The Stag and Hen Weekend (8 page)

‘Can we stop this?’

‘We’re only just getting started!’

Phil gave Deano a threatening look not altogether dissimilar from the one Simon had given him when he too had overstepped the mark.

‘Fine,’ said Deano relenting. ‘Have it your way. We should probably get going anyway. I read on the web about some bar near the red-light district staffed completely by eastern European girls wearing nothing but thongs.’

Phil didn’t even comment. He just threw Deano a glance that said: ‘Over my dead body.’

‘A mate of mine told me about a place off Dam Square that does speciality beers,’ said Spencer. ‘You know the type, high alcohol, knock your head off stuff. What do you reckon?’

‘Sounds a bit tame if you ask me,’ said Deano.

Simon laughed. ‘What are you after? A dwarf only bondage bar? Mate, it’s not even midnight, yet. Calm down.’

The boys finished their drinks and proceeded towards the exit of the bar. Phil threw a last glance back in the direction of Sanne and her friends. Completely oblivious to him she was deep in conversation.

‘Are you coming or what?’

Reuben was holding the door open for him.

Shaking his head free of thoughts he didn’t want there Phil nodded and left the bar.

It was still just light outside. Spencer got out the map from the hotel, checked their position and pointed in the direction that they needed to go.

They had only been walking a few minutes when Phil turned to Spencer and asked: ‘Did she look familiar to you? You know the girl that gave me her number.’

‘Not really. Why should she have done?’

‘Now you mention it,’ said Simon overhearing the conversation. ‘You might have a point. Her face . . . it is sort of familiar. What was her name again?’

‘Sanne.’

Simon shook his head. ‘You’d remember a name like that wouldn’t you? I don’t know any Sannes do you?’

‘That’s the thing,’ said Phil. ‘Even the name sounds familiar.’

‘What do you think she is?’ asked Spencer. ‘An actress or a model? She’s good-looking enough to be both.’

‘I’m pretty sure it’s something like that,’ said Phil, dodging past a couple of drunken English guys sitting on the kerb. ‘If I had my phone with me I could have Googled her.’

‘If you’d had your phone with you, Deano would have nicked it and spent the night posting libellous status updates on your Facebook page,’ chipped in Reuben.

‘Hang on,’ said Degsy, clearly not wanting to be left out of the conversation, ‘wasn’t there a girl called Sanne in that girl band that had a couple of hits a few years back? I only know that because my eldest was mad about them for a while. What was their name again? Misty something or other . . .’

‘Misty Mondays!’ shouted Phil. ‘That was it! She was the—’ Phil stopped. He knew exactly who she was and why he recognised her. ‘This is absolutely the weirdest thing,’ he began, ‘but I’ve remembered how I know her and it’s not just the band thing either.’ He looked at Degsy. ‘She used to be married to . . . Aiden Reid.’

‘The radio DJ?’

Phil nodded.

‘Really?’ mused Degsy, ‘I know a lot of people think he’s a tosser because he’s loaded and always copping off with top models but I have to say I love his show. Funniest thing in the world. That thing he does with his co-host Crazy Dave cracks me up every time.’ He stopped and looked at Phil. ‘I suppose it is a bit weird that you’ve been chatted up by Aiden Reid’s ex-missus. Maybe you could sell the story to the tabloids: “Radio Star’s Ex Gives Bloke From Nottingham Her Number”.’

‘You’re not getting it,’ said Phil. ‘That’s not even the weird part. The weird part is that Aiden Reid is the last bloke that Helen went out with before she met me.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really.’ What Phil neglected to add was that Aiden Reid was also the reason why after nine years together he and Helen had finally decided to get married.

Saturday

7.

As Phil made the transition from oblivion to consciousness he became aware that all was not well with his world. His temples throbbed as if his brain was trapped in a cycle of inflation and deflation: one moment taut and hard, pressing on to the outreaches of his skull and the next soft and saggy and barely taking up space in the cavernous void in which it was housed. The one constant in this situation was the pain, the deep, dull ache that in tempo and persistence seemed perfectly to echo the pace of his slow, dull pulse.

