The Stag and Hen Weekend

by Mike Gayle

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied. ‘They were a good crowd. Amsterdam crowds can sometimes be a little stiff but these guys were great. They were really into it.’

  ‘It was hard not to notice,’ said Phil. ‘Are your fans always that keen?’

  Sanne grinned. ‘You mean the guys that wanted the autographs? They’re a little intense but they’re harmless enough.’

  ‘Were they fans of your old band?’

  Sanne shook her head. ‘So you know about my old band?’ she said. ‘How did you guess?’

  Phil laughed. ‘You played one of their songs.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have had you down as a Misty Mondays fan.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ replied Phil. ‘I just put two and two together, that’s all. Don’t you like people knowing?’

  Sanne shook her head. ‘I don’t like people thinking they know me just because they’ve seen things in the papers. That period of my life is over, it was fun while it lasted but it’s definitely over.’ Sanne came to a halt in front of a dimly lit pub that didn’t appear to have a name and was so small it looked more like someone’s living room.

  ‘It’s not the coolest place in the world,’ said Sanne reading Phil’s face, ‘but I think you’ll like it. It’s homely . . . like you.’

  The barman waved at Sanne the moment she entered the room as did a number of the regulars. As they looked around for a table, a couple at a table in the window stood up and left and Sanne immediately took their table while Phil ordered a white wine and a beer at the bar.

  ‘So,’ began Sanne as they clinked glasses, ‘what exactly is on your mind?’

  ‘Everything,’ replied Phil, though to his ears it sounded more than a little cheesy.

  ‘Everything how?’

  Phil struggled to find the right words. ‘You and me . . . we’re . . . connected.’

  Sanne’s brow furrowed. ‘Is this to do with my old band?’

  Phil shook his head. ‘That’s not the connection. Aiden’s the connection,’ he swallowed hard. ‘Aiden Reid.’

  13.

  ‘What’s going on?’ demanded Sanne, her face lined in fury. ‘Are you a journalist?’

  ‘Of course not,’ protested Phil. ‘I’m just a bloke on his stag weekend!’

  ‘Then why the talk about my ex-husband?’ she snapped. ‘What’s he done now that’s made him so newsworthy all of a sudden? I’m sick and tired of you guys following me around and hassling me about him, always taking pictures and poking your noses in where they’re not wanted! That’s the main reason I left the UK. I don’t like you guys in my life!’ She picked up her glass and tossed the contents in Phil’s face. ‘Just leave me alone! Just leave me be or I swear you’ll regret it!’

  She grabbed her jacket and turned to leave. Desperate to persuade her to stay, Phil made a grab for Sanne’s arm. Of all the wrong moves he could have made this was undoubtedly the worst. Not only did it thoroughly enrage Sanne, but every man in the bar too and before he knew it he was being pinned against the wall.

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong!’ yelled Phil over the fracas even though he could no longer see if Sanne was still in the room. ‘You’ve got it all wrong! I’m not a journalist! I’m Helen Richards’ boyfriend! You know, Helen Richards as in Aiden’s—’ Phil stopped as Sanne’s face appeared among those already crowded around his own. She shouted something in Dutch to the men and gradually the less aggressive of the pack released their grip on Phil until only one, a young guy wearing a baseball cap and logoed sportswear, remained. Sanne placed her hand on the man’s forearm and calmly repeated the phrase that she had told the others until he released Phil’s shirt, offering a barely perceptible nod in her direction before returning to the bar where he had been standing with his friends.

  Sanne slipped on her jacket, dug deep inside her bag and withdrew her purse. She spoke to the barman in Dutch and gave him a handful of notes. The barman took the cash; Sanne grabbed Phil’s hand and dragged him outside.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, checking his face for signs of injury. ‘They didn’t hit you did they?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Phil, wiping the remnants of Sanne’s wine from his face. ‘It was nothing.’

  Sanne smiled. ‘Not even a flesh wound?’

  ‘No.’ Phil noticed that he was still holding her hand and pulled it away. ‘Not even a flesh wound.’

