sky is the limit.
I edge closer to see if I can make out what Lucinda has written underneath the first scrawl.
But I am too far to discern the tight scribbles.
Tiago is closer to her. I do my level best to get his attention by using the power of my mind.
It fails. I cough. Kick the leg of the table.
Throw my book down (while silently apologising to Detective Amber Quill, who I’m sure would understand the necessity of such an act under the circumstances).
All the while Lucinda is jotting away, aggressively frowning.