Page 14 of The Little Porto Book Club

While I’m thrilled how well the icebreaker is going my head pounds from all the chatter, the back and forth. A bit of calm is needed so I can reset.

Tiago sends a lingering glance my way before he says, ‘Shall we read for a bit, gang, eh? Come back to our favourite characters later?’ I’m so relieved I almost want to hug him, and I’m not the hugging type.

‘Yes, let’s get on with reading.’ Old Albert nods. ‘It’s almost impossible for me to think of a single character that I admire most, and that’s not because there are so many to choose from, it’s because I simply can’t remember any of them. Memory like a sieve, these days.’

With that, laughter burbles from the group.

The book club duly settle down to read. All except Lucinda who takes a notebook and pen from her handbag and angrily scrawls a long list of notes. At this point I’m concerned her pen is going to snap in half from how tight she’s holding it. What is fuelling this barely contained rage? I don’t like to guess but there’s nothing wrong with observing, is there?

Chapter Seven

I’m first to leave book club because long goodbyes feel almost Sisyphean with their repetitive nature, and I don’t need that on top of everything else. One farewell is more than adequate. The book club is meeting again in exactly seven days, there’s no need for extraneous chitchat.

Outside Pastelaria História I stop in the shade to double check I’ve got all my accoutrements: phone, keys, book. A man in a blue beret knocks into me and quickly apologises as he steps into the pastelaria.

I’m about to set off with a smile firmly in place, a smile that’s not even dampened when Tiago taps me on the shoulder.

‘Can I walk you home?’ he asks with a shy smile.

I find myself unable to process his motivations on the spot. Still, I have a firm rule that I don’t give out my address to people, mostly because it can lead to surprise visits. ‘No, that won’t be necessary.’

His cheeks flush as he kicks at the pavement. ‘Right, umm, can I have your phone number?’

His job, the app development, means he’s got experience in tech, so my answer is firm. ‘No.’

Once again the guy bites at his lip. Is it doubt or something else? Mannerisms are not my strong suit. ‘No?’

‘When a woman says no, it’s not to be questioned, Tiago.’ Walk me home. Get my number. Should I be worried? He could be anyone.

‘Sorry, you’re absolutely right.’ He slips his hands into his pockets as he studies his feet. He spends an inordinate amount of time staring at his shoes. It could be he’s nervous, or it could be he really loves his footwear. How can I distinguish between the two? I drop my gaze to his Converse sneakers to see what all the fuss is about. They’re a little scuffed, worn in and exactly what I’d expect a techy type to wear, alongside his slouchy attire as if he’s holding on staunchly to his teen boy era. ‘Did you wear slouchy clothing when you ran your company?’ I ask, curious.

‘Slouchy – ah, yeah, I guess. I don’t care much about fashion …’

‘I can see that.’ How to soften my bluntness? Ah! ‘You dress like you work at Facebook or Google.’

He laughs, a short quick spray. ‘The ultimate in tech bro attire. Is that your way of saying I look scruffy, but you’re trying to be polite?’

‘Yes.’ How does Tiago read between the lines so well? I haven’t experienced that before, well, aside from my interfering mother who knows what I’m thinking before even I do most times.

A small chortle escapes him, even his laugh is adorable, which strangely puts me on high alert because it could all be fake. Men lie.

‘I like a person who speaks their mind, there’s never any guesswork and you always know where you stand. You’re amazing, Vi. Can I call you Vi?’

‘No, thank you.’ He thinks I’m amazing? Can I take this at face value? Jury is still out with Tiago.

‘Oh, I, OK.’ His eyes twinkle with mirth. Mirth, or mischief, hard to tell which.

‘Will that be all?’ Why is he prolonging this? That strange sensation is back, my stomach somersaults and I find myself short of breath. Am I falling ill? Or is anxiety manifesting differently, wily beast it is. Could this strange sensation be hope … happiness? It’s been such a long time since I experienced real joy, I’ve forgotten what it feels like. There’s no time to ponder this strange series of events because Tiago is still asking questions of me.

‘It’s just so good to have someone other than my family to chat to. I guess I hadn’t realised how much I missed hanging out with people, real life people, not names on a screen.’

I compromise. ‘You can walk some of the way with me.’ Look at me go! Not being so concrete in my rules and regulations. Mum would be jumping for joy right now, if she was here and her ankles were up to it.

We quietly wander the cobblestoned street. Tiago points out colourful blooms at a florist. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’

The way he searches my face as if he really cares for my answer makes me hesitate telling him I find the killing of flowers brutal. ‘They are … colourful.’

Thankfully a bird squarks above and his attention is diverted. Tiago mentions he was once into birding, a hobby that seems at odds with someone who can’t keep still or quiet.