Final Demand (9 page)

That night Colin sloughed off his past. It lay there, an empty skin. He stepped out of it, into a new life.

The wedding was fixed for January. The speed of events left Colin breathless. Natalie took everything in hand, fixing the register office and a party afterwards at somebody's uncle's restaurant, arranging the mortgage (a hundred per cent) on a starter home (appliances included) in a new development out on the Selby Road.

Colin sleepwalked through it all. Dazzled with love, sluggish with satisfied desire, he surrendered himself to the current. He lived for the nights, when the world closed down and he held Natalie in his arms under her striped duvet. So this was what he had been missing! He felt cocky and proud, he felt he had joined the human race. And yet he pitied other people, for nothing they experienced could approach the intensity of his passion for Natalie – and hers, it seemed, for him.

For she seemed to love him; that was the miracle. His mother was suspicious. ‘She's after something, that young woman.'

‘Her name's Natalie, Mam.'

‘What's she want from you?'

‘She loves me!'

‘It's not your money because you haven't got any. And it's not your blooming reptile collection, she's not that daft.' Her eyes narrowed. ‘She's an ambitious hussy, what's she doing with you?'

‘Please try to like her, Mam. For my sake.'

To tell the truth, he could hardly be bothered about his mother – he, who had been her devoted son. Love blinded him to her feelings. He became, for a short while, uncharacteristically ruthless.

‘Think of it,' he said cheerfully. ‘No cages cluttering up your house—'

‘Our house.'

‘No terrapins in the sink. Remember the fuss you kicked up about the toad spawn?'

‘It was in the ruddy bath—'

‘I'll visit you every week, that's a promise. You'll be fine.'

He kissed her lightly on the forehead – he, who never kissed her!

‘She a local lass? What's her family?'

Where did Natalie come from? Colin hadn't asked. She had mentioned moving from place to place, mostly in the Leeds–Halifax area. What little he knew about her parents seemed unsuitable for his mother's ears. He could picture Peggy's face.
Her mum, she's had kids with four different men. She's run away to Dundee with a fella half her age and her dad sells drugs on a Thai beach.

‘Her mum's called Janey, she lives in Scotland at present. Her dad's a businessman, he works in the Far East.'

His mam paused, taking this in. ‘What's the hurry?' she asked. ‘She pregnant?'

Colin assured her to the contrary. He already felt foreign – new clothes, bought by Natalie; a new, secret existence his mother couldn't penetrate. Had she ever felt like this about his dad? The thought made him queasy.

Whatever her misgivings, Peggy was built to soldier on. She put a brave face on it and even had her hair permed for the big day.

The wedding was on a Saturday. Natalie drove round to Colin's house, to collect him. His mother, dressed in her best coat and hat, was sitting on the edge of the settee; she had been sitting there, motionless, for some time.

With Natalie's entrance the room lit up; her presence switched it on. Colin marvelled at her beauty. She wore a silky trouser suit thing with a flower in its buttonhole. His drab past
was shunted into a siding; it was redundant. His real journey started here, at this moment. Somehow he still hadn't believed that she would turn up, that she would go through with it. She sat down on the arm of a chair and smiled at them both. ‘Ready?'

‘You're wearing a ring already,' said Peggy. ‘I noticed it the first day.'

Natalie looked at her hand. ‘I forgot.' The ring was made of plaited wire. She tried to pull it off. ‘It's nothing. I just wear it for fun.'

‘On your wedding finger?'

She was still tugging. ‘Got some scissors?'

‘I can do better than that.' Colin hurried out and returned with his toolbox. Opening it, he produced a pair of pliers. ‘Sure you want me to cut it?'

She nodded. ‘It doesn't mean anything, it's just a bit of wire.'

So he cut it off, snip snip snip. He did it with great delicacy, for his huge hands were surprisingly sensitive. He could fix wiring; he could swab, with a moistened cotton bud, the gummed-up nostrils of an ailing iguana.

And an hour later, in Leeds Register Office, Colin slipped on her wedding ring.

A book was produced and she wrote, with a fountain pen,
Mrs Natalie Taylor
in her best schoolgirl writing.

