Page 3 of The Little Porto Book Club

I place my order for a cimbalino coffee and Jésuita, a flaky pastry filled with frangipane cream, and take a table by the front window. Filmy soft sunlight streams in, bathing the café in a sepia glow. The air is heavy with the sugary perfume of baking that conjures memories of childhood, making Portuguese biscoitos with Mum when we lived in England and she dreamed of home. It brings me dangerously close to other memories of my dad, which remind me that he was a truth avoidant, fictitious character playing at being my loving father, so I switch them off by opening my book.

Last night, I left Detective Amber Quill facing quite the conundrum, and even though I’ve memorised the plot it’s still thrilling to see her piece the puzzle together.

I relax into my book and ignore the inner dialogue that reminds me my mum is expecting miracles, namely that I make friends. Even though I do not invite anyone to chat or to socialise, I’ve put myself in an environment where there are a few people and those people are interacting with each other. They make it look so effortless, the way they spontaneously laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. How they talk over the top of each other and manage to keep up with the threads of conversation.

A chic sixty-something woman sitting alone catches my eye because of her heavy sighs and rather aggressive frowns, as she stares into the middle distance as if a problem is weighing on her. What could produce a litany of sounds such as this? Sadly, society is broken, and you can’t just ask a stranger these things. Trust me, I’ve learned this the hard way.

I’m minding my own business when a velvety rich voice says, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you like my pastel de Tentúgal? I’m sure it’s delicious, but I can’t eat it.’ A floppy-haired guy stands before me. Even though I’m certain the comment is directed at me, as I’m the only person by the window, I steal a quick glance over my shoulder to be sure. Confirmed. He’s speaking directly to me.

I sift through possible replies. My gaze locks on his shimmering brown eyes, the endless depths of which I find myself quite lost. This stranger feels safe, somehow, and how can such a thing be translated simply through eye contact? Eye contact that I usually studiously avoid? I shake the fog from my sluggish mind. Despite my strict scheduling, I stayed up late reading, and that has clearly had next-day, real-world implications.

‘Please. I’d hate for it to go to waste.’ He has a British accent with just the hint of Portuguese inflection. Is he like me, having lived abroad for his formative years and found his way home? How does he know I also speak English? Has being away from home so long indelibly changed my outward appearance?

I force myself to break eye contact and drop my gaze to the proffered pastry.

‘Thank you, but no. I have my own sweet treat coming that hasn’t been …’ How do I put this politely when strangers are often so easily offended? ‘Excavated.’

He’s quick to smile. ‘Sorry, yes, God, it doesn’t look good, does it? Lucky I did, ah, excavate and realised, or I might have met my maker. Allergic, you see. To almonds, specifically.’

I’ve heard of peanut allergies, but almonds, well, that’s unique. Almonds are a staple in many Portuguese desserts. How the guy has made it this far in life without dying is a mystery. ‘Isn’t it made with almond meal?’

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘Then how could you possibly see it, if it’s a flour-like substance?’ Inexplicably this feels much like the beginnings of a whodunnit. The Inconvenient Death of the Cute Guy in the Pastelaria. OK, the title needs some finessing.

‘Good question! Well. As I was about to take a bite, I remembered that sometimes pastel de Tentúgal is made with almond meal. And I confirmed it with the waitress, after my excavating attempts. I wasn’t paying attention when I ordered. Mind elsewhere. You know how it is …’

I grimace at how lax he is about the business of living. If this were a whodunnit, this innocuous almond-laced cake mix-up would be clear foreshadowing to the reader that he will die of said allergy in the coming chapters. I don’t share this with him, as he might panic and take it as a cue to keep talking. As charming as he is, in that jittery, self-effacing way that British people often are, he’s interrupted me at a pivotal interrogation scene with Detective Amber Quill. Despite his cuteness, I’m contemplating various ways I can move him on while he continues chatting merrily away about various near misses he’s had in the past.

‘I’m Tiago, just moved back from London, well, not exactly moved, I mean – that’s so final, so … certain. I suppose this is some sort of gap year, for a thirty-three-year-old. I’m not sure what comes next for me but maybe—’ He bites his lip before continuing.

As Tiago rambles, his words pick up pace. I’m going to have to nip this in the bud before it blooms into a brain ache. A side effect of overdosing on chitchat. However, I should warn this guy to be more careful about his allergy. Tiago appears to be quite the affable type who probably wouldn’t see danger lurking unless it hit him square in the face. The least I can do is educate him about the fact his life is in jeopardy.

‘Tiago, I read a lot of whodunnits and this seemingly harmless pastry is the first clue that you’re going to be served almonds, probably nefariously, definitely surreptitiously, and you will die. That’s not an if, but a when.’

There, I’ve done my civic duty, he can take from that what he will. Life isn’t a whodunnit, of course I know that, but the law of averages states that Tiago’s days are numbered if he’s going to order Portuguese sweet treats willy-nilly. From his open-mouthed silent scream, I deduce he’s momentarily taken aback. I get that a lot.

How to soften the blow? ‘Be careful what you slide into your mouth, OK?’

He blinks and blinks, like he’s sending me some kind of code. Eventually he comes back with, ‘Ah – yes. I’ll be more careful what I, erm, eat. I have a terrible sweet tooth and wasn’t really thinking.’

‘You’re dancing on a tripwire, Tiago. Keep your wits about you.’

He laughs and it lights up his face. Really, he’s endearing with his wind-tousled hair and fidgety demeanour, if you’re into the golden retriever type. Which I’m not. Men are far too complicated. And Tiago doesn’t seem to take a breath as he talks.

‘It’s OK, I’ve got my EpiPen!’ He pats his pockets. ‘Well, I did. It’s got to be around here somewhere. Oh, actually, maybe it’s in my other …’

At this point, I’m convinced his death is inevitable. Days away. Hours maybe. ‘It’s on your table.’ My keen observational skills so often come in handy, and here we are, case in point.

Mum will be ecstatic when I tell her I had a conversation with a stranger who also happens to be of the male persuasion. I won’t mention his mesmerising dark eyes, and how for a moment they took me someplace else. However, I might mention he is easily flustered like a bumbling detective sidekick who is there for some comic relief. She’ll be most impressed.

‘This has been enlightening,’ I say and let a farewell smile settle across my face. It doesn’t have the desired effect, instead he rubs the back of his neck and lifts his brows as if I should be the one to fill the silence. I don’t.

‘The Vanishing at Whispering Willows, eh?’ he says, pointing to the cover. ‘Absolutely love that book.’

‘You’ve read The Quill Chronicles?’ Now this changes things. The author has a cultlike following not only because her writing is deeply immersive, twist laden and full of misdirection, but also because there’s a conspiracy around her identity that only grows as her fan base does. No one knows who she is. It’s intriguing, of course, but as a fellow member of Literati-Land I must respect the author’s wish to remain anonymous, so I don’t do any investigations of my own despite being sorely tempted. Instead, I respect the author for her brilliance, a genius ahead of her time.

‘Ah yes, all three.’