Page 57 of The Little Porto Book Club

Thomas to provide moral support if and when needed.

Tiago gives me a look that’s loaded with meaning. The only problem is, I don’t know exactly what the meaning is. Before I can decode it, he says, ‘You’ve got a …’ He curls an escaped strand of hair off my face.

I frown. I’m not opposed to personal touch from my sidekick, it’s inevitable that we’ll grow close over the course of our investigations, but Tiago seems to be going out of his way to brush against me in some way. A light pat here and a comforting hand squeeze there.

Tiago edges closer to me and whispers, ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that Thomas finds the Crimean War so amusing?’

Is this where I inform my trusty sidekick that his ‘bookmark’ book is in fact not a bookmark at all? It’s not my secret to tell. ‘Could be an uplifting part? Stories of camaraderie, of shenanigans in their downtime after long months away from their families, that sort of thing.’

Tiago rubs his chin. ‘I – ah, just wonder if he needs a bit of support, someone to hear him out maybe? I’m a little concerned that he’s finding it funny. Look at him,’ he whispers into my neck, provoking a tingle from his proximity. Tiago is right, Thomas’s face is animated as he reads, every now and then he quietly chortles, smiling.

I’m certain this is one mystery I know the answer to, having watched my mother make the very same faces most evenings when she curls up to read her sweet romantic comedies, while I watch old episodes of Murder She Wrote. There’s nothing wrong with making certain though. I pat Tiago’s leg, code for stay there, he gives me a sweet-eyed stare. Honestly. I inch behind Thomas, trying not to let my shadow fall across his page and give my position up.

I hold my breath, as I hastily read a few words: papers went flying as they collided, bumping heads and landing in a tangled heap with a surprise burst of laughter.

A meet-cute! Confirmed. Thomas is reading a romance novel. Why does he need to hide that? Any man who reads romance novels is far more appealing than a man who does not. His masculinity card isn’t revoked because he enjoys love stories, quite the opposite in fact.

Who doesn’t love the idea of being swept away by a funny romcom, or having their heart split open and put back together with an angsty romantic suspense? A lot of people deride the romance genre, yet it features in almost every Hollywood movie from action to spy to drama. There’s just no need to pretend it’s not a core storyline and that we don’t all yearn for it, in some way, shape or form. Even me. My bruised heart is healing. Part of me does pine for my own plus one. Not to attend yet another cousin’s wedding though, I want to make that abundantly clear.

Does Thomas work in an environment where toxic masculinity is rife and therefore feels the need to hide his love of romance novels? Or is there more to it?

Back with Tiago, I sit on the wall. ‘It’s a war novel,’ I say. ‘About mateship and the fun they made to get through the long months without their families.’ It’s only a small lie. But I sense that Thomas is reading romance for reasons he isn’t yet ready to share.

Thomas closes his book and says just loud enough for only me to hear, ‘I can’t wait to get to the bit where they lived happily ever after …’

Chapter Thirty-Five

Thomas

Today marks a year since we lost you. One whole year since you left this earth. It’s only in the last week or so that your mum has been able to talk about you without crying. It’s nice to see her returning to herself, but does that mean we’re losing you too, slowly, as our routines return? She still takes in washing, but now she plays the radio again. It’s nice to hear the lament of Portuguese love songs blow across her balcony to mine, instead of the sound of her anguish. Her sadness was devastating to hear and only exacerbated mine. How much we both loved you, still do. It’s why I went from work to the pastelaria, to give her that privacy to grieve, and that’s how I stumbled onto the Little Porto Book Club. And look where that has taken me. Honestly, while it’s crazy, it’s been the best kind of distraction. And reading, the way I have, has been cathartic. Healing.

While I might find small relief in those hours, when I return home, it hits me anew.

Nothing can make the pain stop, except maybe time, but that will only dull the sharp edges, not erase it. I’ve heard it said that grief is the price we pay for love. It’s true. And somehow knowing that makes this pain bearable. This pain is my love for you, a love that has nowhere to go, it’s directionless, because you’re not here. My love remains, strong and true, and in every facet of my day, you’re there, just out of reach. It’s why I search for you in each room. Pretend you just stepped out. Spray your perfume to fool myself. Make up the bed, neat, tidy, just the way you like it.

I’ve taken to reading your romance novels. I catch myself grinning, reading the way the two meet, a coffee spillage, a tumble, a head bump. Their initial denial of feelings. The universe putting them in each other’s path. All those miscommunications! The grand gesture … swoon, as you’d say. And the happy ever after. Who knew that reading romances would go some way to help my broken heart? But it has. You’re always the heroine and I’m your dashing hero. That helps too. Keeps ‘us’ alive. In a year, two years, ten, if I need a dose of ‘us’ I can open a romance novel and there we are, sneaking glances over glasses of wine at a ski lodge. Nursing hot chocolates at a Christmas market.

Mostly, I get a thrill finding your notes in the margins. Who knew you vandalised literature! My first impulse was to pull every book from the shelves and flip through them looking for your annotations. I resisted. It’s more fun this way. Yesterday I got lucky. The couple had just had a rather successful outing at a flea market in Paris and you wrote: oh my love, can you see us, walking hand in hand by the River Seine, snow is falling, stars are twinkling? Je t’aime, Thomas! <3

These annotations keep me going. Your collection of love stories make each day brighter. And so, with this newfound strength, I’ve been taking your mum to the markets. I’m not you, will never be you, but her smile is slowly returning. She cries less. Now she sits on the balcony and stares out, as if she’s also waiting for you. Just like I do. Maybe she’d like to read one of the novels from your collection. Maybe they’ll help her like they’ve helped me.

Chapter Thirty-Six

After another successful book club, I head home, tempted to ask Mum to go out for dinner to a little wine bar. It seems my socialising muscle is growing stronger.

‘Mother?’ I place my keys in the bowl and wait for her jump scare. I wait. And wait. ‘Mum? Your precious offspring is home and ready to be interrogated.’

I don’t panic. I’m not easily alarmed. Reading whodunnits has given me the requisite tools to remain cool, calm and rational under pressure. I cycle through the facts in front of me. It’s highly unusual for mother not to be here waiting for me after a social outing for the following reasons: one – to ascertain I’ve made it back to base safely. And two: because she’s nosy and wants all the juicy details. With these facts in mind, it’s decidedly odd that she’s not present.

There are various reasons she could be MIA. Suddenly taken ill and rushed to the doctor. Ducked out for groceries and missed the bus back. Got taken by a gang for nefarious purposes in a tragic case of mistaken identity.

The case is solved when I go to the kitchen and find a note: Having an early dinner with the neighbour who stopped by to fix the stuck window. Thought you’d prefer we ate out! Text me so I know you’re home safe. Love, Mum x

The neighbour? This is the first I’ve heard of any such person. How strange she doesn’t mention them by name and not a pronoun in sight. I send her a text to confirm she is alive and well and only hope the nefarious types don’t have control over her phone and are pretending to be her.

Mother, I’ve managed to make it home, whole of body and quite unmolested by any threat. Who is this neighbour you speak of? As for the stuck window, that cannot be as I have personally checked them all myself to make sure in the (hopefully unlikely) event of a fire we have the means of ventilation and/or possible escape. Your loving daughter, Viviane.

Mother’s replies are normally speedy so when my phone remains silent, I can’t help but stare at it, waiting for the ellipses that show she’s typing to appear. Nothing. Could the woman be having … fun? With someone other than me. With people outside of her big boisterous family? The thought stops me in my tracks as I weigh up how it makes me feel. A slow smile settles.