He was never going to drink again. Never. He would never go to the pub, visit a bar or even walk down the booze aisle of his local Morrison’s. Drink was evil. He knew that now. After twenty-odd years of being legally able to indulge in the demon drink the lesson had finally been learned, the hard way. Now, all he needed to do was to survive the war of attrition between his body and the alcohol he had so willingly imbibed, and the booze free vision of the future that he had so keenly constructed would be his.

Lying very still, not even daring to move so much as a single muscle Phil built up the courage to open his eyes. Beginning a countdown from ten he fought against his instinct to preserve his cerebral cortex from yet more needless pain, and reaching zero prepared to open his eyes when something happened that made him squeeze his eyes shut tighter than ever: a foot of which he had no ownership grazed his lower calf. Phil’s eyes shot open and he found himself looking directly into a face.

‘Degsy!’

Degsy woke with a shock, mumbling incoherently. ‘What are you shouting for?’ he asked, mole-like eyes blinking.

‘What do you mean what am I shouting for?’ barked Phil. ‘You’re in my bed!’

‘What’s with all the bloody yelling?’ called a voice from the other side of the room.

Phil looked at Degsy in confusion and flicked the switch on the wall by the bed. A dim pool of light illuminated a corner of the room. Phil could just about make out the outline of a body lying on the floor. Degsy picked up his pillow, crawled to the end of the bed and brought the pillow down sharply on the figure below. It yelled in surprise.

‘That’ll be Reuben,’ said Degsy. ‘I’d recognise that girly scream anywhere.’

Reuben, looking like death warmed up, sat up and scowled. ‘Have you any idea what kind of headache I’ve got?’

‘No,’ said Degsy. ‘But I promise you it’s not a patch on mine.’

Phil looked from Reuben to Degsy and back again and noted that they were still wearing their suits and ties. He looked underneath the duvet and noted that he too was fully clothed.

Phil reached for the main light switch and as he flicked it on, the rest of the room came to life: Deano began unfurling from the foetal position from his place by the door, Spencer, still half asleep, twitched on Degsy’s side of the bed, and scratching his head, Simon emerged from the darkness of the bathroom.

Speechless, Phil was fumbling for an explanation of the situation when out of the corner of his eye he noticed a red cement-splattered pneumatic drill leaning against the wall and a bright yellow hard hat crowning the TV.

Phil nudged Degsy with his elbow and silently pointed at them.

‘Building site next to the hotel,’ he said, through helpless laughter.

‘You nicked them?’ gasped Phil. ‘Why?’

Degsy shrugged, ‘I dunno, mate, why do men do anything? My memory’s blitzed when it comes to motivation.’

‘And where was I when all this was happening?’

‘Asleep,’ said Degsy. ‘On a bench. You were out like a light, mate. We practically had to carry you back here. What was up with you last night? One minute you were you and the next it was like a night out with your old man.’

‘It’s true,’ said Reuben, sitting down on the edge of the bed. ‘Once we reached that place that sold the oddball beers you were like a man possessed. Honestly mate, by the end of the night you were so off your face we nearly got chucked out of the lap dancing club.’

Phil blinked hard. ‘We went to a lap dancing club?’

‘Not one,’ explained Degsy. ‘Two, one after the other. And then a strip bar and before you start complaining we didn’t drag you anywhere. You dragged us. You said it was your stag do so you should get to choose.’ Degsy squinted in Phil’s direction. ‘Don’t you remember any of it?’

Phil shook his head and regretted it instantly. ‘Not a second.’

‘So what’s the last thing that you actually do remember?’

Lying down on his pillow Phil closed his eyes as the major turning point of the evening – the woman from the queue being Aiden Reid’s ex-wife – came back to him.

