The Stag and Hen Weekend

by Mike Gayle

  In the bar it was as though she had stepped into another world. The music that had previously been little more than aural wallpaper was now loud enough to be a feature in itself and that, combined with the buzz of a hundred different conversations, gave the room a whole different atmosphere.

  Keen to avoid the footballer and his friends, Helen kept her head down as she passed where they had been standing and as she wove her way back to the girls Yaz looked up and waved. She raised her hand to wave back but felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see a face, which – even though she hadn’t encountered it in person for what felt like a lifetime – was instantly recognisable.

  6.

  In her professional life, Helen dealt exceptionally well with the unexpected. There was the time she was producing the breakfast show in Sheffield and the presenter, Jamie Toddington, fainted live on air in the middle of a phone interview with an MP who was trying to justify the closure of a local hospital. Before the MP had even become aware of the problem Helen had dropped her bowl of muesli, raced from her position at the control board to check that Jamie was still breathing, cued a traffic report and ran down to security requesting the assistance of someone with first aid training, while simultaneously placating the MP who was hanging on a second line wondering what was going on.

  On another occasion working an afternoon shift during one of her early stints as a presenter, her producer had somehow failed to notice that the two main guests, a couple of former soap star heart-throb actors promoting a new production of Waiting For Godot at the local arts theatre, had turned up so drunk that they couldn’t form a coherent sentence, unless it was to ask Helen if she had a boyfriend and to make crude sexual allusions. Helen had kicked both the actors out of her studio, called up the theatre press officer live on air to complain about their behaviour and then filled the remaining twenty-five minutes of the show getting listeners (a heady mix of retired ladies and mums gearing up for their second round of the school run) to nominate their top British actors most unlike the two reprobates who had contaminated her studio. As she passed over to the news desk and faded out her mic, she was besieged by co-workers congratulating her on a job well done.

  In fact throughout her career both as producer and presenter she had not only managed to turn negatives into positives, but also to disguise the fact there’d even been a problem at all. That’s how good Helen was at dealing with the unexpected. But professional Helen and private Helen were two very different creatures.

  ‘You look like you might need to sit down.’

  Helen stared at Aiden Reid, her former fiancé, the nation’s most popular radio DJ and the only man to have broken her heart, with a look of utter disbelief. As is often the case with the least deserving, the intervening years had been kind to Aiden and though the ageing process had begun to take its toll around his eyes and around the temples, he was, Helen noted with some bitterness, even more handsome now than he had been when they were together.

  Helen exhaled. She wanted this to be over. She wanted this to be over right now.

  ‘My friends and I are just about to leave.’

  Aiden grinned. ‘And hello to you too. I’m sure you don’t care what I think but you look great.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Helen pointedly, ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ pleaded Aiden, ‘I didn’t come over to fight. I just wanted to say hello, that’s all. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you just now. Even though I could only see the back of you I knew straight away who it was. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here for a friend’s hen weekend.’

  Aiden laughed.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You’ll never believe this but I’m actually here on a mate’s stag weekend. What are the chances of that? The two of us here at the same time celebrating two different sets of impending nuptials.’

  ‘Coincidences happen,’ said Helen. ‘It’s not exactly what you’d call newsworthy, is it?’

  ‘Maybe not,’ replied Aiden. ‘It’s just that . . . I don’t know . . . it’s taken me by surprise seeing you here like this. And I’m guessing by the way you reacted that it took you a little by surprise too.’

  Helen had no interest in confirming his suspicions. ‘Who is it getting married?’

  ‘Karl Peters.’

  ‘The Five Live guy?’

  Aiden nodded. ‘Getting hitched to Ally Fallon. Really nice girl. She used to do a Saturday-morning kids’ thing back in the day. Now she’s mostly in radio.’

  ‘I think I might have caught her show once but she was so awful I had to switch her off. Karl though, I like him a lot, he’s good. Very sharp, very strong, always on the ball.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Aiden stared at her keenly. ‘I know it’s not exactly your thing but you must have listened in at least once. If only out of curiosity.’

  Helen shook her head even though this wasn’t true. She had heard Aiden’s Sony Award-winning show many times and although it verged on being self-indulgent rubbish at times, it was, for the most part, some of the best radio she had heard.

  ‘You’ve never even listened once?’

  ‘I hear the ratings are good though.’

  ‘Through the roof.’

  ‘You must be pleased.’

  ‘More like ecstatic.’ Grinning, he waved over Helen’s shoulder.

  ‘I take it those are the hens?’

  Helen nodded and glanced over Aiden’s shoulder at a group of men watching their every move. She recognised Karl Peters, the footballer that Kerry fancied, a couple of well-known TV actors and an Irish stand-up comedian. It was sickening; being famous was like belonging to an exclusive club where everybody knew each other.

  ‘And I take it those are the stags?’

  ‘Just a few of them. Do you want to come over and meet them? They don’t bite.’

