The Red Oak (The Searight Saga Book 3)

by Rupert Colley

  ‘Did he?’ Rachel grimaced at the description of her perfume being cheap, but she was almost there. ‘Did you suspect something?’

  ‘No, of course not. Why? Ha, don’t tell me there’s something I should know.’

  Rachel finished off her coffee and purposely averted Julie’s gaze. ‘Well...’ she said, elongating the word as far as she could stretch it. This was it, she thought, a minor confession of a drunken kiss, with perhaps a few doleful glances thrown in. Then a throwaway comment about regret, followed by a full confession of her love and declarations of guilt and remorse, qualified with ‘best-to-clear-the-air’-type platitudes. Then leave destiny to do the rest.

  They heard the front door open. Rachel shot a look at the kitchen door and strained her neck to see down the hallway. If this was Tom, his timing was perfect.

  ‘Hiya, I’m back.’

  ‘In here, Charlotte, I’m with Abigail’s mum.’

  Rachel sighed.

  Charlotte breezed into the kitchen. ‘Hello,’ she said to Rachel. ‘Is Abigail here?’

  ‘No, she’s out practising with the Passchendaele Sisters,’ said Rachel, with little enthusiasm.

  ‘They don’t want to make it a foursome now, do they?’

  ‘I don’t know; you’d have to ask her.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Look, I’d better go. Thanks for the coffee, Julie, it’s been lovely to see you again.’

  Julie smiled. ‘Yes indeed,’ she said. ‘It has been lovely. We must do it again some time.’

  *

  An hour later, Julie was making her way to meet Mark at the Café Noir on Holloway Road. She’d put some make-up on and, despite the heat, wore her new and rather expensive coat. She wondered why she’d been so extravagant with the make-up – she was going in order to finish the affair, not to entice him back into bed. But applying excessive make-up when she was about to meet Mark had become a subconscious habit and she had to stop herself from changing into more alluring underwear. She’d enjoyed Rachel’s visit. Over the years she’d lost touch with all her friends – life just got in the way. She’d never been particularly friendly with Rachel, but still, it was nice of her to get in contact. And so out of the blue. She must make the effort and nurture her friendships more.

  She paused outside the café, slipping off her coat. This was their usual meeting place; the staff in there knew them both by sight. She remembered how once Tom suggested they popped in there for lunch, and the lengths she had to go to, to drag him elsewhere while trying to remain calm. She looked at the time on her mobile; she was five minutes late, but she usually was. How many times during the last eighteen months had they met here and how many times had she been on time? But this, she decided, was going to be their last occasion. It was over; this was ‘closure’. She took a deep breath and entered. She glanced around at the familiar congenial décor – the primary coloured walls, the framed black and white photographs of Hollywood stars and Parisian street scenes, the large potted plants, the jazz CD playing in the background, the staff buzzing around, dressed in black and white, the cramped atmosphere of cooking and cigarette smoke, and the hum of conversation and shouted orders. As usual at lunch time, the place was heaving, every table taken, but Mark was there reading a newspaper at their favourite table – one small enough not to have to share with anyone else, next to the fish tank full of various brightly coloured fish darting in and out between the vegetation and fake stones. How familiar it all was. Her adulterous life had become even more routine than her married life. Same man, same rendezvous, same table, and probably, knowing her and Mark, the same choice from the menu, washed down with the same drinks. As she approached the table, Mark looked up at her, smiled, folded up the newspaper and stood up. It was one of the things she’d always liked about Mark – his old-fashioned courtesy. It made her feel just a tiny bit special. Tom used to be very gentlemanly as well, but over the years it had slowly dissolved. In fact, now that she thought of it, it rather quickly evaporated soon after they got married. It was probably a generic fault within men, part of their courtship ritual, something to impress the ladies, but not built to last.

  ‘Hello, Julie, five minutes late again?’ He suddenly looked awkward. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that as a... ’

  Poor Mark, he was nervous. ‘Don’t worry. Sit down.’ She draped her coat over the chair and tried to smile, but Mark’s expression was grave. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Julie saw the picture of David Beckham on the back page of Mark’s folded Guardian. She took a cursory look at the menu, which she could recite word for word whilst Mark looked down and fiddled with his napkin.

