Page 35 of The Little Porto Book Club

‘Tiago’s right. People often fail to act at the most important times, not wanting to overstep. Detective Amber Quill always acts first because what’s the alternative? Wait? How many weeks would we allow to slip by before we figure out Lucinda is genuinely missing? And by then crucial clue-gathering time has elapsed and there is no evidence to be found.’

Thomas’s expression is tinged with doubt, but I don’t let that bother me. The man reads books about military history; he’s woefully out of touch when it comes to a potential modern-day murder mystery.

‘You’re a good friend, Viviane. We’re lucky to have you,’ Tiago says and grins.

‘You are,’ Zephyr concurs.

Now it’s my turn to blush. I ignore the compliments and say, ‘What day shall we meet next? What are everyone’s schedules like?’

‘I work around the hostel in exchange for my room, so I’m free most afternoons,’ Zephyr says.

‘Free every day.’ Tiago shrugs.

‘I’m a man of leisure. I’d prefer to meet on Saturday though,’ old Albert says. ‘That’s when my wife makes me go to the food markets with her and I detest it, I really do.’

‘So you’ll make her trudge home carrying all the groceries and leave the life admin to the woman?’ Zephyr rails. ‘Not on my watch. Sunday, it is.’

‘And what are you avoiding on Sunday?’ Old Albert cocks a brow.

‘Never you mind!’

‘OK,’ I say decisively. ‘Sunday it is unless anything happens in the interim. And we should still meet at the pastelaria every Wednesday at precisely 4 p.m. so nothing looks untoward.’

‘I’ll take a rain check for Sunday,’ Thomas says. ‘Busy that day.’ My heart hurts when I survey the reluctant sleuth. There’s such a sadness in his eyes at times that not even his scepticism about the case can hide it.

Chapter Seventeen

Thomas

The hilly streets of Porto are enough to steal my breath and make my heart race. Perhaps I shouldn’t have consumed so many cups of coffee. Although, today’s book club meeting was up there with one of the craziest, so maybe that’s the culprit for my elevated heart rate. Honestly, I’d label Viviane as a conspiracy theorist as bad as old Albert, but she is savvy and observant.

The way she shrewdly eyes me as if she senses my secret, hidden between the pages of a dire historical hardback. Chosen only for its size, and the fact I can fit the other, smaller novel within. I’m not going to be part of their ‘investigations’. It’s laughable.

I trudge home, past a busking fado guitarist; I throw a few coins into his case. The streets are full of smiling faces, people soaking up sunshine and drinking glasses of souzão. I envy their languid afternoons.

‘Darling,’ I call as I walk through the door. There’s no response. I go to the balcony with the view of the Douro River where traditional Rabelo boats that once transported barrels of port up and down the waterways now take tourists on a jaunt. Outside is a hive of activity, as families sit on their balconies sharing meals, laughing or playing cards. My balcony is empty, bar pot plants, full of herbs that wilt in the heat.

My wife has always been the social butterfly. Darting here and there with her friends. Monday movie meet-ups. Shared plates of cozido è Portuguesa with the church choir. Food market outings with her mother who lives next door. I’m happiest at home. It’s always worked for us. Except now it’s different. Our conversations have become one sided of late. The distance between us has grown so wide it causes me physical pain.

I natter as I check each room. ‘You won’t believe what happened at book club today, darling.’ Dare I tell her? It’s just the type of thing she’d delight over. ‘Zany doesn’t quite cover it.’

I stop to guzzle a glass of water. Wine will come later.

‘They’re a funny bunch. I’m not sure if I’ll go back again.’

Into our bedroom. The faint smell of her floral perfume hangs in the air, a fragrant rose like the promise of summer. The bed is made up, neat as always. Into the living room, the sofa sags like an old man, scatter cushions where I left them.

‘Darling, should I get started on dinner then? I was thinking Bolinhos de Bacalhau. I know it’s too hot for deep frying cod fritters, but I’m ravenous. It’s all that walking, you see.’

My wife is the bookworm out of the pair of us. Her pretty pastel novels are lined up in alphabetical order, she dusts them once a week. Our apartment is compact, but there’s not a nook or cranny she hasn’t inserted a shelf into for her ever growing collection. It’s why I borrow my books from the library, so I don’t take up precious room.

‘OK, I’ll get started.’ She could be anywhere. The bookshop on Rua Sá de Noronha where she reads poetry. Or at the Parque das Virtudes because she loves the panoramic view of the city and the breeze off the river to cool down on hot days. That’s what I tell myself.

Chapter Eighteen

I’m trying my utmost to concentrate on a copyedit, but the heat and my buzzing mind make it hard. I take my lunch break early, and head to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. After I’ve eaten, I check my personal emails and find one from Tiago which sends a tiny jolt through me. Are my feelings for Tiago developing into something more than a friend? And should I allow such a thing? After all, there’s a very real chance he might move back to London for work. Or am I simply pining that I very well may lose a friend, someone I feel comfortable with – when finding someone like Tiago happens so rarely in my world. Even if he does leave, we’ll still keep in touch, right? But it wouldn’t quite be the same, distance has a way of severing ties, slowly, until one day they’re gone, just like that.

Hi Viviane,