Unlike most boyfriends who for reasons of self-preservation jettison such information as soon as it’s handed to them, Phil could recall perfectly both the exact moment that Aiden Reid’s name was first mentioned to him. It had been eight years earlier, he and Helen had been dating for about a year and they had been sitting in their local Thai takeaway waiting for a set meal for two when Phil had picked up a two-day-old copy of the
Sun
and begun reading an article entitled: ‘Who will get top DJ job?’

The story was a follow-on from the biggest story of the previous week: the news that BBC breakfast radio DJ Xan Collins had been caught on film by the
News of the World
snorting cocaine in a hotel bedroom in Mayfair with two underage models. Despite Collins’ record-breaking audience figures the BBC had had no option at all but to sack him on the spot, thereby creating a vacancy for the single most coveted job in the whole of UK radio, and the article was all about who should replace him.

Phil had been about to turn the page when Helen had pointed to the picture of one of the three DJs vying for the job, a ridiculously good-looking stubbly chinned type who he recognised from TV. ‘That’s my ex,’ she said succinctly.

Phil was momentarily speechless. ‘The one you were going to marry?’

Helen nodded and Phil stared at the paper. ‘Your ex is Aiden Reid? Why didn’t I know this before?’

‘Why would you?’ replied Helen. ‘It’s not like I know the names of all your exes, do I? I just thought I ought to say, that’s all. Chances are, he’s going to get that job, and if he does it’s a guarantee that the tabloids will come sniffing around looking for a story on him. If they do, say nothing, not a single word. Not even in my defence.’

Helen was right. Not only about Aiden getting the BBC Radio breakfast job but also the tabloid hacks making contact, looking for a story about ‘Aiden Reid’s first love.’ They called Helen constantly both at home and at work and when that failed to give them what they wanted they concentrated their efforts on Phil. ‘How does it feel to be dating the ex of one of the country’s most famous celebs, Mr Hudson? Anything you’d like to tell us about the way he went about wrecking your partner’s life when they were engaged? We’ve got someone on record claiming that Aidan was the love of her life and that she’s never got over him: would you care to comment?’ Just as Helen had told him, Phil made no comment, but it was difficult, especially the lies about her never having got over him.

Running parallel to these events was Phil and Helen’s relationship, which in a short space of time progressed from its tentative initial stages into something neither party had expected at all. Phil had never before experienced anything close to what he felt for Helen with anyone else and on the day that this had first dawned on him (a Sunday evening a year or so after the Aiden Reid furore) as she was loading her car in order to drive back to Liverpool.

‘We should get married,’ said Phil as the thought occurred to him. Confused, Helen had stared at him blankly. ‘I mean it,’ he continued. ‘I think we should get hitched.’

Helen didn’t drive back to Liverpool that night. Instead she and Phil had stayed up until late with her explaining why although she felt as strongly for him as he did for her it was too soon to talk of marriage. Despite his enthusiasm Phil eventually came around to Helen’s point of view, which is why he waited another year (by which time they were living together in Nottingham) to ask her for a second time as they celebrated their third anniversary of their first official date.

‘I want you to marry me,’ he said as they stood underneath the awning outside their favourite Italian restaurant on Weekday Cross sheltering from the rain as they waited for a cab home. ‘I mean it, Helen, I’m absolutely convinced you’re the one.’

Again Helen turned him down, citing a million and one reasons, from the fact that they were both very busy at work right through to the fact that they were looking to move to a bigger house soon and could do without the stress. Though clearly disappointed not to have received the yes he had been hoping for, Phil had eventually agreed, and so, having put the idea on the proverbial back burner, they both got on with the business of carving out a life for themselves.

But when Phil popped the question once again some two years later only to be met once again by the most logical of excuses, he made the decision that his days of proposing marriage were over for good. After all, enough was enough wasn’t it? But then a few years later, a date to the cinema and the finding of a child’s toy plastic ring, not only was he back to proposing but after all these years and all these rejections he finally said out loud the one thing he hadn’t dared to say all these years: that the reason Helen wouldn’t marry him had nothing to do with him and everything to do with Aiden Reid.