  Sanne began walking. ‘I’m sorry about what happened back there. When you mentioned Aiden’s name I just saw red and assumed you were a journalist.’

  Phil smiled. ‘I take it you’re not a fan?’

  ‘Hardly,’ she replied. ‘It was bad enough when I was in the band, we’d check into hotels and find them waiting outside our bedrooms or one time actually in our bedrooms hiding inside a wardrobe but the minute I started seeing Aiden it went insane. The paparazzi were camped outside the entrance to my apartment morning, noon and night. I couldn’t even go to my grandfather’s grave in Golders Green without at least one of them following me and taking a snap that would end up under some horrible intrusive headline. It was a living nightmare and not one I’ll ever go back to.’

  ‘Helen had that too for a while,’ said Phil as Sanne took a sharp left off the main road down a long narrow street, ‘obviously nowhere near as bad as you but bad enough. It started when Aiden first got famous so the tabloids started trawling through his friends and family to see if they could get any dirt on him, then when you guys got engaged it took off big time and they offered Helen silly money if she’d agree to dish the dirt in an exclusive. They got so desperate they even tried to drag me into it a couple of times, door-stepping me at work and trying to rile me so that they could get some kind of quote from the bloke going out with Aiden Reid’s first love.’ Phil winced as a look of hurt flashed across Sanne’s features. He would have apologised but thought that it would make things worse. They continued in silence across canal bridges and along tiny cobbled streets until they came to a halt outside a bustling canalside café and took a seat at one of the outdoor tables.

  A waitress handed them both menus. Phil looked at his watch. It was only ten minutes to midnight. If he jumped on a tram now he could be with the boys before they moved on. But even as he constructed his getaway in his head Phil knew that he wouldn’t be going anywhere too soon. There was too much to say, too much to talk about.

  Tired of lager and desperate to counter the fatigue currently leeching away at his bones Phil ordered an Americano for himself and a cappuccino for Sanne and for good luck added a slice of cheesecake to the order.

  As they waited Sanne, obviously keen to avoid any real conversation while they were still in danger of being interrupted by the waitress, told him the history of the area in which they were sitting, how in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the city’s richest families had built homes there resulting in some of the unique style of architecture throughout the city. As Sanne spoke Phil gazed up at the illuminated three-storey buildings around them and marvelled at one in particular with a turreted roof and stone cornicing elaborately carved into the shape of herds of wild horses. It was truly spectacular and increased his sense of wonderment at the city that for two days had been his home.

  The drinks and cheesecake arrived. Phil offered Sanne the first taste of his dessert but she declined. A long silence fell.

  ‘When did you realise who I was?’ asked Sanne eventually. ‘In the queue when we met or later?’

  Phil swallowed down a mouthful of cheesecake. ‘I thought you looked familiar the minute I saw you,’ he replied, ‘but it was when I left the bar that it hit me.’

  Sanne picked up Phil’s fork and dipped it into the cheesecake. ‘So why didn’t you say anything when we met at the museum?’ She manoeuvred the fork to her lips. ‘Were you trying to catch me out or something?’

  ‘It would’ve been too weird,’ replied Phil as she set the fork down on his plate. ‘I mean what are the chances? Me meeting you, and us having this huge thing in common?’


  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Sanne. ‘My mum once flew out to see me in LA and on the way back who should she sit next to but a woman she used to be best friends with in kleuterschool. They hadn’t seen each other since they were six! Weird stuff happens all the time.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Phil. He sighed and took a sip of his Americano. ‘But it still felt too odd for my liking.’

  ‘So what changed your mind?’ she asked. ‘Or is that a silly question?’

  Phil’s whole frame filled with embarrassment. What exactly had he hoped to learn by talking to Sanne about her ex-husband? Was he simply looking for a way to torture himself for no good reason? ‘I was fine until you told me why your marriage broke down . . . and I guess . . . well I guess it sort of freaked me out. I mean your ex is a rich guy and I know from the papers that your divorce cost him big time and the idea that a guy like him would give up half his fortune because he thought he was still in love with my girlfriend was . . .’

