Page 33 of The Custard Tart Cafe by the Sea
“That drunken letch was a few years above me at high school, here,” Tiago shouts back over his shoulder, miraculously nowhere near as out of breath as I am. It’s all the football, I guess, whereas evidently, my capacity to run like my life depends on it is nowhere near as impressive. “Tavira is a great place to live but even a great place has its town dickhead. You just had the pleasure of meeting him.”
“Pleasure? I think not.”
“And not only did you meet him, but his overbearing girlfriend-turned-wife. She was hard as nails at school too.”
“Fabulous. So thanks to you I can never set foot in this place again, because she’ll sniff me out and come after me with the heel of her shoe… or worse!”
“I’m sorry. I feel terrible for letting you go off on your own. I’m as much of a dick as he is. But less talk, more haste. They’re notorious for sniffing out a clash and their tight band of friends and family love to join in. If we keep up a pace until we get to the castle and skirt the edge of the convent then head back toward the river, we can do a loop to my apartment, and get ourselves out of this mess.”
“I’m Dora, you’re the Map,” I reply sarcastically.
I jog-walk-jog-walk a couple of metres behind Tiago (my Birkenstocks unable to support this marathon much longer) until we reach the first of those destinations, checking behind my shoulder every few seconds in case we need to speed up again. Fortunately, we seem to have lost our attackers. Just as I feel like I can breathe easy again, we round a bend in yet another narrow street, and a tourist-loaded tuk tuk appears from nowhere, knocking me into the road.
Tiago puts out an arm to catch me but I am too furious with him and stand my independent ground. But resisting only throws me off balance, and I topple against the rough bricks of what I now realise is the fortress wall of the castle. It’s not your Disney-style castle, I can imagine it must have looked forbidding in its heyday. Tiago loses his own footing in the process of trying to play knight in shining armour all over again, and now we are pressed snugly against one another. Gah.
I think briefly about sliding along the wall to escape, but with our mouths mere inches apart– mouths that are hungry despite the tarts, mouths that are thirsty despite the port– we are doe-eyed and helplessly entranced within moments. Tiago teases me with an electric brush of his lips on mine, before looking over his shoulder to check the coast is clear. Then he comes back for more. I reciprocate without a thought, letting out the moan of pleasure I’ve been wanting to make all day long, melting as he does the same… then again as he says my name mid-kiss before probing deeper with his tongue, each of us ravenous for the other. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so firmly rooted to the present moment of my life. This kiss is certainly like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. It’s tectonic-plate-moving. I know he feels the same, his hardness torture and bliss against me all at once. I want him now. All of him. And I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to wait.
“I promised I’d take you home,” he says finally, gently biting my lip, the pair of us giddy as we come up for air.
“Then you’d better lead the way,” I reply, letting him pull me along again, too dazed to wonder if this isn’t the worst idea I have ever had in my life.
***
Somehow we makeit back to his top floor apartment without a repeat performance, both of us grinning like a pair of Cheshire cats who have got the cream and then some. But once we have walked up the exterior stairs and crossed the threshold of his flat, the mood feels strangely subdued. Maybe it’s the harsh reality of the lighting? I don’t even want to look at my face in a mirror. I just know that my hair is less ponytail and more cockatoo Mohican. Thank goodness I am not kitted out in that airport makeover to boot.
I follow Tiago to the kitchen and drop my bag on a barstool next to the worktop, the realisation that I am mobile phone-less hitting me again. I’ll have to borrow Tiago’s phone, as soon as I’ve worked out whether I’ll be needing Kelly to play taxi and come get me. I know I said I needed to upgrade my phone, but this was not what I had in mind.
“This is quite a place,” I acknowledge, looking round the thoughtfully decorated kitchen, desperate to break the lull in communication.
Actually, it looks as if most of it came from Ikea, as is the case for most twenty-somethings (not that I know Tiago’s exact age, but it feels like he didn’t graduate from uni too many moons ago), but he’s added touches of Portugal here and there. One of those iconic ceramic roosters sits by the window, vibrant in black, red, yellow, blue and white– the country’s unofficial emblem, it’s meant to bring its owner good luck. Vintage port and sardine prints artfully bring to life some of the whitewashed walls. And there are cork gadgets galore, from coasters to cork-handled utensils poking out of a cork pot. Even the bar stool has a cork top (okay, that one didn’t come from Ikea). Santi would be in his element here.
“Er, thanks.”
“So you own it and use it just for your holidays?”
“I’m only here once or twice a year. The rest of the time I rent it out with Airbnb.”
“Nice. I bet it gets pretty booked.”
We dance around each other conversationally as if the kiss never happened, as if we are mere acquaintances searching for any old thing to chat about. I suppose in many ways we are.
“Take a seat,” he insists, so I move my bag to the floor and hop on the stool. “Grannie appears to have let herself in with a pot of thecaldeirada de peixe… the erm, fish stew. There’s enough for two.”
“There are no flies on Grannie, are there?” I say, but he doesn’t reply, just gets on with the business of sorting out bowls and cutlery for the meal.
I drum my fingers on the worktop, trying not to think about the way they were sliding under Tiago’s top only half an hour ago, for a jolly good rummage around that sleek torso. For the love of God, please tell me Elsa isn’t lurking in the bedroom, though. Not that it looks like I’ll be hanging out there myself anymore.
This is all so silly, like someone’s pulled the plug from a socket. We were two different people out there on the street. It was, continuing with the voltage vocabulary,electric.He apologised for his behaviour. We couldn’t get enough of one another. So when did Tiago’s personality transplant happen? Not that I am exactly jumping on him. Well, I am a guest, after all. But I can’t even sit here and scroll through my newsfeed on my various social media accounts to pass the time. This is hell!
Thankfully dinner doesn’t take long to warm up because the ever-intuitive Elsa left it simmering on the hob… a bottle of wine and two glasses on the worktop next to it. I love the bond she and Tiago share and I can see how vital it’s become to the mental health of each of them over the years, but two’s company and all that.
Tiago sets a bowl and a spoon for me at the little round table in the middle of the kitchen, gesturing for me to abandon the stool. He produces a fresh loaf of bread on what looks suspiciously like a cork chopping board and sets it down, along with the casserole dish and the famous flask-shaped bottle of Mateus rosé– the stuff my parents sank every night on our Algarve holidays way back when. Nowadays it comes in clear glass, showing off its bright pink colour all the more effectively. I am stunned the locals drink it, considering how commercialised it is. Then again, Tiago is on holiday too I guess.
“Help yourself,” he says as I settle into my seat, a renewed awareness of our proximity building. “Wine?” He puts a hand to the bottle.
“Thanks, but I think I’d best stick to water.”
“Right. I… I get it.” He runs his hands through his hair, looking stressed, and pours himself half a glass instead.