The party was held in a Greek restaurant. Natalie's mother Janey, who had been tracked down to Dundee, had arrived late. She had a tan – how had she got that, living on benefits? – and had dyed her hair a startling shade of purple.

Draining her glass, she stared at Colin. ‘That one?' she spluttered, her throaty laugh startlingly loud. She and her boyfriend Greg were already merry, having stopped to celebrate on the journey south. ‘Blimey. No wonder he looks like all his Christmases have come at once.'

‘He's really nice, Mum. He wants to look after me.'

‘But you're not that sort of girl.'

‘I always have been,' said Natalie. ‘You just didn't notice.'

She looked at the line of grey along her mother's parting, where the purple was growing out. Where were you, she thought, when I needed you? She felt a rush of warmth for Colin, who had restored order into her life; it was like starting out again, but properly this time. Colin would never betray her and she loved him for this. She realized: I want to make him happy. It was such an unfamiliar sensation, it startled her.

‘Oh well.' Janey raised her glass. ‘Here's to you, babe.' She was overcome with her smoker's cough.

In a sudden spasm of family feeling Janey had brought along one of Natalie's half-brothers: Lawrence. He had been removed from Care for the day as this was a special occasion. Lawrence was a cheerful, coffee-coloured boy whom Natalie hadn't seen for years, and now his voice was breaking and he would soon be a man.

Colin clutched Natalie's hand. The appearance of this motley little family made his love for her all the stronger. She was vulnerable, a frail vessel adrift and he was the harbour. Where was her parents' sense of responsibility?
He
wouldn't be like that. He would stay married to Natalie for ever, they would grow old side by side.

They made their way from one table to the next, greeting friends. The man she had lived with, Mr Motorbike, hadn't been invited. Colin would have thumped him. No – he would have pitied him, for losing her.
No
– he would have hugged him in gratitude. Colin's head swam; he wasn't used to drink. Nor had he ever been the host of a party; it was as novel a sensation as being a bridegroom. Both, for a moment, felt equally momentous. Strangers shook his hand; someone refilled his glass. Men envied him, he could feel it. Who could not envy him this woman of experience and spirit, so radiant, so vibrantly alive, whose every movement was entrancing – the way she turned her slender neck to blow smoke past someone's face, the way she leaned over the table to pluck an olive? But he
could feel, too, a generosity of spirit, for it was the big day of his life and they were happy for him.

As time passed, the room grew blurred and voices boomed, as if underwater. He saw his mother gazing at a shish kebab as if it was about to explode. He stood up, to go over to her, and sat down again. He smiled at everyone, oblivious to the undercurrent in the room.

He's ever so sweet, but . . .

Maybe he's a great fuck . . .

You must be joking . . .

Why so quickly? She pregnant or something?

She's older than him, maybe her biological clock's ticking . . .

There were fifty guests at Andy's Taverna: Colin's mates and schoolfriends, with whom he had loyally kept in touch; Natalie's friends from college, friends from other offices where she had worked in the past, the girls from NT. The same thought passed through all their minds: what on earth did she see in him? But then this often happened in marriage: the office stud choosing the dumpy home-maker, mismatches of this kind. Maybe people thought this looking at their own partners, love being far too mysterious for logic.

Natalie sat beside him, backed by a trellis plaited with plastic vine leaves. With her fork she tenderly fed her bridegroom chunks of kebab. Pointing to her hair, he whispered to her; she laughed and shook her head like a dog come in from the rain. Confetti spilled on to the table. She looked exhilarated; she wore the look of those in love, the unmistakable look of somebody guarding a secret:
I know something the rest of you don't.

A honeymoon was out of the question. ‘We'll have one later,' said Natalie. ‘When we can afford it.'

‘I don't mind,' he said.

She smiled. ‘Oh, we'll manage it somehow.'

Sunday they spent in bed, only emerging to fry some chicken nuggets and drink Red Bull for their hangovers. The heating was on high. Natalie liked it that way but Colin felt suffocated,
not to mention the expense. While she slept he opened the window. Wind whistled in and blew their wedding cards off the chest of drawers.

