The Stag and Hen Weekend

by Mike Gayle

  Phil knew it was a stupid, petty and childish way for a grown man to think, and that it was beneath him even momentarily to indulge these feelings of inadequacy. But in this instance at least what he felt in his heart carried more weight than what he thought in his rational mind.

  Phil shed his suit, climbed into the bath, pulled back the curtain and turned on the shower, cowering away from the cool spray until steam began to rise from the lower reaches of the bath. Stepping under the hot water Phil’s skin tingled as the water blasted through the dirt and grime that had plastered itself to him over the past twenty-four hours leaving him if not entirely like a different person, then at least the next best thing.

  Stepping out of the bath he stood in front of the mirror, picked up his towel and wiped a patch of the glass free of condensation to reconsider his image. He looked better. Not great, but better. The eyes were less bloodshot, the sheen had returned to his skin and although his teeth were in need of a good sandblasting, it was nothing that a burst of Colgate and a good scrub couldn’t handle.

  In the bedroom Phil pulled out underwear and fresh clothes and then recalled his instruction that they should wear the suits for the entire weekend. He picked up his from the floor and hoped the worst of the creases would fall out during the day. The white shirt however was beyond redemption, so he pulled out another one and began dressing.

  He put on his jacket and again fished out the piece of paper with Sanne’s number on it. He stared at it a moment before screwing it up and tossing it on the table next to the TV. Congratulating himself on doing the right thing he picked up his room key and left the room, only to return, walk over to the pneumatic drill and hide it carefully in the wardrobe.

  Reaching the ground floor Phil stepped out of the lift feeling more centred than he had any right to be given his hangover. And as he made his way to the lobby to meet the boys he promised himself that no matter what problems came his way during the day he would remain positive. There was no need to keep blowing up over the smallest thing, what he needed to do was to remain calm. As he scanned the lobby he spotted a scruffy denim-clad figure with a rucksack standing with friends. In an instant all notions of peace and goodwill to the universe vanished.

  The man turned around and opened his arms to greet Phil. ‘How’s this for a surprise?’ he said in a rich, deep voice like an old delta blues singer. He flashed Phil a dirty great grin that revealed a set of teeth that had seen better days. ‘I bet you weren’t expecting to see me here, were you, kid?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ said Phil flatly. ‘You’ve pretty much hit the nail on the head with that one.’

  8.

  ‘Someone needs to explain!’ barked Phil loudly enough for a number of the Royal Standard’s guests to glance over at him. ‘And they need to do it now!’

  Simon stepped forward wearing a look of weary resignation. ‘Well in that case I think it probably ought to be me.’

  ‘You?’ questioned Phil. ‘You’re supposed to be my best man not a cut-price Jeremy Kyle!’

  Simon pulled Phil to one side and lowering his voice to a whisper said: ‘Look, mate. Don’t do this.’

  ‘Do what?’ boomed Phil, refusing to comply with the volume established by Simon. ‘You’re the one who invited my dad, of all people, on my stag do. What were you thinking?’

  ‘He asked to come. What could I say?’

  ‘I think no would have sufficed. That’s the word you use when you don’t want things to happen isn’t it?’ Fizzing with frustration Phil snarled: ‘You didn’t even bother to warn me!’

  ‘Would you have still come if I had?’

  ‘Of course I wouldn’t! Why would I go on a stag do with my dad?’

  ‘Because he’s a laugh. He always has been.’

  ‘He’s only a laugh if you’re not related to him. If you share DNA with the old scrote I think you’ll find that the word “laugh” is better translated “embarrassment”.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do? Send him back?’

  ‘Could you?’ retorted Phil. ‘That would be great! And while you’re at it you could get him to pop round to my mum’s and apologise to her for being an arsehole for the best part of forty years!’ Phil glared at Simon. ‘Did you pay his plane fair?’

  Simon winced. ‘He promised he’d pay me back.’

  ‘What with,’ snorted Phil, ‘fresh air?’

  They both turned to look at Patrick who already appeared to have the boys in stitches.