  Helen could think of nothing she would rather do less. ‘No, I’m good thanks. Like I said, we’re supposed to be going soon so they’re probably keen to make a move.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Aiden. ‘I mustn’t keep you. It’s been really good seeing you after all these years. You look . . . well, you look amazing. And I . . . I really do hope you have a great weekend.’

  Although Helen wasn’t a great believer in modern miracles, as she returned to the girls a small part of her naïvely hoped that her encounter with one of the country’s biggest TV and radio stars might pass without comment. But within milliseconds of taking her seat her friends disabused her of this notion by collectively emitting an ear-piercing shriek of excitement.

  ‘That’s Aiden Reid you were just talking to!’ shrieked Kerry. ‘Aiden “off the radio!” Reid! I love him. He’s just so funny and sparky. How do you know him, you dark horse? He’s a bit of a ladies’ man isn’t he? Should a woman in your position be fraternising with such tabloid fodder?’

  ‘I saw him in the paper the other day falling out of some private members’ club in London with that young model that everyone’s always going on about,’ Dee chipped in, ‘you know, the one who’s always changing her hair colour?’

  ‘Oh and let’s not forget when he was half naked on the front cover of Cosmo last month,’ added Ros. ‘We had it up on the door of our office before HR made us take it down because they said it was creating an “inappropriate work environment”.’

  ‘I used to work with him,’ said Helen. ‘That’s it. End of story.’

  ‘End of story?’ laughed Lorna, ‘how can that be the end of the story when I’m only just finding out that sitting under my nose all this time has been the perfect person to introduce me to my future husband! He’s gorgeous! We could have got hitched and had babies if you’d done the decent thing when I first met you and given me his phone number. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘He’s with some friends for a stag do.’

  ‘Who’s the stag?’

  ‘Karl Peters . . .’

  ‘Karl Peters! That�
�s the one!’ interrupted Kerry. ‘So who else is there? Any more famous types?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Yaz, exchanging glances with Helen, ‘can’t you leave the poor woman alone. She’s just bumped into a bloke she used to work with who happens to be famous. Let’s move on.’

  ‘But we don’t want to move on,’ protested Lorna. ‘Helen knows a celebrity! A genuine celebrity, not just someone who had a walk-on part in Casualty. We can’t move on until we’ve had all the gory details. What’s he really like?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ said Helen charitably, ‘we just don’t get along that’s all. Can we talk about something else?’

  Lorna wouldn’t let it go. ‘What did he do to make you not like him? He always seems lovely on his show.’

  ‘Put it this way,’ said Helen, ‘we didn’t see eye to eye on certain issues and that, I’m afraid is all I have to say on the matter.’

  The reason Helen’s friends were unaware of her connection with Aiden Reid was simple: she had never told them. As Aiden’s career had gone from strength to strength it had become clear to her that being the ex-fiancée of a celebrity was a burden in itself. She refused to allow herself to become just another paragraph in his biography and if keeping that part of her life secret from her friends as well as the tabloid press was the price to be paid in order to remain her own person then it was a price well worth paying.

  In an effort to change the subject Yaz began telling the girls about the plans for the following morning but she had barely started when she was interrupted by one of the waiters.

  ‘Excuse me, madam,’ he began, ‘Apologies for disturbing you, I hope you’re all enjoying your evening. It’s been brought to my attention that you’re part of Mr Reid’s party and as such the management of The Manor would like to invite you to be our guests for the rest of the evening in the Gold Lounge. If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you through.’

  ‘You’d like to do what?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Invite you to the Gold Lounge, madam.’

  ‘And that is what exactly?’

  ‘A private function room that we reserve for special guests.’

  The girls all looked at Helen in astonishment.

  ‘He means celebrities!’ gushed Kerry. ‘He wants us to go to a special room with a bunch of celebrities!’

  Helen felt an oncoming migraine hover overhead. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right table?’

  ‘You are Ms Helen Richards aren’t you?’

  ‘I am,’ said Helen nodding, ‘but I’m definitely not part of Mr Reid’s party and my friends and I are quite happy where we are, thank you very much.’ She stood up to search for Aiden but the corner where he and his friends had been standing was empty.

  ‘So, you would like me to inform Mr Reid that you won’t be joining him?’

  Helen felt a wave of indignation. Who did Aiden think he was that he could just snap his fingers and have her follow him about like that! She wasn’t impressed by his money or his celebrity friends and she wanted him to know it. ‘I’ll tell you what I’d like,’ spat Helen. ‘I’d like you to tell Mr Reid that he can shove his special room right up his—’ She stopped short and drew a deep calming breath like the ones she did in yoga class and held it until she felt less angry. ‘Please, thank Mr Reid for his very kind offer but we’re fine as we are.’

  The waiter nodded and walked away, leaving Helen to face the questioning gaze of her friends. She downed what remained of her drink in a few long gulps. She wanted to go back to being happily drunk or retire to her room with a hot chocolate and one of the half dozen complimentary glossy magazines that resided there.

