The Stag and Hen Weekend (14 page)

A short while later the house lights went down for a second time and the stage was plunged into darkness as over the PA came the opening bars to Stevie Wonder’s ‘Isn’t She Lovely?’ One by one the audience got the joke and a wave of anticipation spread over the crowd. They broke into applause as a single spotlight picked out the chair at the centre of the stage and moments later Sanne, wearing a silky blue dress and green shoes walked on to the stage carrying an acoustic guitar.

Revealing a hitherto unseen sense of comic timing Sanne whispered into the microphone, ‘I am, aren’t I?’ As the Motown soul legend’s vocals began the music faded, she strapped on her guitar and plugged it into the amp at her feet, and sitting down on the stool began her opening song, a passionate ballad sung in English, called (if the song’s chorus was anything to go by) ‘What chance did we have?’

Some three songs into Sanne’s set, at least three quarters of the men in the room currently captivated by her every sound or movement had fallen in love with her. Sanne had that kind of face, and she sang those kinds of songs and the killer combination stirred something so instinctive within the masculine frame that had there been any princess-abducting dragons or fair maidens in need of rescuing from the clutches of their evil stepmothers, neither the dragons nor stepmothers would have stood a chance.

Phil wasn’t totally immune from this sensation. While he had appreciated Sanne’s attractiveness from the moment they met, he had persuaded himself it was a theoretical admiration only. He admired her beauty in the same way that some of his customers admired the new stock in the shop even though they had functioning audio kit at home. A thing of beauty, they would reason, was a thing of beauty whether you actually needed it or not. But here on the stage, singing song after song about love and heartbreak, her intense vulnerability added a depth to Sanne that made her beauty far less abstract because her songs revealed a truth that most in the room could never know first-hand: pretty girls got their hearts broken too.

By the end of her set Phil felt he knew Sanne better than he had previously and as she concluded with a cover of Prince’s ‘Condition of the Heart’ followed by an acoustic rendition of her former band’s biggest hit, ‘Love Times Two’, Phil felt almost as angry with Aiden Reid on her behalf as he did on his own.

When the house lights rose for the final time, Cat Stevens’
Peace Train
began playing over the PA. As he stood staring at the empty stage Phil realised that he hadn’t given much thought to how exactly he was going to get to talk to Sanne. Although it was a small club she hadn’t been in the audience before the gig and there was every chance that she would leave through some unseen side entrance without him knowing. And while it was true he still had her phone number, the conversation he needed to have would be much more likely face to face.

Finishing off his beer Phil walked up to the technician and asked him if he would mind passing on a message to Sanne. Replying in English the guy refused, informing Phil that he was the fourth guy to have asked in the last ten minutes. He added that even though he personally didn’t think she was ‘all that’ he was pretty sure she wouldn’t be interested.

Phil tried to explained that he actually knew Sanne, and that all he wanted was to say hello, but the guy still refused, so then Phil pulled out a fifty Euro note and said, ‘Look, just tell her that English Phil from the Van Gogh Museum is here and wants to talk and the money’s yours.’

Shrugging, the guy held out his hand for the money up front. Reasoning he wasn’t in much of a position to bargain Phil handed over the cash.

‘English Phil from the museum?’ said the technician, swiftly tucking the money into the front pocket of his jeans.

‘No,’ corrected Phil. ‘English Phil from the
Van Gogh
Museum.’

Offering Phil a ‘whatever’ shrug the technician jumped on stage and disappeared behind the curtains at the wings. A number of moments passed and just as he was giving up all hope the technician returned with Sanne in tow and from his position at the side of the stage pointed out Phil. Phil waved and she waved back and began walking over to him.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, crouching down. ‘I never imagined that you’d really come when you had so much of that oh-so-important drinking to do!’

‘Yeah . . . well . . .’ he said, trying to pluck up the courage he needed. ‘Some things are important.’ He took a deep breath and just came out with it: ‘I need to talk to you. Quite urgently, actually.’

‘Urgently?’ Sanne looked confused and understandably so, thought Phil, considering that they barely knew each other. ‘Why urgently?’

‘Maybe urgent is the wrong word,’ corrected Phil. ‘Maybe complicated would be better. I promise it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.’

‘I’m not sure I can spare the time,’ she replied. ‘I promised some friends I’d catch up with them later tonight.’ She remembered her earlier white lie. ‘And this time these friends are real.’

‘Look,’ replied Phil, ‘I can see I’m making you nervous and that’s the last thing I want. Let’s just have a quick drink here, I’ll explain and you can be off with your friends before you know it.’

Sanne considered his proposition carefully. ‘You’re not a weirdo are you? You didn’t seem like one when I first met you but it’s hard to tell sometimes!’

‘Listen,’ he replied, ‘by the time I’ve told you what I need to say you’ll definitely think I’m odd but not weird, I promise you.’

Sanne nodded as if to say she had concluded her extensive ‘weirdo’ detection tests and was analysing the results. ‘I can’t imagine that you’re any weirder than some of the guys who used to follow the band back in the day. Just wait there while I get the promoter to look after my things and we’ll go somewhere quieter.’

Sanne turned to walk off stage but then a couple of guys who had been lingering behind Phil clearly trying to overhear their conversation called her over, waving their pens in the air. The look of reverence on their faces as Sanne scribbled her name on the CD covers they had brought along with them was striking, and as soon as she was done they tried to engage her in conversation and when that failed they pulled out their digital cameras and practically begged for a photo session.

When Sanne finally got away Phil was left trading stares with Sanne’s fans who were clearly wondering who was the guy in the black suit and tie. Keen to make himself less conspicuous, Phil’s eyes fell on Sanne’s merchandise stall, which had previously been hidden from view by the audience.

There were a number of CDs, badges, three T-shirts with different designs and a DVD of a recent live show. Phil picked up two CDs one of which was an official looking release called
Late night lullabies
and another that had a deliberately amateurish cover that was entitled
Home Demos 2
. Phil pulled out some money and handed it to the girl who was manning the stall. She carefully wrapped the CDs in a brown paper bag and handed them back as though acknowledging how fastidious Sanne’s fans could be about packaging. Phil dropped them into his jacket pocket and returned to the stage to wait for Sanne.

He didn’t have to wait long. Within a few minutes she appeared at the side of the stage wearing a denim jacket and, much to the annoyance of the small group of fans who had been staring daggers at him, beckoned him over. Phil followed her as she led him through the semi-darkness of the backstage area down some stairs, along a corridor and out through a fire door into the bustling side street.

Sanne walked as if she had a destination in mind and Phil offered no opposition.

‘You were amazing tonight,’ said Phil as they walked past a couple of shops selling everything from books to designer chairs. ‘Really impressive.’

‘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.