  ‘I’m sure it gets smokier in here every time,’ she said. ‘I don’t see the point in having a no smoking bit; the place is too small for it to make any difference. Are there any interesting specials on the board today? Not that I feel hungry, I had a late breakfast. I wish they’d open the windows; it’s very hot in here. Oh dammit, I can’t decide, I think I’ll just have what I usually have. Adventurous to the last, eh? What’re you having? Don’t tell me – sausages and chips in the onion gravy. But don’t choke on the mustard this time.’ She chuckled at the memory, but Mark hadn’t been listening. ‘Mark?’

  ‘What do you think we should do?’ he said without looking at her.

  ‘Have sausages and chips in the onion–’

  ‘Julie, please.’ He glared at her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I suppose I’m on edge too.’

  ‘It was a silly mistake going back to yours.’

  ‘Ready to order now?’ a voice interrupted. Julie looked up at the young, skinny, Mediterranean-looking waitress dressed head to toe in black and white, a ring in her nose.

  ‘Yes, er, I’ll have the...’ she paused. She really wasn’t hungry. ‘No, second thoughts, I’ll just have a side salad please.’

  ‘What type?’ asked the waitress, shifting her weight onto one leg, sucking on the end of her pencil.

  ‘Caesar.’

  ‘Same for me please,’ said Mark.

  ‘Is that it? Anything to drink?’

  ‘Two café lattes,’ said Mark. Julie nodded. The wickedly slim waitress flounced off without a word.

  ‘Heck, I suppose she thinks it’s not worth us taking up a whole table just for side salads,’ said Julie.

  ‘Does Tom know?’ asked Mark leaning towards her.

  ‘No. At least I don’t think so.’

  Mark fiddled with his napkin again, trying to find the right words. ‘We can still carry on seeing each other, if you want.’

  ‘No, Mark,’ she said quietly, ‘I don’t think we should. Not now.’

  ‘But why not?’ he whispered urgently. ‘If he didn’t see us, if he doesn’t know...?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure that he didn’t see us. And anyway, that’s not the point, we’ve had a warning.’

  ‘A warning?’

  ‘Yes. Look, Mark, I had the scare of my life when that door almost opened, I almost peed myself.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean we have to stop just like that. We can still carry on, surely, we just stick to my place, he’d never know.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ She twisted a salt pot around in her fingers and sighed. ‘It’s made me think and the point is...’ She didn’t want to have to say it.

  ‘The point is?’

  But she was going to have to. ‘Oh, come on, Mark, you know I’ve never hidden the fact that I still love Tom.’ She saw him flinch at her words. ‘Mark, I’m a married woman for Heaven’s sake, a happily married woman with a fourteen-year-old daughter who, by the way, happens to dote on you, in case you hadn’t realised. I’ve got a fairly decent job and a lovely home. I can’t just, just...’ She waved her hands about, trying to find the words that summed it up without sounding trite. ‘I can’t just throw it all away.’ She’d failed and she could tell she hadn’t convinced Mark. ‘Anyway, it’s all right for you,’ she said, changing the focus of her argument. ‘You’re single. You’re not risking anything; y
ou don’t stand to lose everything.’

  ‘Apart from my job, perhaps? Anyway, I’m losing you.’

  ‘Come on, don’t do this, you know damn well what I mean. It’s time to move on, Mark, you deserve better.’ Oh God, she thought, did she really have to say that? Mark momentarily turned his head away in disgust, she couldn’t blame him; he was not a man who could be fobbed off with clichés.

  ‘Spare me,’ he spat. ‘I’m not a bloody teenager, I mean, please...’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to come out like that. It’s true though. Look at yourself. You’re five years younger than me, you’re good looking, you’re an all-round decent bloke, you’re single and you’re solvent. You could have them falling at your feet. I mean, don’t you ever ask yourself what you’re doing knocking around with some forty-year-old married woman who once thought puffball skirts were the height of fashion?’

  Mark laughed. ‘Now that you mention it...’