So this is marriage, he thought. I am a married man. When I walk into a room she'll be there. Or she'll be in another room, doing whatever she does. He thought of the tune from
Friends
, a show she loved:
I'll be there for you.
I'll hear her moving about, the miracle of her, the miracle that she's alive, on this earth. And that it's me she wants.

He picked the cards off the floor and closed the window again. He climbed back into bed. Cupped around his wife, he listened to the banshee wails that echoed from the multistorey car park. As he fell asleep they became the curlews, calling each other across in the place where she had first kissed him. Their cries echoed across the moors that were so near yet so far; they echoed down the years of his future.

The rains had ceased, long ago; the floods receded. Village high streets had re-emerged and life had returned to normal. That dark, miserable autumn was just a memory now.

On Monday Natalie was back at work. She sat there, a married woman, twisting her slightly loose wedding ring round her finger. Somebody had stuck a yellow Post-it on her screen: HERE'S LOOKING AT YOU, MRS TAYLOR. It must be from Phillip;
Casablanca
was his favourite film, in fact he had promised to lend her the video. But she had forgotten about Phillip. That was all behind her now, in another life.

Safe behind her frosted glass she slit open envelopes one by one. The cheques were all made out to
NuLine Telecommunications plc.
Finally, after thirty or so, she pulled out a cheque for £269.23. It was written to
N. T.

Natalie held it in her hand. She held it gingerly, as if it might give her an electric shock. Its
chequeness
was intense; it was as if she had never held a cheque in her hand until this moment. This was the buzz of crime, the kick of it. She felt fizzingly alive to her fingertips.

The customers (Mr and Mrs L. Dimshaw) had used black biro. Natalie looked around – an instinctive, criminal gesture – but why should anyone be watching? Nobody could see her anyway, with partitions either side. She reached into her bag and rummaged around for her collection of pens at the bottom. She lifted them out and selected a black ballpoint.

Carefully, copying the writing on the cheque, she altered the
N.T. to N. Taylor.

Then she slipped the cheque into her handbag.

MORNING LIGHT GLIMMERED
through the curtains. The bedroom floor was strewn with clothes: tights, knickers, tracksuit bottoms. Beside the bed a digital clock glowed: 10.45. The walls were covered with posters: girl bands, boy bands, two posters of O-Zone and one featuring Damon alone – skin-tight leather and a sneer that said
Everything I want, I get.

It was March. Outside it was cold, the clammy grey sky clamped down on the city. The bedroom, however, was stifling; its occupant liked it that way. Traffic thundered past, down in the street; it was used as a short cut between the motorway and Manchester city centre, it was always busy. A police car screeched past, its siren wailing.

In the bedroom, however, all was quiet. The sleeper, a humped shape under the duvet, exhaled a snore. The duvet stirred as she shifted her position. Young women, dreaming of love, can sleep their lives away.

A tap at the door. No response. Another tap, a little louder, and a woman stepped into the room.

‘Pet? It's time to get up.'

The duvet moved. There was a groan, and a face emerged.

‘Your dad wants you downstairs; Lennox is going to be late.'

Chloe groaned and turned over.

‘I'm sorry,' said her mother, and closed the door.

Chloe climbed slowly out of bed. She was not an unhelpful girl; in fact, she was generally good-natured. An amiable lass, was how she was regarded by the regulars. She just found it an effort to get out of bed. The air was thick; it was like soup, to be moved through sluggishly. And sooner or later, as part of the dressing process, she would have to come face to face with herself in the mirror. While she was still dozy, Damon
whispered,
I want you I want you.
Once she was awake, however, and gazing hopelessly at her wardrobe full of clothes, the girl bands (Lurex, Mob Effect) would be looking at her contemptuously from their posters.
In your dreams
, said their glossy lips.
Lose some weight, darling.

Chloe wasn't fat; just big-boned. Besides, men liked girls with some flesh on them. Waifs were yesterday's news. That was what Chloe told herself as she made her way to the bathroom, locked the door and lowered herself on to the toilet. The seat creaked.