Page 48 of The Little Porto Book Club

The book club members clock the waitress and murmur in agreeance and pick up their books. ‘I thought you might like this, Thomas.’ Old Albert brandishes an espionage paperback. ‘Might be a bit easier to hold.’

Thomas smiles weakly, but it’s obvious he’s touched by the gift. ‘Thank you. I’m almost done with this one.’ With herculean effort, he shakes the Crimean War hardback. ‘And then I’ll give this a go.’

‘Good man.’

The waitress hovers, cleaning an already clean table.

Old Albert shoots me a wink as if to say, leave this with me. ‘Did you know, the writer TS Eliot once wrote an entire poetry book about cats? It was called Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, and this inspired Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical, Cats. Interesting, eh? I once owned a tabby, myself, Whiskers, rascal of a thing, she was. Would pounce on my head in the dark of night, screeching and carrying on. Rescued the feline, oh gosh, must have been in 1987, or was it 1988? It was summer, that I’m certain about … wait, maybe it was 1978? The years, they’ve got a way of getting muddled …’

The waitress soon grows bored of Albert’s story and dashes back behind the counter. I go to give him a thumbs-up, but he’s still talking about Whiskers, and all the tricks the tabby got up to. Tiago and I exchange a grin, he shrugs, so I pick up my book.

We spend the next little while reading, and I find myself enjoying the drama on the page, but mentally edit it as I go, knowing now as I do that real-life investigations are much harder than they look. The rest of the book club read silently, old Albert’s voice becomes like ASMR, as he waxes lyrical about his cat, and her exploits, of which there appears to have been many. The reading spell is broken occasionally as I meet Tiago’s steady gaze and we both quickly look away with shy smiles.

Chapter Thirty

As I power walk home, Tiago slips beside me. There’s a lot of pondering that needs to be done, but his golden retriever energy isn’t exactly conducive to clutching onto those most important thoughts. Which … have already slipped from my mind.

‘That went well, considering.’ The weather is cooler today, autumn is just around the corner. Fall in Porto is a sight to behold, especially in the many gardens dotted around the city. I enjoy the cooler months, there’s something decidedly bookish about it, the excuse to snuggle up with a novel, a mug of hot chocolate. Or taking a walk through the park, the crunch of walking over fallen leaves. For a moment, I slip into fantasyland, Tiago and me walking hand in hand, a light dusting of rain, a stolen kiss under …

‘Viviane?’

I pull myself from reverie, a blush creeping up my neck.

‘Yes?’ My voice comes out like a squeak.

‘That went well, don’t you think? The waitress didn’t overhear anything and it looked like business as usual.’

‘Yes.’ I will my mind to focus, to concentrate, but it’s no use, all I can see in my mind’s eye is us embracing, the warmth of being in his arms, the promise of a kiss. What has got into me? I’m dreaming like my life is a Hallmark movie. And is that so bad? Doesn’t everyone want their happy ever after? ‘What I meant to say was …’ I recalibrate. Remember the task. ‘We don’t have any clue who Lucinda is, or who the missing man is. For someone with such a bright brilliant mind, I can’t help but be disappointed that I’m getting nowhere fast.’ Frankly, what can we do as law abiding citizens in our hunt for clues? Being people avoidant, I’m not about to participate in social engineering in the hopes of manipulating a person into giving up their secrets. ‘Maybe I’m not cut from the same cloth as Detective Amber Quill.’

‘Viviane, it’s not like you to be so morose. What does our favourite detective always say?’

There’s a sparkle in his eyes, as we say in unison, ‘The first puzzle piece is always the hardest to find!’ It’s her signature line.

‘Yes.’ He laughs. ‘And the man is only missing. Maybe she hasn’t done anything rash yet.’

‘You’re right. Do you think it’s The Man in the Blue Beret?’

‘Well, he wasn’t at the pastelaria today.’

‘We still have a small chance at saving Lucinda from making a terrible mistake and I’m grateful that we’re all on board to help achieve that objective. I’m not sure if she’s even aware of the state of the prison system in Portugal, but it’s not ideal and she’s got such lovely skin and those French manicured nails.’

‘Lovely skin? French manicured nails?’ A flummoxed look crosses his features.

‘Tiago, she wouldn’t be able to keep up her grooming standards in prison.’

‘Right. Why don’t you come to my house, and we’ll go through the notebook again. See if we’ve overlooked anything and if we can find out exactly who this missing man is as I plumb the depths of the world wide web. I know we haven’t scheduled it, but needs must, eh?’ His smile threatens to swallow him whole, his dimples on display.

‘Why your house?’

‘We could go to yours if you want?’

Another misstep by me. I’m really rather rattled of late. ‘Absolutely not. My mother would give you an inquisition far worse than your mother gave me.’

‘Really?’ His mouth pulls into a knowing half-smile, but he really doesn’t understand the seriousness of the situation.

‘There are Portuguese mothers, and then there’s my Portuguese mother. I’m sure the phrase “helicopter mother” came into existence because of her. She’s a meddler.’

We sidestep a group of tourists filming a street artist balancing on a scaffold painting a mural. ‘Well, you better text her and tell her you’re coming to my place so we don’t have the Polícia out looking for another missing person.’