  ‘There you go then. I know it sounded hackneyed but seriously, that’s what I meant – you do deserve something better from life.’

  ‘I know, but, but...’ His eyes fell back to the napkin.

  Julie felt a surge of panic. Please don’t say it, she thought, just don’t say it.

  ‘But I think I love you, Julie.’

  Oh, Christ help me, he’d said it. Julie’s reaction was immediate. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No you don’t, Mark. We’ve come to know each other, we like each other, we have a lot in common and I’m great in bed–’

  ‘Caesar salad for you, sir, and Caesar salad for...’ The nose-ringed waitress raised an eyebrow at Julie. ‘For madam.’ Julie felt her face go crimson as she snatched the napkin as a child does a comfort blanket. ‘And two café lattes. Enjoy!’

  ‘Oh, how embarrassing,’ said Julie. ‘She couldn’t stop smirking. “Madam” indeed!’

  ‘She was taking the mick,’ said Mark. They both giggled into their respective salads. ‘And we do have a laugh,’ he added.

  ‘Yes, we do,’ smiled Julie. ‘But mainly I’m great in bed.’

  They ate in silence. Enough had already been said, there was nothing else to add and further conversation seemed inappropriate somehow. What else can one say after the end of an affair? She would miss it. It started off as a great adventure before turning routine and predictable, but she still enjoyed it. She enjoyed having this huge secret. It would still be a secret, but a secret with which to remember a past, a secret without a present. Did it make it safer? Hopefully. Why come all this way and fall at the last hurdle? Even coming to this café was a risk. But no one had ever spotted them in here before; no one was going to now.

  Eventually, having finished their salads, Julie said, ‘We ought to go.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark reluctantly. ‘You’re right, of course. It’s not love, it’s just, I don’t know, infatuation?’

  ‘Yes, and likewise,’ agreed Julie, leaving her napkin neatly to the side of the plate.

  ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘see you next Tuesday, I guess.’

  ‘Tuesday? What’s happening on Tuesday?’

  ‘Tuesday evening – parents’ evening. Remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course; thank you for reminding me.’ Julie picked up her coat. She took Mark’s hand from across the table and squeezed it gently. ‘See you Tuesday then.’ As she stood up and turned to leave, she paused and smiled at him. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and then she left, leaving Mark to settle the bill – as usual.

  Outside Julie walked briskly along through Holloway, past all the familiar shops and grocery stalls spilling their wares out onto the pavement – racks of fruit and vegetables, shops selling fake leather bags and sports bags shining in the sun. She felt relieved; she’d managed to finish it yet still leave on good terms. Why had she thanked him like that at the end? Was she saying thank you for being so understanding; thanks for the meal; thanks for taking her beyond the limits of her sexual imagination? No, she was thanking herself. Thankful for having had the courage to say what had to be said. It was over, now she could go back to her old life as a perfect mother and the model wife, safe with her secret.

  Chapter 5: Parents’ Evening

  The last weekend of the half-term passed by in a vacuum for Tom. Every time he stirred himself to confront Julie, his courage seemed to melt away. Although still driven crazy with all the questions bombarding his mind, part of him elected to remain in ignorance. He still couldn’t face the inevitable bust-up, the recriminations, the fall out. He told himself not to be such a coward, but what really held him back was the fear of finding something out about himself he preferred not to know. He imagined being presented with a list of his inadequacies and that was something he would rather do without.

  And so he spent the weekend keeping his distance – mending that garden fence, something he’d been meaning to do for weeks; cutting and raking the lawn; buying things he wouldn’t use from the DIY store. On the Saturday evening, Julie rewarded his dutiful work with a fine roast duck, accompanied by an expensive bottle of red wine. Afterwards, they all watched a family blockbuster Tom had hired from the local video shop. He would have gone to the library but couldn’t face the young library assistant.

