Page 38 of The Little Porto Book Club

‘Tiago, I sense it’s got absolutely nothing to do with—’ Did he call me beautiful? A delighted thrill tingles but I cannot be distracted by someone’s narrow lens of the superficial standards of beauty, even if that someone is Tiago. Now I’ve gone and lost my train of thought and struggle to get back on track. Ah! ‘I have a feeling he is wrapped up in this mess concerning Lucinda. And he wants to know how the book club fits into her life. What else could it be?’

‘Riiiight. Still, he chose the most beautiful among us to follow and that is well out of order.’

I’m not hating the compliments, but they also make the earth wobble under my feet. ‘Do you think he’s Lucinda’s husband?’

Tiago narrows his eyes and looks off in the distance behind me. Thinking pose. ‘Yes, he very well could be. They both dress well, don’t they? It’s not much to go on, but it’s something. The issue is, according to your timeline, he was at the pastelaria when Lucinda was too, and if he is her husband, wouldn’t it be weird that they never once acknowledged each other?’

My trusty sidekick is paying dividends. What a team we make! I silently forgive him for letting my calls go to voicemail. ‘You’re right. That would be very odd. I first noticed him on our second meeting, when Lucinda joined our book club of two.’ Which feels like light years ago now.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s not her husband, but if he is that is super creepy,’ Tiago says.

‘Yes, I think we can rule that out.’ I reel back to that day, the day of the ‘gardening cut’ and Lucinda’s heavy sighs and aggressive frowns. ‘Was the man interested in our little trio back then? My keen observational skills only noted the precise colour of his beret – cornflower blue, if you’re wondering. And he’d been rubbing his temples while engrossed in a phone call as if it were tedious, headache inducing.’

Tiago’s expression turns to one of awe. ‘You have such a good memory. Cornflower blue. So are we wrong about him being linked to Lucinda? Because that just makes him sound like a guy on a stressful work call, right?’

It does. ‘So then why did he follow me? Did I get it completely wrong and it was just a coincidence, was the guy harmlessly snapping pictures of peacocks?’

Tiago tuts. ‘Detective Amber Quill says there’s no such thing as coincidence, just clues that light the way.’

I grin. My protégé instinctively knows what I need to hear – this bodes well for our partnership.

‘Tiago, who is it? You’re standing in front of the Ring camera again so I can’t see!’ A motherly voice calls out – you know the type, nosy, noisy, about to encroach into your space. Worse is my blunder, it’s considered the height of rudeness to drop in unannounced on a Portuguese mum without a gift. My interfering mother will scold me senseless if she finds out I committed a sin such as this. Goes to show, this case is scattering my usually ordered mind.

‘It’s Viviane, from book club.’ He gives me an apologetic smile then lowers his voice. ‘Would you mind saying hello to my mum or I’ll never hear the end of it.’

I stifle a sigh, this is a mistake of my own making. ‘Sure.’ Detective Amber Quill would sympathise, she too deals with an overbearing mother who is always on the periphery. A mother whose main goal is to get her offspring to settle down, a battle she will never win because the iron-willed detective will never be shackled by any man.

There’s no other option, so I slip off my shoes and follow Tiago. Inside, the house is more magnificent with beautiful marble floors and blue and white azulejos-tiled archways. Tiago leads me though a grand entrance hall and into the kitchen with a panoramic view of the Douro River and the Atlantic Sea.

I try not to gawp because it’s uncouth, and also because I don’t believe in an unequal distribution of wealth, but understand I can’t solve every problem we, as a society, face.

‘Boa tarde,’ Tiago’s mum leans in and gives me the obligatory peck on both cheeks. The customary Portuguese beijinhos is unavoidable if I want to be seen as polite, and my mother would not appreciate it if word got back to her that I refused ‘little kisses’. You can’t get away with skipping social niceties when there’s a Portuguese mother involved.

‘Boa tarde.’ Meeting the mother. This new life of mine is certainly moving at a rapid pace. My stomach heaves, but is that because I’m an introvert or because this feels weighted somehow? Hard to tell as I struggle not to dash back the way I came.

She holds my hands and softly squeezes. ‘I’m Zeliá. It’s so lovely to meet you! I’ve heard so, so much about you! You’re even prettier in person! Tiago, wow, you didn’t lie about that, did you? Such beautiful eyes. My son tells me you’re one of the most interesting people he’s ever met.’

I process the many, many words that shoot fast like bullets, pow, pow, pow! Zeliá is loud. And then I land on the word that makes me stop in my tracks, ‘interesting’. Is that a nice way of saying I’m odd? I take it as a compliment.

The boisterous woman has the same warm wide smile as Tiago, the same lively eyes and bounces on her toes as if she has energy to burn. Now her son’s exuberance makes sense. As they say, the apple does not fall far from the tree – they both radiate that same warmness.

‘Thank you, Zeliá.’ She motions for me to take a stool at the breakfast bar.

‘Where’s your family from? Around here? How are they – I hope they’re well? Do we know them?’

I clutch the strap of my handbag for comfort. ‘As a rule, I don’t share per—’

Tiago puts a hand on her shoulder. ‘Mum.’

‘What?’ His mum’s bright-eyed gaze is the picture of innocence. ‘I’m only asking because you look so familiar, Viviane.’ Zeliá taps a finger to her chin as she scrutinises me, the intensity makes me itch with anxiety. ‘Ah! Got it. Do you have a relative named Catarina Álverez, because you look just like her.’

Damn, a link has been made. There’ll be no stopping this now. ‘Catarina’s my cousin.’ The same Catarina who married the walking red flag.

‘Knew it! You could be twins.’

That’s categorically untrue but I don’t highlight why, namely that Catarina smothers herself in make-up and is so pouty she could be mistaken for a puffer fish, but I’m forbidden from mentioning that after she suffered an unlucky accident with some injectables. Catarina is beautiful, I will admit that, but she doesn’t read so we don’t have much in common.

‘I attended her wedding at Sé do Porto. You know it, don’t you, Tiago?’ Zeliá waggles her brow suggestively. ‘The clifftop cathedral with the panoramic view of the city – breathtaking.’ This is how Portuguese mothers start with the hints at marriage.