Page 36 of The Little Porto Book Club

I’ll keep this brief as I know you’re working, Yesterday I went to Livraria Lello only to find they’re taking orders for a limited-edition sprayed edge of book one in The Quill Chronicles. It was absolute mayhem in there with fans so I took the liberty of ordering you a copy. It should arrive in the next week or so. We could go together to pick them up? I’ve heard it’s much quieter there at night, between us, I’d rather peruse the shelves when there are fewer people around. Bookshops should be quiet, like a library, that hushed vibe that makes you want to read in peace. Anyway, I’m up for it if you are, alternatively I can pick them up for us.

Today I’m working on my new secret project! I wonder if you’ll like it?

Give me a call if you’re bored!

Tiago.

A new limited-edition copy of book one! I’ll have to reimburse him. Or perhaps there will be a special edition of book two and I can return the favour? Why do I deflate at such good news? Ah. The update about his secret project. Tiago’s being pulled back into his universe, a place I cannot go. Is it best to pull away from him, if only to save myself from yet another goodbye? It hurts to lose people. Like I have with my dad. All those secrets aside, his double life, the shock, the worry about what comes next, there’s still the grief, the shattering of that ideal. Yes, maybe I should put those protective barriers back up. Though, I don’t think I can resist Tiago’s invitation to visit the world-famous bookshop if it’s quieter in the evenings.

Greetings, Tiago,

Thank you for such a generous gift. In the business, we call this a ‘spredge’. I thought you with your love of meme speak might like the efficiency of that word. I’d love to visit the bookshop with you.

All the best,

Viviane.

Chapter Nineteen

After work the next day, I meet Mum at Biblioteca Almeida Garrett to return our library books and have a picnic in the lush gardens. It’s shady and quiet and has that reverence that bookish locations have. It’s one of the more peaceful spots in Porto, and I enjoy our monthly sprawl on rugs to pick at cheese while we read our new borrows.

Mum is running late, not unusual, but convenient because it gives me time to flick through the various newspapers to see if there’s been any reports of a missing man, and I’ve set up Google Alerts too but so far zilch. The newspapers aren’t much better either. Seems like everyone is alive and well. I try not to get too disheartened.

An hour later my flustered mother arrives. I’ve already checked out my new books and lay sprawled on a rug in our usual spot in the Jardim dos Sentimentos. Not just because I adore the whimsical name, the garden of feelings, but because it’s where peacocks strut and I love gazing at their cobalt-blue and gold tails. Mum’s wearing her work uniform, but her hair is a mess as if she’s been caught in the wind. Her expression is harassed like she’s fed up having been caught in rush hour delays.

She falls on the rug beside me. ‘Sorry I’m late, querida. What a day.’

‘Mum, it’s fine, don’t worry. You’re here now. Do you want me to return your books while you rest?’ Mum’s on her feet all day, working hard in a physical job, trying to get back on track in a financial sense. It’s why we moved in together in Porto. To reset, while we reestablished ourselves.

With a long sigh, she clasps her head. ‘Oh, I forgot to bring them. I was in such a rush this morning.’

‘You did get a late start. Who were you talking to so early this morning?’ Mum’s roster changes, sometimes she does night shifts, sometimes split shifts, so I put her sudden scatteredness down to her ever-changing schedule.

‘This morning? No one.’

Should I be worried how forgetful she’s becoming? I wish she’d take on less shifts and let me contribute more financially. ‘I heard you on the phone. Laughing. Was it about Ida’s wedding?’ That tedious commitment looms in my future.

‘Ah, yes! Ida’s wedding. They’re all very excited. Now shall we take a walk around the gardens first or would you prefer to settle in and read?’

‘I’ve already walked the gardens.’ One of us had to stick to the schedule and it’s obvious Mum’s ankles are playing up by how swollen they are. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’

She gives me an eager nod. I pour us each a glass and am shocked when she guzzles it down like water. ‘Parched,’ she sputters. ‘Pour me another, Viviane, please.’

‘Another?’ I say, incredulous. Mum’s a lightweight when it comes to wine; coupled with the sunshine, she’ll be asleep in the gardens and that’s not ideal. Is this the slippery slope to dependency? She’s been a little off lately, understandable when the woman’s life has been shaken up and put back together upside down. She waggles her glass, and dutiful daughter I am, I refill it for her.

She plonks her glass on the rug and reties her hair. ‘I need to share something with—’

A man skulks past. A flash of blue catches my eye. It’s him. The Man in the Blue Beret. He’s doing his best to hide behind a palm frond while sliding his eyeballs in my direction. What on earth? Where is my sidekick when I need him?

‘Mother, don’t move a muscle, and whatever you do, don’t talk …’ I grab her by the shoulders and use her as a shield, hiding behind her to peep at him. Peacocks strut, blocking my view. One of the beautiful specimens fans its plumage, and yes, while very stunning, I don’t have time to ogle a bird right now.

There’s a long sigh as if she’s disappointed. ‘Now, now, don’t be like that, darling. It’s important. You see, I’ve met this—’

‘Mother, I just need to …’ Her words become white noise as I do my best to keep myself concealed behind her sitting form as she prattles on. The Man in the Blue Beret is doing the very same thing behind the safety of a tree trunk. Could he be Lucinda’s husband? And is he staking us out, her new friends? Perhaps he’s the jealous sort and the reason she’s a homebody is because he forces her to be!

Detective Amber Quill never mentions what an adrenaline rush this kind of carry-on is! An oversight I can forgive but won’t forget. I can barely hear my own thoughts over the drumming of my heart, let alone whatever my mother is flapping her jaws about. She’d give Tiago a run for his money.

‘And so with your blessing …’ Poor mother is animated, gesticulating; being very Portuguese in this moment when I really need her to be still.