Page 6 of The Little Porto Book Club

‘No, not unless they were being hurtful. So, let’s say Tiago breaks the silence to talk about the book, or mention how delicious his cake is, or that it’s going to heat up over the weekend, what would you say to that?’

‘I’d say, Tiago, we had a deal and you promised we’d read in silence, so you’ve left me no choice but to—’

‘Or you could say: “Sorry, Tiago, I’m in the middle of a riveting chapter, can we hold off on the chatting until after our session of silent reading.” How about that?’

‘Wait, why would we need to talk afterwards? This sounds suspiciously like a book club.’

‘A book club for two! Perfect. Now, what does he look like?’

‘I’ve already told you.’

‘Floppy hair? Eyes?’ she says with a frustrated grunt.

‘Yes, it flops, therefore it’s floppy.’ I don’t tell her his black-tousled locks frame his face and highlight his features. ‘And he has eyes, two of them.’

‘Eyes the colour of onyx. Or a powerful jaw? Rugby player physique. The kind of smile that makes a girl swoon. A sexy saunter. A laugh that lights up—’

‘Mother, please take this in the way it’s intended, but you need to put down the romance novels for a while.’

She cackles like a witch. ‘Never!’

‘There was also a woman in the pastelaria, sighing heavily and aggressively frowning, like she was plotting something.’

Mum rolls her eyes. ‘Plotting what? Murder?’ She lets out a loud guffaw. ‘Viviane, you can’t live your life like it’s a whodunnit. You look for mystery everywhere and one day you just might find it!’

Chapter Four

Lucinda

At sixty-three years old, I’ve learned a few things. Like how to make the fluffiest Portuguese sweet bread – the trick is not overworking it. That garden design is architecture for the outdoors. It’s all about staggering plant heights to be visually appealing and so they have adequate room to grow, to sunbathe. And I’ve learned – in fact I’d say I’ve become an expert on – how to determine if your commitment-challenged husband of forty years is still a cheater of the finest order.

My skills in that arena are honed from overuse. This morning, by the copse of fig trees, I caught husband dearest in flagrante delicto with Ines, our perky housekeeper.

Never fear, there was no stamping of feet. No clutching of pearls. I didn’t even rail to the Gods. No, no, I kept my cool, pretending that I hadn’t caught them in a compromising situation. Pretending instead to noisily trip over a spiky snake plant as I let out a string of expletives. I tumbled to the ground in a messy heap, accidentally landing on my garden sheers with a yelp of real pain. I delicately inspected my wound, giving them ample time to flee. Not because I’m the type of woman to turn a blind eye, but because the time has come to make some radical changes and just what that entails will need careful consideration.

Revenge is a dish best served … methodically. After all, there are endless ways to end a marriage; death, divorce, desertion. All I have to figure out is which route I’ll choose. Back at my desk I find a notepad and pen, and head out into the bright Porto afternoon for a session of plotting.

Chapter Five

Wednesday afternoon arrives, and I find myself suffering the most curious sensation. A seesawing gut that I’d usually associate with long-haul flights or unavoidable commutes on the Porto Metro at peak hour, where the risk of sweating bodies pressed against me is high.

I walk at a brisk pace, hoping that physical exertion will scatter the strangeness away. Could it be that part of me realises making friends will end awkwardly, just like always? Or is it that there’s a chance I’ll be playing nurse to a dead man when Tiago inevitably consumes almonds, because he’s too busy talking to pay attention to what’s on his plate? I mull it over. Yes, these worries could be the cause of my trepidation, and rightly so.

My interfering mother also made a fuss about what I was wearing, suggesting that my regular attire of white shirt and black knee-length skirt might be considered a little too formal for a café catch-up and that I might be confused for a waitress. It’s the outfit I trust most, and what’s wrong with wearing clothes that are considered formal? Detective Amber Quill is never seen in athleisure wear, no matter if she’s scampering over muddy fields or investigating at a remote cabin in the woods. Clearly, I know Amber is not real, but still, she’s aspirational, like so many other fictional friends that I and other bookworms hold in high regard.

Mum’s next audacious suggestion was for me to wear red lipstick as if I’m some kind of femme fatale (necessary for silent reading? I think not!). Then she started on my hairstyle. Admittedly, I’ve had the same sleek black bob and blunt fringe since my early twenties, but according to my greatly missed Manchester hairdresser, the style flatters the angular shape of my face. In the end, stubborn as Mum and I both are, we got into quite the debate over it until eventually she capitulated. No wonder my cortisol levels are at an all-time high, after holding my stance on such matters with a woman who really should know by now that I won’t be changing anytime soon. Especially after the great upheaval I’ve been through.

I arrive at the base of Rua dos Mercadores with just over fifteen minutes to spare, which gives me ample time to climb the hilly cobblestoned street. The sun beats down, so I stick to one side, delighting in the cool snatches of shade. As I trek up the undulating hill, the pastelaria comes into view and, despite it being earlier than the agreed time, there’s Tiago sitting at my table by the window, his nose pressed in a book. As I inch closer, I’m delighted to note it’s book four in The Quill Chronicles. I’d recognise the cover anywhere.

Still, why is he here so early? I hang back from a safe vantage point for reconnaissance. Like the previous visit, the pastelaria is quiet, the lunch rush well and truly over. There are a few people milling about inside, some read newspapers, others gaze wistfully into the ether, cake forks dangling in their hands. Then there are the chatty types, hands flying through the air, punctuating their words. There is a man wearing a jaunty blue beret, chatting on his phone, rubbing his temple as though the call is a painful one.

And then there’s Tiago, absorbed in his book. Still, for a change. It shouldn’t matter that he’s early, yet it makes me feel like I’ve lost a modicum of control. There are certain rituals that need to be done in order for this silent reading meet-up to go smoothly. Ideally, I’d like to have already ordered so there’s no pressure if I can’t make up my mind. I’d like to choose the seat that gives me the best view of the exit, in case I need to make a hasty retreat. Little things that give me a sense of order in a disorderly world. Before I can shuffle through the intrusive thoughts, Tiago clocks my presence and waves.

I have two options.

1.Run.

2.Don’t run.