  Sunday morning, the newspapers were full of obituaries for Ronald Reagan who’d died the day before. On the Sunday night, Tom rang his father and asked if he could pop over. So, after a dinner of leftover duck and a bottle of cheap beer, Tom left Julie and Charlotte watching a television police drama, and drove over to his parents’ place in Enfield. Ten years’ previously, Robert and Alice Searight had moved out of the three-storey semi-detached family home in Charlton, which had become too big, and moved into a newly-built suburban cul-de-sac. Tom and his older brother, Alec, had left home a few years before, gone to college, got jobs and settled down. Much to Robert and Alice’s consternation, Alec married a Canadian and moved to Toronto. They liked Vanessa as much as they liked Julie, but it meant the Searight seniors rarely saw two of their three grandchildren. The plus side, of course, meant that they had had several holidays in Toronto, but their dearest wish was for Alec and his family to move back to England. The new house in Enfield was a low maintenance, characterless affair, with overactive central heating, wall-to-wall non-descript carpets and plastic-framed double glazing. The interior was far too chintzy for Tom’s liking: too many little ornaments, silly knick-knacks and embarrassing family photographs.

  His mother answered the door. She was a short, slightly rounded woman with curly hair that had maintained its colour. She always wore a subtle amount of make-up; Tom couldn’t imagine her any other way. She greeted him with a kiss and routine ‘how's the family’ questions. She offered to make him a cup of tea and disappeared into the kitchen. Tom found his father watching the television, wearing his usual dark blue cardigan, and off-green corduroys and plain brown slippers. Never a man for sartorial extravagance, Robert had always maintained a rigid and limited scope in his choice of colours. He was glued to the same police drama Tom had just escaped from; the cops were gearing themselves up for an airport arrest. Tom plonked himself into the garishly patterned armchair and exchanged ‘mustn’t grumble’ type pleasantries with his father who kept his eyes fixed on the television. He still had a full head of hair, albeit totally grey and usually dishevelled. The bad guys were coming through passport control; the plain-clothes policemen lay in wait. The adverts came on. Robert asked Tom about his work, which Tom managed to parry with bland answers. The familiar conversation took its usual course. Tom would complain about his boss, Claudette, and Robert would sympathise by making disparaging comments about bosses generally.

  ‘Here we are then,’ said his mother carrying a tray with two steaming cups of tea on saucers and a little plate of biscuits.

  ‘Aren’t you having one, Mum?’ Tom asked as the police drama resumed.

  ‘No, I’m just writing a letter to Alec in the kitchen. Sad to hear about Ronald Reagan, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of cou
rse.’ Tom sipped his tea – too sweet, his mother always put too much sugar in his tea.

  ‘How’s Charlotte?’ asked his father. ‘How’s the war project coming on?’

  ‘OK, but she needs to pick a poem to recite at the school concert. The whole theme is First World War – sound effects, songs, poems, so on. It’s for the ninetieth anniversary.’

  ‘I do know the dates, Tom.’ His father still hadn’t taken his eyes off the television. The police were closing in on the bad guys. He slurped his tea. ‘Ugh, not enough sugar.’

  ‘Ah, maybe we’ve taken the wrong ones. Here – swap.’ They exchanged mugs and gingerly tasted the contents. Satisfied, they settled down to watch the unfolding events. A chase had broken out, shots fired, a bad guy hit, a screaming woman, then a sudden stop... ‘To be continued after the news’, voice over and credits followed.

  ‘I hate it when they do that,’ grumbled Robert. ‘Means you have to stay up to God knows what time to see the end and then you don’t really care anyway.’

  ‘Why do you bother then?’ asked Tom, but Robert didn’t answer. ‘Dad, are you still ex-directory?’

  ‘Yes. Doesn’t stop all those bloody calls trying to sell us something.’

  ‘So, you wouldn’t have received a letter from France recently?’

  ‘What’s that got to do with the phone directory?’ his father asked, trying to watch the television news.

  ‘It’s just that I got this letter. I thought you might be interested.’ Tom fished the letter from his back pocket and handed it to his father. Robert read it slowly without expression.

  ‘Hmm, that’s us all right,’ he said passing the letter back to Tom and returning his attention to the news.

  Tom was disappointed; he thought his father would show more interest. ‘So Guy Searight is related. I thought so.’

  ‘So why did you ask?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure. You never talk about your past.’ Whenever Tom tried to bring up the subject, Robert became almost bad tempered and clammed up. The subject had long been a family taboo.