Chapter Forty-Nine
Back home, Mum senses my sadness with her stealth ninja mothering skills, that or more likely Zeliá’s already been on the phone telling her there is trouble in paradise.
‘Querida, what on earth’s happened?’ She pulls me into a hug as soon as I walk through the door. When she finally releases me, I hang my bag on the hook and we move into the living room to sit on the sofa.
The story slips out robotically, as if it’s happened to someone else. Already, I sense Mum is going to tell me that it doesn’t matter, that he didn’t mean it.
‘Wow, I see. OK, that is a lot to digest. Does Tiago know about your father and why a lie, even one such as that, might upset you?’
I pluck at the tassel on a cushion. ‘Yes, I told him about Dad, but he didn’t know it at the time, obviously, but that still doesn’t change things. He lied.’
‘OK, yes, he did lie but in the scheme of things—’
I exhale a heavy breath. ‘No buts. I’ve ended it with him.’
‘Querida, no, really?’ Her face falls. ‘I’m sad to hear it. This would explain why my phone has been blowing up. I bet Zeliá is feeling bad right now. Are you sure you can’t work through this, together?’
I shake my head vehemently. ‘No. And now I won’t be able to attend book club either. I won’t find out if Lucinda killed someone.’
Mum startles. ‘Please tell me that Lucinda is a character in a book?’
This is what happens when you’re overwrought. Truths slip out. And as I go to lie, I catch myself, am I being a little harsh on Tiago, since here I am about to twist the truth? Or is it OK when you’re protecting the sensibilities of your helicopter mother?
‘Yes. A character in a whodunnit. Ah, so back to Tiago …’
There’s an urgent rap at the door. ‘Oh God, please tell me Alfonso is going to have clothes on.’ Just what I don’t need, a broken heart and a half-naked man parading around the living room.
She scoffs and gives my knee a pat.
Mum goes to the door and there’s a hail of Portuguese words as Zeliá flies in, her face twisted in agony.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry! I am to blame for this huge, huge mess!
Tiago is so upset. Devastated. And it’s all my fault.
I didn’t know it was a secret, the book thing!
I only shared because I thought it was sweet and probably something that he admitted to you later to make you laugh.
You can forgive him, right?’ She falls beside me on the lounge, and leans so close I can see redness in her eyes. This is all such a mess.
How am I going to get out of this. ‘Zeliá, it’s OK, it’s not your fault. The truth would have come out eventually, as it has a way of doing. It’s just … I can’t stand men who lie. I really, really can’t.’
A tear falls down her cheek. ‘But it wasn’t a bad lie, was it? It was cute! Sweet!’
Mum motions for Zeliá to follow her into the kitchen. Wine is poured and glasses chinked as they return to the sofa.
‘There’s a bit of story behind it all. I think Viviane needs some space to think things through.’
My mum, always coming to my rescue.
Zeliá shakes her head sadly. ‘He’s never going to forgive me.’
Tiago is not the type to hold a grudge, and I tell her that.
‘But you two make the cutest couple.’ Her eyes search mine, willing me to agree. I glance away.
‘Isn’t it about more than that though? Shouldn’t we be able to trust each other implicitly?’
‘What about the book club murderer? Are you still going to solve that together? You can’t kick him off the case now! He’s your ever-faithful sidekick.’
‘Hang on, what?’ Mum’s eyes go comically wide. ‘Book club murderer? What the hell is going on, Viviane?’
‘What happens at book club, stays at book club,’ I plead.
‘So, some lies are OK?’ Zeliá says, cocking her head.
I pucker my lips at that. ‘It’s not the same, not even close.’
‘Viviane.’ My mum’s voice breaks through the fog of confusion. ‘Please tell me there is no book club murderer.’
‘No, there isn’t. Well, it hasn’t been confirmed either way.’
‘What!’ Her voice echoes around Porto, and I swear I feel the earth shake.
When Zeliá leaves an hour or so later, after trying every Portuguese-mother trick in the book to get me to reconsider, I flop back on the sofa next to Mum.
‘They’re such a nice family.’
I lob a cushion at her. ‘Don’t you start.
’ I fervently wish I could put it all behind me and pretend it never happened.
But hiding the hurt in a deep lock box of your heart seldom works.
It’s always just below the surface, like it has been with Dad once all his lies bubbled up.
And, that’s the thing, it all started with one.