Page 73 of The Little Porto Book Club

A tear falls down her cheek. ‘But it wasn’t a bad lie, was it? It was cute! Sweet!’

Mum motions for Zeliá to follow her into the kitchen. Wine is poured and glasses chinked as they return to the sofa.

‘There’s a bit of story behind it all. I think Viviane needs some space to think things through.’

My mum, always coming to my rescue.

Zeliá shakes her head sadly. ‘He’s never going to forgive me.’

Tiago is not the type to hold a grudge, and I tell her that.

‘But you two make the cutest couple.’ Her eyes search mine, willing me to agree. I glance away.

‘Isn’t it about more than that though? Shouldn’t we be able to trust each other implicitly?’

‘What about the book club murderer? Are you still going to solve that together? You can’t kick him off the case now! He’s your ever-faithful sidekick.’

‘Hang on, what?’ Mum’s eyes go comically wide. ‘Book club murderer? What the hell is going on, Viviane?’

‘What happens at book club, stays at book club,’ I plead.

‘So, some lies are OK?’ Zeliá says, cocking her head.

I pucker my lips at that. ‘It’s not the same, not even close.’

‘Viviane.’ My mum’s voice breaks through the fog of confusion. ‘Please tell me there is no book club murderer.’

‘No, there isn’t. Well, it hasn’t been confirmed either way.’

‘What!’ Her voice echoes around Porto, and I swear I feel the earth shake.

When Zeliá leaves an hour or so later, after trying every Portuguese-mother trick in the book to get me to reconsider, I flop back on the sofa next to Mum.

‘They’re such a nice family.’

I lob a cushion at her. ‘Don’t you start.’ I fervently wish I could put it all behind me and pretend it never happened. But hiding the hurt in a deep lock box of your heart seldom works. It’s always just below the surface, like it has been with Dad once all his lies bubbled up. And, that’s the thing, it all started with one.

Chapter Fifty

Tiago

I can’t believe I’ve messed things up so badly. Especially knowing about Viviane’s dad and how those secrets still affect her now. I have no idea how to fix it and would give anything to turn back the clock. On the phone, she was so definite, so clear, that I’m torn with how I can make her understand. Do I just let her slip through my fingers like air? Surely the universe wouldn’t put someone as special as Viviane in my path only to snatch her away again? My poor mum is beside herself. There’s not much else I can do except sit here and hope she changes her mind. If I’ve fumbled this, I will never ever forgive myself.

Chapter Fifty-One

I’m back at my desk concentrating on the novel I’m editing. It’s a hilarious romantic comedy centred around a heroine who teaches single clients how to use the five love languages to find ‘the one’ and their happy ever after. It’s a sweet story, full of mishaps as the hero is completely unaware there is even a framework around love, let alone five of them. It’s such a joyful romance that I lose track of time, which doesn’t often happen to me, meticulous scheduler that I am. There’s something about the novel that’s niggling at me, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. It reminds me of something, but what?

As I go, laughing, correcting and enjoying it despite my own heartbreak, it hits me.

Tiago has been following the five love languages and trying them all out. Including that day – oh God, the flowers – when I said I despise ostentatious displays of wealth. I circle back to that moment, was he waving the florist away after my comment? I’d seen him at Porto Blooms and Gifts, hadn’t I? But I’d been so focused on the salesperson flirting with him, I didn’t connect those dots. That day, after he sent the florist away, he mentioned he wanted to spend quality time with me, to celebrate the sting.

Then there was the day he kept touching me, a light brush of his fingers across my hand, the way he tucked a tendril of hair back. Physical touch. Then there were the Post-it notes secreted in the sprayed-edged edition of the book he bought for me. Words of affirmation. And as for acts of service, all those times he poured me wine first, watched me sip to make sure I liked it. When he’d offer to buy me cake and to bring it to my table. And as for gift giving, there was the white shirt with breathable fabric and book buttons. He’s been wooing me all along, in the most romantic way possible, trying any and all ways to show me he cares. Is that a man in love? A man with a good heart? It bears some careful thought.

I push it to one side when Mum appears at the door. ‘I won’t interrupt your workday for long, querida, but a letter came for you and I – well, I recognised the return address. Care to share what that’s all about? Although, knowing your big, beautiful heart, I’ve got a fairly good idea.’

I hold the envelope. It hums with hope. I had to be the bigger person. It felt like the right way forward. For me, and for the children. They’ve already been robbed. And I’m the only other person that can help with that.

‘I sent a letter to the woman.’ Mum nods, she knows who I’m talking about, the address says it all. ‘I told her I’d like to write to them. I sent some photos of Dad when he was younger. I wrote all about what kind of Dad he was, and how he taught me to play chess and maybe when they’re old enough I can teach them too.’