Page 16 of The Little Porto Book Club
‘Always.’ He holds eye contact a little longer than normal which flusters me. The perfect symmetry of his features and the sun shining behind him, his hopeful smile, raises my pulse. How utterly ridiculous. But there we have it. As I stumble away, I push him firmly out of my mind as I struggle to engage my brain in something, anything, other than the bumbling Tiago with his lackadaisical personality. I probably have heat stroke. I’m not used to being outdoors under the blazing Porto sun without my hat for such long stretches of time, that’s what it is.
At home, Mum’s sitting on the bottom step not even bothering to surprise attack me. The dense humidity makes our humble abode stifling. She hasn’t turned on the air conditioning because we’re on a strict budget after our move from England, and her being left with almost nothing, thanks to dear old Dad’s hidden second family who were awarded the house I spent my childhood in. Poor Mum lost because of a will he’d drawn up in secret. One of many mysteries we unearthed afterwards.
They say the dead can tell no tales, but that’s factually incorrect. Dad’s story reads like fiction, with its convoluted layers we peeled back like an onion. Luckily for him he was dead by then, because I’m certain my gentle mother would have killed him when all that came to light. ‘How long have you been perched there?’ I ask, as I hang my bag on the coat hook.
Sweat beads along her forehead. ‘Not long. How did it go?’
‘Well, our book club of two, became a book club of six, if I include myself.’ I sit on the step beside her and fight hard to control my grin. ‘They are the most fascinating group of oddballs.’ It dawns on me, there was not one Queen Bee, nor an army of sycophants behind her, either. There is hope yet for book club!
Mum’s brow furrows as she fans herself with the limp tea towel. ‘Oddballs? Why are they oddballs?’
How to explain it? ‘They’re quirky, eccentric. There’s old Albert the conspiracy theorist, who Zephyr says is definitely not woke. Already they’ve got some Boomer/Gen Z rivalry going on.’
‘Zephyr?’
‘Yes, Zephyr. A Gen Zer suffering an existential crisis because she’s reading Dostoevsky.’
‘Ah, the Russian writers. Bleak.’
Mum always gets it. Mostly. ‘Right. Then there’s Lucinda who loves Agatha Christie and men getting their comeuppance.’ For obvious reasons, I do not share with Mum that she never opens her book and has a strange injury with a backstory about it that just doesn’t make sense. ‘And Thomas, who seems very taken with his Crimean War hardback and doesn’t love talking, and to that I can relate.’
‘Wow.’ For the first time in possibly ever, she is short on words. A miracle. But she soon recovers. ‘And what about the floppy-haired guy? Tiago. Did you learn more about him?’
‘A little,’ I say. ‘Tiago sure can talk, it’s like his whole body moves independently of his brain.’
‘Ah, Tiago falar pelos cotovelos, eh?’
I laugh at the Portuguese expression ‘speaks with his elbows’ for a person who talks non-stop.
‘So, no need for a glitter bomb?’
‘Not yet.’ We cackle like witches.
‘Tiago invited me to dinner. I told him about my strict scheduling.’
Her mouth drops open. ‘He did! Why not give it a try? The challenge was to make friends, querida, which means you should say yes to his invite. What’s the worst that can happen?’
Statistically a lot can happen on dinner dates with virtual strangers. ‘Abduction, for one. Or what if he tries to kiss me and I’m forced to use martial arts?’ (I’m proficient in many disciplines in case you’re wondering, my once beloved father made sure I could protect myself.) ‘There’s also a chance Tiago might “forget” his wallet and leave me to foot the dinner bill. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. Remember my last date? What a disaster that turned out to be. I’m lucky I made it out alive.’
She gives me a rather dramatic eyeroll; oh yes, my mother can be quite theatrical when she puts her mind to it. ‘Viviane, being taken to a local church fundraiser wasn’t exactly dangerous.’
I tut in return. ‘You’re so naive, Mother. That played out like a locked-room mystery before my very eyes. The Strange Case of the Missing Choirmaster …’
‘Who was injured after a collision with an electric scooter.’
I try to keep the defensiveness from my voice but fail. ‘And who was riding the electric scooter? The person who wanted to be choirmaster all along! Yet not one churchgoer would hear me out. Accident, I think not! The clues were so obvious, and my so-called date called me a … a busybody.’ I’ve never been so offended in my life. A busybody. Not a Poirot prodigy. What if Tiago does the same if I voice my suspicions about Lucinda? No, it’s best I feel him out before I let him get too close. As proven by my late father, even the most affable types lie. And worse, they get away with it.
Chapter Eight
On Friday, after finishing a rather lengthy copyedit for a historical novel that required much fact checking I’m tired behind my eyes and want nothing more than to flop on the sofa, watch some delightfully mindless TV and switch off my brain. I email Tiago in case he’s waiting on my decision. Dinner with an animated Tiago would require a level of energy I do not have. And fine, I’ll admit, the idea of dining alone feels too intimate with someone I barely know.
Greetings, Tiago,
I’m unable to accept your dinner invitation this weekend as my social battery is depleted after an intense bout of work. There was also a surprise family birthday party that required all my energy to attend. I’m sure you can relate, being Portuguese and likely having far too many cousins like I do. Why these parties last for such an inordinate amount of time is the question that no one is willing to answer. Yet, I persist in asking. Why isn’t one hour time enough to eat and socialise? But I digress. If you’d like to dine together next week, I may be interested. It will depend on a range of mitigating factors.
Viviane.
Before I’ve had the chance to lean back in my chair and stretch my arms, back stiff from too long at my desk, my email lights up with a reply.
