She continued, ‘We spent most of our time in Vienna tracking that bloody film as if the events actually happened. It was only a story, but you seemed more affected by it than the real human tragedy we stumbled over. I tell you, that scene has been on my mind a lot since we got back.’
‘That much is obvious,’ he said. ‘You don’t have to keep telling me. That’s why I asked Ingeborg to find out more. Maybe I shouldn’t have done.’
She turned her head, as if talking to the river. ‘It’s better knowing, even if we can’t do anything about it.’
They walked as far as Weston footbridge before Diamond spoke again, trying to make peace.
‘You had a basinful of The Third Man. Selfish of me. I should have given you more choice in what we did.’
‘I’m not complaining about that. What I find hard to stomach is that you can get emotionally involved in a film, yet cut off from a real death.’
‘My job. Simple as that.’
‘Being detached, you mean?’
‘Any professional will tell you the same — doctor, paramedic, fireman.’
‘Yet you’re a softie underneath. I’ve seen you in tears at the end of the film when the woman walks straight past Joseph Cotten and into the distance.’
‘You weren’t supposed to notice. I’m just the same in Casablanca. She was Anna, by the way.’
‘Who was?’
‘The woman in the film, played by Alida Valli.’
‘For pity’s sake, Peter, I despair of you. Yet you won’t name the Japanese suicide victim.’
‘If it mattered, I would.’
At Twerton, the river divides to accommodate a weir. They followed the towpath along the Western Cut as far as the small humpback bridge that takes its name from the Dolphin.
‘This is almost three hundred years old, did you know?’ Diamond said with a too-obvious shift in the conversation.
‘It can’t be.’
‘Most of it is. One side was bombed in the Bath Blitz and had to be rebuilt. The pub copped it, too. It’s said to be equally old.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I live just down the road, don’t I? This is one of my locals.’
‘One of them. I like that.’
It was too damp to sit in the garden, so they found a table in one of the eating areas inside. He brought a pint from the bar and a glass of Chablis for Paloma.
She was still tetchy with him, as if more needed to be said. He wittered on for a while, explaining that the Dolphin hadn’t got its name from a small whale that had strayed up the Avon, but an old word for a mooring post.
Only when their meal arrived did Paloma say, ‘When I called you a softie just now, it wasn’t meant as an insult. I don’t think it’s bad if you shed a few tears over a film. It shows you have emotions that are bottled up mostly. You keep them hidden in your working life and I understand why. What I can’t work out is why you don’t relax enough to let your feelings show when you’re off work, such as now.’
‘What do you expect? I’m a bloke.’
‘There you go again, putting up the shutters.’
At a loss, he stared across the room. He could think of nothing to say. He’d never been comfortable talking about what he thought of as personal. Even with his beloved wife, Steph, he’d rarely opened up and after her sudden and violent death he’d confided in nobody, preferring to endure the unimaginable grief in isolation. The wound would never heal and he was certain that no one, however well-meaning, could assist. He’d put the shutters up — as Paloma had expressed it — for a reason. He couldn’t predict how he would react if she were to probe his hidden emotions. Paloma was a valued friend and an occasional lover. Up to now she’d been willing to conduct their relationship on those terms. Unless he was mistaken she seemed this evening to be demanding a change in him that he didn’t think he could make.
When it became obvious Diamond wasn’t going to speak, Paloma said, ‘I know what you’re thinking. Let me remind you that we’ve both got painful areas in our lives — totally different, but hard to bear. My ex-husband, my son. I’ll never come to terms with what happened, just as I wouldn’t expect you to get over your personal tragedy. We’re scarred for life, both of us. But we still have a life. Surely it helps to share joys and sadnesses?’
‘I prefer to keep my sadnesses to myself,’ he said.
She looked surprised. ‘But a trouble shared is a trouble halved — or so they say.’
‘Claptrap.’
She didn’t speak for a moment, but her face drained of colour. ‘I beg your pardon.’
‘What you just said — it’s only a saying and it’s rubbish. I’m not discussing my private life with anyone.’
She caught her breath. ‘I thought I was a part of your private life.’
‘It doesn’t mean you’re on the inside with a licence to go where you want.’
‘You don’t know how hurtful you’re being.’
‘I’ll shut up, then.’
He finished the pie and chips in silence. Although rows with work colleagues were his stock-in-trade, this was his first serious difference with Paloma and he knew he was handling it badly. He offered to get another drink.
She was tight-lipped.
‘Shall we go, then?’ he suggested.
Still silent, she got up from the table and walked to the door. The barman shouted, ‘Cheers, folks. Have a great evening.’ Neither Diamond nor Paloma answered.
Out on the towpath, something definitely needed to be said. In ordinary circumstances they would head towards his house and she would spend the night with him. But it wasn’t as if they were married. These intimacies were occasional and by arrangement — a subtle, consensual understanding.
He said, ‘Perhaps it’s a sign that we’ve moved on, having a few strong words with each other.’ He meant to say they’d grown closer and could speak their differences without the relationship breaking down.
That wasn’t how Paloma took it. ‘Moved on? Are you saying you want to end it?’ She stopped walking and swung round to face him. ‘Are you?’
‘Paloma, it’s not me making an issue out of nothing.’
‘So I’m to blame, am I?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Not in as many words, but that’s obviously what you meant. It may sound like nothing to you but I’m not used to being told my opinions are claptrap, especially when I was reaching out to you, doing my best to understand you.’
‘I don’t want to be understood — not like that, anyway.’
Her face reddened and her eyes filled with tears. ‘In that case you don’t need me around. Find some other woman to shag, someone who doesn’t give a damn about you. You and I are through.’
She turned and stepped briskly away without looking back.
5
Two weeks passed and Mel heard nothing more from the “Famous Foursome,” Cat’s term for the mysterious string quartet. Thinking they may have decided he wasn’t the right choice for violist, he made up his mind not to lose any sleep over it. Sure, the money was tempting, but he didn’t care for their methods, acting like Cold War spies, obtaining his address, whisking him off for a secret meeting in a London club, refusing to say who they were and gatecrashing a private wedding party for a second look at him. Out of curiosity he’d Googled string quartets. Would a reputable, high-earning ensemble group be able to exist in the twenty-first century without its own website with pictures of the performers? Even if Ivan was a shadowy figure, the rumbustious Cat was not. He’d found more ensembles online than he had ever dreamed existed, plenty with female cellists and their pictures, too, but none looked like her. If he’d been able to supply a name for the quartet he might have had more success. After numerous tries he decided his time would be better spent practising.