  ‘Unsettling?’

  ‘That’s it exactly,’ said Phil. ‘I know it’s been a while since you guys split up but do you know if he ever tried to get back in contact with Helen?’

  Sanne frowned. ‘Don’t you think she would tell you if he had?’

  Phil shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Would you have done if you were in her shoes? He’s Aiden Reid, if anyone’s going to make a bloke feel a bit emasculated it would be someone like him with all his money and fame. Why would you put someone you loved through that? I know Helen inside out. I know what makes her laugh and I know what makes her cry. And if she did hold back the fact that he had been in touch it would be for a good reason.’

  Sanne nodded thoughtfully. ‘She sounds like a good woman.’

  ‘She is,’ replied Phil. ‘The best.’

  Sanne blinked several times and then rubbed her eyes and Phil knew that he had inadvertently hit a nerve. ‘I used to hate her you know.’ She looked at Phil, gauging his reaction. ‘I used to hate her with every fibre of my being. When I moved in with Aiden I came across some photographs of her tucked away in a box in his wardrobe and I knew that she was someone special. Men like Aiden don’t keep photos of women they’ve been with, at least not these kinds of photos – happy photos, full of warmth and love. I asked him who she was and he just took the photos and told me to mind my own business.’

  Phil was confused. ‘So he never told you about her?’

  ‘Oh, he told me all right,’ said Sanne, ‘but it was months later and he was drunk and distraught because his mum was ill at the time and he wasn’t coping very well.’

  ‘And what did he say exactly?’

  ‘He told me she was his ex, and that they’d planned to marry but he had been unfaithful to her.’

  ‘And that’s all?’

  ‘No,’ said Sanne, ‘he also told me that he had never stopped loving her.’

  Phil felt a rush of blood to his head. ‘He actually said that?’

  Sanne nodded. ‘It’s typical Aiden, always wanting what he can’t have. It’s how he’s built.’

  ‘So how did you end up getting married if you knew he felt this way?’

  Sanne shrugged philosophically. ‘How does anything happen in these situations? You simply become blind to what you don’t want to see. By this time I was so in love with him he could have told me anything and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference to how I felt. I adored him. He made me feel like I’d never felt before. That he had these feelings for someone in the past was hurtful, yes, but it was by no means a deal-breaker. I was convinced that if I loved him enough, one day he’d feel that same way about me.’

  ‘And did it work?’ he asked, before the full implication of his question reached his brain.

  Sanne didn’t reply. She pulled a handful of notes from her purse, tucked them underneath her cappuccino cup and stood up. ‘I need to walk,’ she said. ‘You can come or you can go, it’s up to you.’

  Berating himself for not having kept his big mouth shut, Phil ran after her and caught her halfway down the cobbled street.

  ‘Listen, Sanne I’m sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘That question has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. I’m an idiot. Just ignore me.’

  Sanne wiped her eyes but even without a street light Phil could see her lashes glistening in the moonlight. ‘I just find . . . I don’t know . . . even now it still hurts a little.’ Reaching into her bag she took out her phone, dialled a number, turned to Phil and said: ‘How do you feel about—?’ but then stopped as her call was answered and she began talking animatedly in her mother tongue. ‘That was my friend Janneke,’ she explained as she ended the call, ‘the friend who I was meeting tonight. She’s at her place now with a few of our friends. It’s not far from here if you fancy it for a while. They’re good people. You’ll like them.’

  Sanne’s friends’ small gathering turned out to be a party on the top floors of an old four-storey house with huge windows that looked out across the Amstel. Armed with a can of lager Phil spent the first half-hour touring the house and the second being introduced to Sanne’s friends the names of whom had all pretty much eluded him the moment he shook their hands.

  Unlike his friends back home in Nottingham (most of whom worked in ordinary occupations with needlessly complicated job titles) virtually all of Sanne’s friends appeared to be ‘creative’ in some way. Phil had never met so many people who claimed to work in the field of performance poetry, and after the fifth he longed to talk to someone ordinary about something ordinary, if only for a short while.