  ‘So can he stay or what?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Doesn’t look like I’ve got much choice, have I?’ replied Phil bitterly. ‘I’ll tell you what though . . . next time you’ve got a big Saturday night blow-out planned I’m definitely bringing your mum along.’

  Leaving Simon to contemplate the error of his ways Phil strode over to his dad and considered giving him a hug but thought better of it. He looked older, more worn than Phil remembered and it occurred to Phil that Patrick Hudson would not always be around to be angry at.

  ‘So, all sorted then?’ said Patrick raising his bushy eyebrows expectantly.

  Phil nodded. ‘It’s done. You’re staying.’

  ‘Excellent, son!’ he said genuinely pleased. ‘I promise you, you won’t regret it! So what’s the plan? Bit too early to start drinking, eh? Especially after last night!’ He nudged Phil in the ribs and ran one of his big calloused hands over his son’s scalp. ‘A right chip off the old block!’

  ‘Cheers, Dad,’ said Phil envisaging the long day ahead. ‘You have no idea how proud that makes me feel.’

  ‘We’re going to get some breakfast, Mr Hudson,’ said Simon.

  Patrick eyed Simon sternly. ‘It’s Patrick, son. I’m only Mr Hudson when I’m in court or being grilled by the filth.’

  Phil reluctantly found himself warming to his dad’s infectious charm. ‘Let it go Pop, it’s not like you’re the Godfather is it?’ he said. ‘The only criminal record you’ve got is for refusing to pay your council tax until they reinstate the old-style wheelie bins.’

  Patrick let out a rasping chuckle. ‘And every time I take out the rubbish I still think those bins are just too damn small!’

  Phil noted his father’s rucksack. ‘Do you want a few minutes to nip up to your room and drop that off, Dad? You don’t want to be carrying it around all day.’

  ‘I’m fine thanks, son,’ replied his dad, squeezing the strap of his bag. ‘It’s got my angina medicine in it, so I’ll keep it with me to be on the safe side.’

  Following Simon’s lead Phil, Patrick and the boys made their way outside the hotel. It was another bright, sunny day – classic T-shirt weather – and although Phil still felt like death warmed up his spirits couldn’t fail to be lifted by the vividness of the cloudless blue sky above their heads as he slipped on his sunglasses.

  The good weather had drawn the inhabitants of Amsterdam into the city centre as well as those there for the weekend. There was a buzz about the city as people got on and off tram cars, stood in crowds watching English-speaking outdoor theatre performers or simply sat watching the world go by outside numerous cafés and restaurants.

  The boys having dismissed several possible breakfast venues on the basis that they ‘didn’t look right’, finally came to a halt outside a pub off Dam Square. It was called the Shamrock Inn and had two faded Guinness posters blu-tacked to the glass doors at the entrance. Phil tried to keep his mouth shut but he just couldn’t help himself. ‘You come all the way to Amsterdam and this is the place you want to eat your first meal of the day?’

  ‘It does English breakfasts,’ said Degsy. ‘We can’t come on a stag weekend and not have a full English breakfast. It’d be criminal.’

  ‘The lad’s right,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve had breakfasts all round the world from Bangkok to Wilmington Ohio and I haven’t had one better than the Great British breakfast. It’s one of the few things we do well.’

  Reuben, Spencer and Deano nodded in agreement.

  Phil hoped that at l
east Simon might be the voice of reason. ‘Come on Si,’ he encouraged, ‘You know this is wrong.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Mate,’ he said wearily, ‘I’m starving and my head feels like it got hit by a truck. I don’t care what we eat or where we eat it as long as we eat it now.’

  The debate concluded, they took a table between a scruffy-looking British couple sipping tea from large mugs that said ‘I love London’, and five lads in their late teens tucking into a plate of sausage sandwiches while broadcasting in braying public school accents the highlights of the sex show they had been to the night before.

  Clearly working on the basis that targeting people with hangovers would keep the people who cared about the provenance of their sausages far away, the Shamrock Inn’s English breakfast was as disappointing as it was overpriced. The eggs were pale and undercooked, the bacon hopelessly chewy, the toast cold, the bright orange baked beans congealed and the sausages little more than cereal rusk and mechanically recovered meat stuffed into a flimsy casing.

