The Stag and Hen Weekend (9 page)

The accusation not only hit home, but it hit home hard, so hard in fact that once he’d delivered a heartfelt declaration never to propose to Helen again, without missing a beat she actually proposed to him. And they were happy, really happy, or at least he’d thought so at the time. But now, as he lay in bed fighting through his raging hangover and reviewing his reaction to the news that Helen’s ex had reared up in his life again, he began to wonder not only whether he was happy, but also if Helen, whom he had effectively bullied into saying yes, was happy too.

Leaving Phil to his thoughts the boys gathered themselves together and came up with a plan for the morning ahead.

‘Well,’ said Simon, ‘I did have us down for something later in the day but that was before we got trashed, rolled in at five in the morning and kipped on the floor. Perhaps I’d better cancel it.’

Phil sat up. ‘Don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘Whatever it is let’s do it anyway. Keep ourselves busy.’

Surprised by Phil’s response, Simon shrugged: ‘Fine, I’ll leave it. But first off we’ve got to eat. How about we meet downstairs in half an hour, then nip out and find somewhere to get a decent breakfast.’

The boys began trooping out when a question occurred to Phil. ‘I get the fact that things went a bit mental last night but what I don’t understand is how you all came to be sleeping in my room.’

Degsy laughed. ‘Who knows? I’m just glad that we didn’t end up kipping in the hotel corridor like we did for my thirtieth. My back’s never been the same.’

Alone in his room Phil yawned and ran a hand over his scalp hoping to calm the raging chaos inside his skull and then, summoning every last particle of his energy reserves, he made his way to the bathroom, turned on the light and as the extractor fan began whirring in the background stood looking at his reflection in the mirror above the sink.

Phil was perversely pleased to see that he looked as awful as he felt because he knew it would help make the case that he ought to stay sober for the rest of the weekend. Simon and Degsy were expert at drinking their way through the pain of even the worst hangovers and he knew that they would encourage the others to do the same. The prospect made Phil’s stomach churn. He didn’t want to get in that state ever again, even more so, having made the connection between his readiness to drink and the appearance (albeit in an abstract manner) of the man who had been a constant bone of contention in his relationship with Helen.

Reaching into his trouser pocket Phil pulled out Sanne’s phone number. There was no way he would use it. Even though he had made it clear that he was getting married, she was an attractive woman and he, being a man, was programmed to find attractive women attractive. It really was a complication he could do without. He put it back in his pocket.

On the other hand, Sanne was Aiden Reid’s ex-wife and having never met the man who had blighted his girlfriend’s life to such an extent that she wouldn’t even contemplate marriage the best part of a decade later, Phil was sorely tempted to meet her again, if only to find out what about Aiden (apart from his fame, good looks and bags of money) made him so special.

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 least 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.’