Page 9 of The Little Porto Book Club

It’s only my second social outing with real humans and already the waters are getting muddied. It’s unconscionable of me to hope that Lucinda will be exonerated for homicide when I don’t have all the facts. In actuality, I have zero information, just a tingling sensation that all is not what it seems.

I’m getting carried away! Picturing everything as a whodunnit. Perhaps I do need to change up my reading matter on non-book-club days, if this is where my mind goes. Could it be that too much of a good thing is in fact true … and I’m seeing mysteries that don’t exist, like my mother is always crowing? I fell into reading whodunnits after the death of my dad, probably some deep-rooted need to find answers. It makes me feel less alone, knowing other people (fictional or not) have gone through great upheavals, like I have.

‘Let’s settle in for a session of cosy crime.’ There, not too bossy but enough of a clue that the idle chitchat should cease. ‘Reading cosy crime, that is,’ I hastily add in case Lucinda misunderstands me.

‘Yes,’ Lucinda agrees with a nod. ‘Here’s hoping we learn the trick to not getting caught, eh?’ And with that she lets out a maniacal laugh.

Chapter Six

The scene before me is so unbelievable I blink a few times to clear my vision. No, it’s still there. I try once more. Nothing shifts the tableau. There, in the window, I count, not one, not two, not three, but four other people. Five, if you include Tiago. Lucinda, I recognise, but the others, I do not. They appear to each be holding a paperback and chatting away like the best of friends. This cannot be.

In his vexing way, Tiago spots me and waves with much enthusiasm. Everything he does feels like it’s punctuated with exclamation marks. As a copyeditor I advise exclamation marks be used sparingly, but it’s hard to edit a human. Maybe even impossible.

There’s no question of escaping, as ten eyeballs are trained directly on me. Instead, I huff and puff, which I hope Tiago can translate from this distance, and stomp inside, blithely ignoring them all. Somewhat shakily, I go to the counter and order water and a slice of lemon. ‘And make it a big one, please.’ I cannot eat cake and concentrate on so many voices, so many people all at once.

This is going to be Scrapbook Sundays, all over again. I sag. The hopeful shine in Mum’s eyes will dim, once more. The strangling of the tea towel will recommence. Did Tiago intentionally find other book club members because I am so lacking? I’m sure that’s what it must be. How disappointingly predictable. My personality never quite shines through enough for people to give me a chance. It’s only my mother who sees my bright brilliance and reminds me of it every day.

Tiago can’t contain himself at his building of a book club – no surprise there – and joins me as I wait for my drink. The waitress hands it over with a smile and motions to a water dispenser telling me to help myself if I want refills. ‘We’ve got you to thank for all these extra customers in the usual afternoon lull. My avó says to feed you cake.’

‘Oh.’ Avós are like that, food is the answer to everything and the way in which they show their love. ‘Thank you, but that’s quite all right. It’s not actually my doing. I’m not in need of anything extra right now.’ My voice is robotic, but it can’t be helped because I’m close to flight mode.

‘Sure, just let me know when and I’ll bring your favourite.’

‘My favourite?’

‘Sim, Jésuita.’ I’ve only ordered it once, but I’m touched that she remembers. However, it’s full of almond cream, and as put out as I am right now and comfort food might help, I don’t want to add a sudden death to the mix.

‘Tiago is allergic to almonds but thank you for your kindness. Is the pastelaria a family-run business then?’ I’m not one to pry but I’ll do anything to avoid sitting at a table with five strangers.

‘It’s my aunt’s place, we run it for her. She stays mostly in the background,’ the waitress says with a laugh, then lowers her voice. ‘You know how it is, she’s always dropping in with “advice” for us.’

I laugh along with her, knowing exactly what she means. There is no independence in Portuguese families, everyone gets involved in everything. ‘I hear you.’

Maybe I can do this. Maybe it won’t end in disaster. If our tiny book club is helping this hidden gem survive the afternoon lull, then maybe I need to consider that this is about more than just me. Pastelaria História is a family-run affair and doesn’t have the glitz and glamour the cafés by the river do. Obviously, for selfish reasons, I don’t want it to become too busy either, but it’s a nice feeling knowing that the sale of a few extra pastries helps. Clearly, I can’t escape the book club now without a lot of fanfare.

When I glance at Tiago awkwardly hovering nearby, I’m struck by the concern in his gaze, those liquid pools that seem to speak to me, offering assurance without the use of language. ‘Are you OK, Viviane?’ His voice is soft, low enough for only us to hear.

‘I’m not. No.’ Mum always tells me to be honest with people, that the challenges I face are not to be hidden away like a shameful secret. And yet in the moment I pause. Why? Is it because for the first time in too long, I have a small sense of excitement bubbling alongside the ever-present anxiety? Books are like oxygen to me. And these strangers might feel the same. What if this all worked out for the best? What if I did make genuine lifelong friends? Hoping like that hurts, so instead I prepare for the worst.

‘It’s OK,’ Tiago says, and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder as if to ground me. Usually, I’d baulk at someone taking a liberty such as this, but I don’t. I sense an inherent goodness in Tiago, as if he can see beyond the mask I don in public. ‘You can tell me, Viviane, and it’ll remain between us.’

Eventually I manage to say, ‘Do you find me so dull that you had to find new book club members?’ Mortification colours me scarlet at voicing my concern.

His face is a picture of surprise. ‘What? No! Not at all. I find you fascinating. Fun. A breath of fresh air in what has honestly been a boring few months for me.’

I filter though his protestations, hoping to land on one that convinces me. That’s where words can fail, when they hide a lie. ‘Truly,’ he says, his expression earnest.

‘OK.’ Does he mean what he says? Can I trust him when men lie all the time, even the ones with puppy-dog eyes.

There’s another gentle squeeze on my shoulder. ‘OK, really? You’re flustered and I should have checked with you. It’s just I got carried away and one thing led to another and …’ His words trail off, his face sags with quiet misery.

I take a risk and speak from the heart. ‘I struggle in group settings.’

At that, his expression softens, loses the tightness around his eyes. ‘Oh – you’re not alone there. I’m a tech geek who usually holes up in dark rooms and uses meme speak to communicate, so I totally relate.’

How would we communicate over technology when I prefer formal language, and he prefers to chat like a thirteen-year-old? But I’m jumping far, far ahead. All I need to focus on is today. ‘Tiago, meme speak is a crime against language.’

He laughs. ‘I know. Blame the industry I’m in. Was in. Trust me, you’re not alone in how you feel right now, Viviane. I get flustered easily too, but instead of turning silent, I get louder.’