  A tall skinny girl with bright red bobbed hair came over to the performance poet Phil had been stuck with for the last ten minutes, and seizing his opportunity to flee Phil made his way over to Sanne who was on the fringes of a large group standing by the window.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked as Phil appeared by her side. ‘Still enjoying yourself?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Phil, ‘I think the fatigue’s just kicking in, that’s all.’

  ‘Do you want to get off? I don’t mind.’

  ‘No,’ said Phil. ‘But I tell you what I could do with though . . . your phone, just for a minute, if that’s okay.’

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ replied Sanne. ‘If you want to call your friends and invite them over they’d be more than welcome.’

  ‘I couldn’t even if I wanted to,’ explained Phil. ‘For reasons that I won’t go into we all left our phones back in the UK and I’ve been wanting to call Helen but can’t remember her number.’

  ‘So you’re going to call a friend and get it?’

  Phil shook his head. ‘The only person I can think of is my sister who’s actually with Helen this weekend and I can’t remember her number either.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘Well, if it’s okay with you I’ll check my voicemail and see if she’s called me. I just want to know if she’s okay, does that make any sense?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sanne, ‘I think it’s sweet.’

  Sanne explained how to use the phone and then excused herself to go to the kitchen to get them a couple of fresh lagers. Phil, desperate to get away from the noise, headed out into the hallway and began dialling.

  The message had been left Friday evening:

  Hey you, it’s just me saying a quick hello. Arrived safely, the hotel is amazing, and the girls are all here now and we’re having a lot of fun. Obviously I’m not looking to cramp your style in front of the boys but I thought you might like to know that I love you madly! No need to ring me back, okay? Love you, bye.

  It was so good just to hear her voice and Phil felt comforted. Everything was all right. All of that worrying was for nothing. Aiden Reid was nowhere to be seen. Relieved, he pushed on to hear the second and final message left only an hour earlier:

  Phil, it’s me. I’m not looking to cause trouble, I promise you, but you know that Aiden Reid guy off the radio? Well he’s here at the hotel and Helen knows him – they used to work together or som
ething – and well I don’t know how to say this nicely because I know it’ll be painful so I’ll just come out with it: I’ve got a horrible feeling that something’s going on between the two of them. Ring me when you get this and let me know what you want me to do. Take care and I’ll speak to you soon.

  14.

  Phil had been halfway to the front door when Sanne, carrying the two bottles of lager, had called his name.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve left your phone with one of your friends,’ explained Phil urgently. ‘I have to go.’

  Sanne’s brow furrowed. ‘Go?’ she asked, stunned. ‘Why? Has someone upset you? Who was it? Let me at least try and sort it out. Please, let me at least try. I’d hate you to just go like this.’

  ‘It’s Aiden,’ explained Phil. ‘When I was checking my messages I found one from my sister. She thinks that something is going on between Helen and Aiden.’

  ‘Why would she say that?’ questioned Sanne. ‘How would she even know something like that?’

  ‘The girls – Helen and her mates – they’ve gone to some posh hotel in the Peak District,’ replied Phil. ‘Caitlin says that Aiden’s there too.’ He looked at Sanne. ‘Now how’s that for the king of coincidences?’

  Sanne bit her lip. ‘Nothing about this sounds right,’ she said putting a reassuring hand on Phil’s arm. ‘I’m not calling your sister a liar but are you sure that she couldn’t be mistaken?’

  ‘Mistaken?’ replied Phil. ‘Mistaken how? I’ve never even mentioned to Caitlin that Helen knew Aiden so why would she bring his name up now?’

  ‘I don’t know . . .’ said Sanne. ‘Maybe she Googled Helen’s name one time and Aiden’s name came up?’

  ‘And so she thought she’d ruin my stag weekend with a practical joke?’

  ‘No, of course I’m not saying that but maybe . . . I don’t know . . . maybe Aiden was there by accident – he used to take me to those kinds of places all the time when we were together – maybe they spoke and your sister’s got a bit freaked out that her sister-in-law to be is on such good terms with someone as famous as Aiden.’