Page 58 of The Little Porto Book Club

I hastily snatch up my phone. And I’m not the hastily snatching up sort.

Are you perchance carving out your own Porto friendship with this mysterious neighbour who doesn’t have a name? If so, I approve wholeheartedly. But please, spare me any details if this new relationship is of an intimate nature (your body, your choice). Be safe, and don’t rush home. Your ever loving daughter, Viviane.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Later that evening Mother returns. ‘Querida, book club, how was it? Tell me everything!’ Her smile is so wide it threatens to swallow her up.

I give her a regal stare over the top of my book, because I’ve been counting down the minutes for her to get home and I want her to think I’m completely unbothered by her unusual and rather lengthy absence.

Catlike, I lay sprawled on the sofa, going for an air of majesty, and only hope I’m pulling it off. ‘Not so fast, Mother.’ I’ve always wanted to utter a line like that but haven’t had the chance until now.

‘What?’

‘I’d like to hear about your tête-à-tête with “the neighbour” first, if it’s all the same to you.’

She waves the words away as if she’s trying to brush off the inquisition which I have been mentally planning for the best part of an hour. My, how the tables have turned! ‘Just a quick bite at Papo Cheio, that’s all.’

I take great delight in arching a brow and let that do the talking for me.

Her cheeks pinken. What do we have here? Could a romance be blooming before my very eyes? For a woman who reads love stories at the volume she does, it would be nice to see her have one in real life, just as she suggests I step from the pages, perhaps Mother needs to as well?

‘The eh, window was stuck and the nice man from next door was passing.’

I narrow my eyes. Is she lying to me? Did Mother not read my text where I explicitly told her that the window being stuck is an impossibility due to my rigorous testing? It would seem we have yet another mystery afoot.

‘How strange, because I personally checked each window not a week ago. Which window is it? My safety protocols must be slipping.’

‘Actually, it was the front door! Not the window.’ She slaps her forehead. ‘Silly me. I think the front door being wood expanded due to the oppressive summer heat, and well it kept getting stuck and …’ Mother continues to ramble on, a key indication that she is withholding the truth, because she’s sharing far too many details. No window was stuck. No door has expanded because I’m terrifically safety conscious and fixate on all the painful ways in which we might die, thus, have a lengthy check list in order to assuage these fears as best as possible.

The conundrum I now face is whether to confront her about these lies or let it be? These are not lies with malicious intent. These are the small untruths of a woman who is testing the waters with a new friend. More importantly, this means that after a tumultuous year Mother is putting herself first for a change, which means she’s possibly going to ease up on worrying about me, helicopter mother that she is.

‘It’s lucky you had help on hand. Did the neighbour manage to fix the stuck door?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Does this person have a name?’

‘Viviane, is this a case of selective memory? You’ve sidestepped this numerous times after I poured my heart and soul out to you in the library gardens.’

That’s what all that white noise was! A confession, and I’d been too caught up in The Man in the Blue Beret to listen. How to navigate this? ‘Remind me?’

She heaves a sigh of impatience as if I’m purposely being obtuse which makes sense because I do have the mind of a savant and would usually have retained the knowledge. ‘His name is Alfonso. He moved in a few months ago. He’s a lovely man, funny, kind. It’s nice to have someone to call on if we need it.’

‘Sure, sure. I can’t imagine any scenario that we couldn’t handle ourselves with enough forward planning, but I understand the sentiment. I’m glad you’ve made a friend who isn’t a relative. As lovable as the family can be they certainly hijack your time.’

Mum grins. ‘It’s what families do.’

I fold my arms across my chest and give her a measured look. ‘Most of their problems could be solved simply by using critical thinking.’

‘But where’s the fun in that?’

It’s puzzling. ‘I will never understand the human race.’

‘Now, speaking of the human race, how did book club go?’

What parts can I share that aren’t about murdery murderers? ‘Old Albert needed a slight reprimand when he had the audacity to besmirch Harper Lee’s good name.’ Her mouth falls open. ‘Don’t worry, I used a gentle tone of voice that belied my inner rage.’

‘Sometimes people just need a listening ear.’