Page 40 of The Little Porto Book Club

Is this why he’s feeling so lost? He’s been hiding his grief behind a happy-go-lucky exterior. It’s about so much more than selling his app. It’s about losing his dad, and his mum moving on, and finding where he fits in the world. I can relate to that seesaw.

I find Tiago in his bedroom and move to give him a hug, even though I’m not a hugger. Tiago is making me rethink my stance on displays of affection. In his arms, the world shifts and for one lonely second, I pretend that he is my reality. That this is a possibility. Until I remember Tiago has bigger plans and it’s best not to get myself tangled up in something if his goal is to leave. Tiago’s one of those people who can’t sit still, he needs his work, a purpose, and soon enough his old world will lure him back. It’s already started. The tendrils of his new idea tantalise him.

‘How do I stop hating the guy?’ he whispers, his breath brushing the soft skin beneath my ear, as we cling to each other. ‘I just feel this utter contempt whenever he’s around.’

I pull myself from his arms. This I can do. A lifetime of therapy, you pick up a thing or two. ‘We make a list, everything you despise about John, and then we set it on fire.’

A yelp of laughter escapes from Tiago. ‘We set it on fire?’

‘Well, you’re supposed to bin it, but setting it on fire is more cinematic, and much more satisfying, don’t you agree? And when it burns, you let those negative emotions die with the flames. It’s either that, or punch pillows.’

‘Ha! Why not both?’

‘And then I want you to tell me all about your dad. What you most loved about him.’

Tiago’s eyes go glassy and mine follow suit. Who knew we were both members of a club no one wants to be in?

Chapter Twenty-One

Tiago

John riles me up, no other way to say it. I find him wearing Dad’s apron, kitchen tongs in hand by the outdoor barbeque, as if he’s stepped into his life, his very skin. I’m too old for childhood tantrums but I’m sorely tempted to tell this imposter to put the tongs down and buy his own apron. He drives my dad’s car! Sits in his reading chair.

After Viviane hugs me, she asks about my dad, and it feels good to bring him back to life, even for a moment. I see it in her eyes that she really is interested, it’s not just words.

My dad believed in my career, he was one of few who did. And he showed me that success means sacrifice. It’s why I focused so intently on developing my app, knowing that if I didn’t put the hours in to get ahead, someone else would beat me to it. What Dad didn’t tell me was those sorts of hours become the norm, become your whole personality, until you lose yourself in the process. Like he did. And then he died. A heart attack, likely caused by the ever-present work stress. It put my own life into sharp perspective. All those long workdays that slipped into the evening. The hunching over a screen. The lack of sunlight. The lack of living, being caught up in my own ambitions. My thinking changed overnight. What if that wasn’t the right way to go about this one great life we all get?

I made a hasty decision to sell the app. The sale took some time, almost a year. And I could finally return to Porto to be with my grieving mum. Imagine my surprise to find her in a relationship with another man, a man who’d already moved in. Worse was their announcement – they’d secretly married.

What about Dad? Did he not mean anything to her? Mum sat me down to explain their marriage had ended long ago. They’d kept up the façade because they didn’t want to hurt me and my siblings, but now she wants to live life on her own terms.

I get that, I do.

But can we trust this imposter? It’s just … he’s not my dad. And seeing him here, in Dad’s chair, gives me a jolt. Still, Mum’s happy, so I should be, right? Maybe it’s my own life I need to focus on?

I think back to when I met Viviane …

I’d been in such a low mood, missing my dad, hating my life, feeling like an outsider in my own hometown, like I didn’t belong anymore. How it had all changed so fast, nothing was what I thought it was. Even my parent’s solid marriage was a farce.

Then I saw her, hovering outside the pastelaria as if working up the courage to come inside. There was a real vulnerability about her, the way she held tight to the strap of her handbag, like she needed something to keep her anchored. Her rigid posture, her pressed lips, brought out something in me that I didn’t know existed, the need to care, to protect. I wanted her to feel safe.

Everything about her was compelling – why did she set out the things on her table just so? Why did she sit as far away as possible from other patrons? Yet she watched them with undisguised curiosity. Her gaze skipped over mine and I sensed I only had this one chance to make an impression. I had to talk to her, find out her name and why I felt such a strong pull towards her.

When I worked up the courage to approach her table, she surprised me by being forthright – it’s not everyday someone predicts your death, is it? I found her wildly amusing, and my poor heart hasn’t been the same since. I’ve found it hard to think of anything but her.

She’s a galaxy of shimmering stars, and yet, she doesn’t see how special she is. How her curious nature makes life so fascinating. She’s funny, charming, and all I want to do is tell her how I feel, but I don’t want to risk our newfound friendship, because she’s made it clear she’s not interested in a romantic relationship. Still, I can love her quietly, from afar.

For the first time in ages, my world is full of colour. I wake up with energy to burn. As though anything is possible. All because of her …

Chapter Twenty-Two

In my room, I pull boxes from the back of my wardrobe. Boxes I couldn’t bear to throw out, yet whose contents I didn’t think I’d ever want to see again. Spending the afternoon with Tiago and hearing about the loss of his dad, stirred up feelings about mine. I’m conflicted by the lies Dad told, and the love I still feel. Not to mention in Manchester, there’s a whole second family grieving alongside us.

When I consider his secret children, them waking up without their dad, my chest tightens. No matter what he hid, Dad was always there for me and Mum, which is what makes the duplicity so much worse. He made sure I was trained in martial arts so I could protect myself in a world that often felt hostile to me. I didn’t make it easy on him, fought going to those sessions, but he patiently waited out every protest and got me in the car and stood on the sidelines, for each and every class.

He taught me chess. Bridge. Cards. Dice games. Telling me that these skills would help me later, I’d have the tools to play and it would be a way to meet other people whose brain worked the way mine does. We took hikes, went on beach holidays in remote places where it was quiet. And when he went away for work, he always came back with a new book for my collection. How could a man who lifted me up like that hide such a stunning secret? He loved me, I know he did. He showed up for me and for Mum in all the ways that mattered, which is why it is still impossible to reconcile the two faces of him.

In the silence of my bedroom, I let the tears fall as I rummage in the box. Today’s tears aren’t for me, as I flick through photographs of us camping, Dad teaching me how to find the right type of wood for a fire. When I come to the photo of our first and last fishing trip a shock of laughter spills out. Dad soon learned that there was no world in which I’d be taking a flip-flopping fish from a hook without screaming bloody murder. We never did go fishing again. Who will teach his kids all the life skills he taught me? It’s a tragedy they won’t get the upbringing I did. And no matter what – it’s not fair on them.