  Phil ate no more than three mouthfuls of his breakfast before abandoning it in favour of a mug of tepid sugary tea, which he drained in three gulps.

  ‘Not hungry?’ asked Spencer spying Phil’s full plate.

  ‘Nah,’ said Phil. ‘I think I’ve lost my appetite.’

  ‘So can I . . . ?’ Spencer nodded towards the food. ‘Shame to see it go to waste.’

  ‘Help yourself, mate.’

  Not needing to be told twice, Spencer shared out the leftovers among the grateful boys.

  Phil stood up and stretched. The thought of spending the next ten minutes watching the others eat breakfast was about as appealing as eating the breakfast himself. ‘I’m going to go for a walk,’ he said. ‘Clear my head a bit. Are you guys going to be here for a while or shall we just meet up later?’

  ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll come with you,’ said Simon as the boys murmured that they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. ‘I’m not ready to start drinking but I could do with getting hold of some fags.’

  Donning their sunglasses the two friends headed towards Dam Square in silence, content, it seemed, to allow the sights and sounds around them to be their entertainment.

  ‘You’re hating this, aren’t you?’ said Simon as they passed a group of kids splashing each other in one of the square’s fountains. ‘I can see it on your face.’

  ‘I’m not hating it, exactly,’ replied Phil.

  ‘But you’re not loving it either?’

  Phil shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not if I’m honest.’

  ‘So what can I do to make it right?’ They passed an elderly couple throwing bread to a flock of increasingly aggressive pigeons. ‘I don’t want to ruin things for you, mate. It’s supposed to be your weekend after all.’

  ‘Well the boys seem to be having a laugh. I’m just being a bit of a misery that’s all.’

  ‘And I’m guessing from the way you were knocking back the hard stuff last night that you were a bit freaked out by that girl turning out to be Aiden Reid’s ex-missus.’

  ‘Just a bit. It’s not her so much as him. I’ve never even met the guy, but sometimes it seems like he’s everywhere I go.’

  ‘You’ve said in the past that you thought Helen might still—’

  ‘That was ages ago,’ said Phil cutting him off. ‘And I don’t think that any more. Me and Helen couldn’t be any more rock solid if we tried.’

  ‘So what’s the problem then?’

  ‘There isn’t one.’

  Simon laughed. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Remember I’ve known you a long time.’

  They passed a middle-aged man wearing a Manchester United top fast asleep against one of the lion statues. ‘Fine,’ said Phil as the man stirred. ‘The thing is I’m thinking about seeing Sanne. The girl from last night.’

  ‘Why would you do that? Because you want to know about him? Then read a paper, mate. He’s in there every other day.’

  Phil came to a halt next to a bench but didn’t sit down. ‘I knew you wouldn’t get it.’

  ‘Of course I don’t get it,’ said Simon, ‘there’s nothing to get. Why would you want to go winding yourself up over your missus’s ex a week before you’re getting married? Makes no sense.’

  ‘And leaving your wife and kids does?’

  ‘You don’t know all the facts.’

  ‘Then why don’t you tell me them?’ said Phil, with more than a hint of anger in his voice. ‘I’m your mate, aren’t I? You’re my best man. What proof do you need that I’m on your side?’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean you can’t try.’

  ‘I can’t, mate.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘To me it does, yeah. I know you think this isn’t any of my business and maybe you’re right, but if the tables were turned you’d be having a go at me. I know you would.’

  Simon bit his lip in frustration and then in a sudden burst of resignation, said: ‘You want the truth? Well here it is: I’ve fallen in love with someone else.’

  ‘Fallen in love? Who with?’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Believe me when I say mate, that you do not want to know.’

  ‘Well maybe I do.’

  ‘No,’ said Simon firmly, ‘you don’t.’

  ‘At this point we should agree to disagree but that’s just not going to happen is it,’ said Phil. ‘I’m not going to let this go, Si, I’m not. So just tell me, okay? It’s not Reuben’s missus is it?’

  ‘No, no of course not.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yes, you can. All you’ve got to do is say the name and it’s done.’