  ‘Look,’ she said finally, ‘I know you all think it’s mean but I really, really, really don’t want to spend any time with him.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kerry, ‘but couldn’t we just—?’

  ‘No,’ said Helen sharply. ‘We can’t just anything.’

  Kerry looked equal parts embarrassed and annoyed. Helen immediately felt bad and apologised.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Kerry. ‘You’re right. He’s probably not even half as nice as he is on the radio. They never are, are they?’

  Helen felt even worse. She looked at the rest of the girls, who were all trying to avoid eye contact. If her ambition had been to kill the celebratory mood of the evening then she had quite clearly succeeded.

  She looked to Yaz for advice. Yaz gave her a cheery wink, and addressed the girls. ‘Look, radio star with celebrity friends or not it’s not right that we let a bloke ruin our evening. We were having a cracking time before he turned up and I don’t see why it shouldn’t carry on. My suggestion is that we order a couple of bottles of wine and decamp to my room or Helen’s and carry on the evening there.’

  The girls began collecting their things together while Yaz called over the waiter to settle the bill. Helen stared into the middle distance feeling guilty. All her friends wanted was a bit of a laugh, something that they could tell their friends at work or the mums at the school gates about on Monday morning. With the possible exception of Ros, who had briefly worked for a women’s magazine, their lives had never intersected with the world which Aiden inhabited. And while from her albeit limited knowledge she knew it to be a shallow, fickle world lacking in substance she also knew it was kind of fun too.

  ‘Listen,’ she said calling the girls to attention, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been a right whiney cow about all this and I’ve got no right to be. Give me a minute and I’ll have you mixing with the great and the good before you know it.’

  The delight on her friends’ faces was enough to convince Helen that she had done the right thing. She went in search of the waiter, Yaz close at her heels. The horror on Yaz’s face reassured her there was at least one person who understood what a big deal this was.

  ‘What do you think he’s up to?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘How was he when you spoke to him?’

  ‘Fine. Chatty. Which was as well because I was too freaked out to say much of anything.’

  ‘And you’re sure you want to do this?’

  ‘As long as you promise not to leave me alone with him.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean it, Yaz, not for a second. I don’t care if you’re in mid-conversation with one of his footballer mates or the head of the BBC, do not leave me alone with him.’

  ‘I promise, he won’t get anywhere near you.’

  ‘And I don’t want him knowing why we’re here, either.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And I don’t want any of the girls talking about me to him or any of his friends. Not where I live, not what I’m doing, who I’m with or even what I had for dinner tonight.’

  Yaz gave Helen’s hand a reassuring squeeze. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this if you still feel this way. I was just thinking we’d drink his champagne, flirt with his mates and have a bit of a laugh but the last thing I want is for you to get upset.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ replied Helen, ‘Promise. Drinking his champagne, flirting with his mates and having a laugh sounds perfect. That’s the least he can do after everything he put me through.’

  Helen found the waiter and informed him that she had changed her mind.

  ‘This is going to be amazing,’ said Carla on Helen’s return. ‘What am I going to say if they ask me what I do for a living? I can’t tell them I’m a social worker!’

  Lorna chuckled. ‘Tell them you’re a glamour model, that’s what I’m going to do if I get anywhere near that Aiden fella!’ She hoisted her ample bosom in comedic fashion to the delight of her friends.

  The waiter led them towards the rear of the bar, where there was a gold painted door where a female member of staff dressed in the hotel’s grey uniform stood holding a clipboard. The waiter gave her a discreet nod and she stepped aside.

  Helen ushered the rest of the girls through the doorway but at the last moment tapped Yaz on the shoulder.

  ‘I can’t do this,’ sai
d Helen.

  ‘I thought you were fine,’ replied Yaz.

  ‘So did I but . . . but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I’ve just got a bad feeling about it. Like . . . I don’t know . . . I just don’t want to be in the same room as him.’

  ‘Then I won’t go either,’ replied Yaz. ‘We’ll nip back to my room and get drunk on the mini-bar.’

  ‘You have to,’ said Helen. ‘The girls will need keeping an eye on. Just tell them I had a headache or something. They’ll be having too good a time to care.’

  ‘And what will you do?’

  ‘Have an early night,’ said Helen. ‘But don’t think for a minute that I won’t want to hear every last juicy detail in the morning.’

  Saturday

  7.

  Helen had never been a huge fan of the Saturday-morning lie-in. Most weekends she was out of bed, throwing on her gym kit and halfway out of the door to the local fitness centre by half past seven at the latest. Any longer lying in bed and she would have felt like she was stewing in her own filth just for the sake of it. So it was something of a surprise when she opened her eyes that Saturday morning, fumbled blindly in the darkness of her room for her phone and discovered from its digital display that not only had she managed to sleep past her usual wake-up time but was even in danger of missing the prearranged nine o’clock breakfast rendezvous with the rest of the girls, which was bound to go down about as well as her early disappearance the night before.