  A group of teenage girls passed by singing in Dutch at the top of their voices.

  ‘It’s Caitlin,’ said Simon. He looked Phil in the eyes. ‘I’m sorry mate,’ he continued, ‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen, it was just one of those things.’

  ‘One of what things?’ exploded Phil. ‘You haven’t actually told me anything yet!’

  ‘Look, mate,’ said Simon backing away, ‘we don’t need to talk about this. You know now and that’s all that matters.’

  Phil stepped towards Simon. ‘You think you can get away with leaving it like that?

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it now, that’s all,’ said Simon. ‘This is your weekend.’

  ‘And Caitlin’s my sister,’ said Phil, advancing so far into Simon’s personal space that he could smell the tea on his friend’s breath. ‘How long has this been going on? Months? Weeks?’ Simon shrugged and took a step back. Phil repeated his question: ‘How long?’

  Simon cast his eyes down to the cobblestones. ‘Since before Easter.’

  Phil cast his mind back to the time in question. ‘Deano’s birthday?’ Simon nodded. ‘You were talking to her loads that night I remember.’ Phil shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s my kid sister!’

  ‘I know,’ said Simon. ‘I feel awful about it. I really do.’

  ‘But not awful enough to keep your hands off her!’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘No,’ said Phil. ‘It never is, is it? When were you going to tell me? When you moved in with her? Was I supposed to drop in to see her, see your shoes in the hallway and put two and two together?’

  ‘You know it wasn’t like that,’ stammered Simon, ‘I just couldn’t find the right time to tell you.’

  Phil’s face was the picture of disbelief. ‘And you’ve been carrying on like this ever since Deano’s do?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of? What does that mean? Whatever it is you have to say, just spit it out.’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Complicated how?’

  ‘She ended it about a month ago.’

  Phil breathed a sigh of relief. ‘So it’s over?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘And wha
t’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means,’ said Simon solemnly, ‘that I love her. I really love her.’

  ‘And that’s why you’ve left Yaz and the kids, is it?’ scoffed Phil. ‘Because you think you’re in love with Caitlin? You do know what sort of girl Caitlin is, don’t you? You do know that there are half a dozen blokes around the country who all think that they can’t live without her. Come on Si, I love her to bits but even I know that she’s a total bitch when it comes to men. She uses them. She always has done and probably always will. She likes their money and their attention but the second she’s bored she’s off and – be under no illusions about this – she won’t come back.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ said Simon. ‘Her and me together, it was special. Really special.’

  ‘So what? You’re leaving Yaz and your kids to prove your commitment to Cait in the hope that she’ll take you back?’ Phil felt genuine pity for his friend but also like he might throw a punch at any moment. ‘I need to get out of here.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘What do you want me to tell the others?’

  ‘Tell ’em what you told me,’ snapped Phil, ‘and see where that gets you.’

  9.

  Back at the hotel, Phil headed straight up to his room. The door was open and the chambermaid’s cart was parked directly outside. He shuddered at the thought of her reaction to the chaos within, and again at what she would have seen had he not had the foresight to hide the stolen penumatic drill.

  Apologising for disturbing her, Phil began searching for the piece of paper with Sanne’s number that he’d screwed up and left on the table next to the TV. It wasn’t there. The chambermaid must have dumped it. He spotted a large bin bag on the floor and began frantically rooting through it. Used tissues. Plastic bags. Sandwich wrappers. Half-empty water bottles. The rotting remains of a fruit salad. On the point of giving up Phil delved one last time and there, still screwed up in a ball was Sanne’s number.

  Phil held it open with one hand while he reached for the phone with the other and then tried to work out what exactly to say to Sanne. The essence of which was that having endured the triple whammy of a raging hangover, having his sixty-six-year-old dad join his stag weekend and discovering that his married best man had been sleeping with his sister, he now wanted to spend time in the company of someone who couldn’t surprise him with any more revelations. And while he appreciated that Sanne by virtue of her association with Aiden Reid had already knocked him sideways with a revelation of her own, the fact remained that he needed to get away from both friends and family, and as Sanne was neither, she was his safest bet.