The Stag and Hen Weekend (13 page)

‘Truce?’ called Simon from inside Phil’s headlock.

‘Thought you’d never ask,’ replied Phil as Simon released his crushing grip from around Phil’s waist.

The two men lay on their backs panting as if they had both run a marathon. Simon grinned at his friend. ‘That was pathetic wasn’t it?’

‘Too embarrassing for words,’ said Phil rubbing his rib cage. ‘We should keep this just between the two of us.’

‘I’ve already locked it in the vault,’ said Simon. He held out his hand. ‘Mates?’

Phil knocked Simon’s hand away and stood up. ‘Don’t think for a second that this makes things right between us. You’ve been banging my sister you tosspot. I’ll never forgive you for that.’

‘And you shot me in the head with a paintball at point blank range!’ defended Simon. ‘Have you seen my face? I look like I’ve gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson!’

Phil looked at the bruising on Simon’s face and smiled. ‘I did get you good and proper, didn’t I?’

‘You think that’s bad you should see my back. It’s like I’ve been trampled by a rhino.’

Phil sat down on the bed. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to stay annoyed with Simon for the whole weekend. ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he conceded, ‘I’d say a good seventy-five per cent of the aggression I unleashed at you was actually meant for someone else.’

Simon closed the bedroom door and sat down on the bed. ‘Who? Your dad? What’s he done now?’

Phil shook his head. ‘Not dad, though that’s not to say he couldn’t do with shooting. I’m talking about Aiden Reid.’

‘What about him? He’s a twat, let it go, move on.’

‘I would do,’ began Phil, ‘but . . . well . . . after I left you and the guys this morning I met up with that Sanne girl from last night.’

‘And did what?’

‘Walked around the Van Gogh Museum for the most part. Did you know he shot himself in the chest because he was depressed but it still took two days for him to die?’

‘Do you fancy her?’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think? She’s bloody gorgeous!’

‘Honest mate,’ replied Phil. ‘It’s not like that.’

‘So enlighten me.’

‘I needed to get away – from you mainly – and so like I said we went to the museum and then afterwards to a café and talked.’

‘And what did she say that got you riled up enough to want to shoot me in the head?’

‘She told me the reason that she and Aiden Reid split up,’ said Phil looking down at the floor, ‘was because he was in still love with someone from his past. I asked her this woman’s name and she told me there on the spot: Helen.’

‘So what did she say when you told her who you were? She must have been well freaked out.’

‘I didn’t. Like you said it would be too weird. I mean what are the chances of me chatting to some random woman in a queue outside a bar only to discover that she’s my fiancée’s ex’s ex-wife.’

‘But that’s what actually happened!’

‘I know,’ replied Phil, ‘but she’d never believe it would she? Anyway, she’s playing a gig tonight and I’m thinking about seeing her again. I need to know the full story. I need to know if he’s been in contact with Helen or even if he’s capable of doing something reckless like turning up at the wedding next week. He’s a proper full-on celebrity, Si, he drives Ferraris and interviews Hollywood stars and hangs out with footballers and to top it all he’s Helen’s first love. How am I going to compete with all that unless I arm myself with as much info as I can?’

There was a silence and then Simon stood up. ‘Mate . . . I’m going to tell you something and I want you to listen hard, okay?’

Phil nodded. ‘Okay.’

Simon put a hand on each of Phil’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. ‘Stop being an idiot.’

‘But—’

Simon held his hand up in the air. ‘No ifs, no buts, just stop it and stop it now. Helen’s mad about you, any fool can see that, and all that’s going to happen if you go down this road is that you’ll drive yourself mental and ruin a perfectly good weekend away for no reason. Stay clear of Sanne, don’t give Aiden Reid airspace in your head, and stop being an idiot, okay?’

Even though the problems between them were far from resolved Phil felt relieved to have his best man back on side. He looked at his watch and then at Simon. ‘Hungry?’

‘Starving,’ said Simon.

‘Chinese or Indian?’

‘It’s your weekend, mate,’ said Simon. ‘You choose.’

It was just after nine as the Bombay Garden’s headwaiter brought over the bill to Phil’s table.

‘I’ll take that,’ said Phil, snatching it up. ‘It’ll be my way of apologising to you lot for ruining the day.’

‘No you won’t,’ said Simon plucking the bill from between his friend’s fingers. ‘It’s mine and let that be the end of it.’

Calling the waiter to one side Simon handled the bill while the rest of the table made ready to leave.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Reuben pushing in his chair. ‘More beer, different location?’

‘There was a place we passed last night that looked quite good,’ suggested Spencer. ‘It was a couple of doors down from the bar where his Lordship started binge drinking, can’t remember the name but I’m sure we’ll be able to find it if we keep our eyes open.’

The boys piled out of the curry house into the street, searching for Spencer’s mystery pub.

‘Are you sure you have to take that bag with you everywhere?’ asked Phil as the others broke off leaving him free to talk properly with his dad for the first time that evening. ‘Can’t you just jam a bottle of tablets into your pockets or something?’

‘I can’t son,’ replied Patrick. ‘There’s too much of it.’

‘You’re all right though?’ asked Phil. ‘You’re not sick are you?’

‘I’m fine, son,’ said Patrick. ‘No need to worry about me. I’m indestructible!’

‘Even so,’ replied Phil. ‘Promise me that you’ll take it easy tonight, okay?’ We’ve had no major mishaps so far and I’d like to keep it that way.’

‘Of course I will,’ said Patrick rolling his eyes in dismay. ‘Not that I need you telling me what to do. I’m a grown man!’

‘I know you are,’ said Phil. ‘I’m not trying to tell you what to do, Dad, I just want you to look after yourself.’

‘Well, if we’re all doling out the advice,’ countered Patrick, ‘might I suggest that you do the same? Getting into rows with your mates, getting us thrown out of paintballing . . . drinking so much you can barely remember the night before . . . I’d have to go a long way to beat what you’ve been up to this last twenty-fours hours.’

‘That’s different, and you know it.’

‘Different how, because it’s you and not me? What’s going on with you exactly? I’ve heard bits and pieces but it would be nice if I could hear what the problem is from my own son.’

‘Look, Dad,’ said Phil trying and failing to remain patient, ‘can we just drop it? It’s all sorted now, so there’s no point in going over it again is there?’

‘So this bloke off the radio isn’t sniffing round your Helen after all?’

Phil sighed. The boys had obviously been talking and figured out more of the story than he had hoped. ‘No,’ replied Phil, ‘he isn’t . . . well he is sort of but it’s more complicated than that . . .’

‘Complicated?’ questioned Patrick. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Is he after your Helen or not? Because if he is, I don’t care who he is, I’ll sort him out myself.’

‘Cheers Dad. That’s good to know.’ Phil wondered if there was any point confiding in his dad. ‘Look, it’s like this: I met a girl last night who it turns out used to be married to Aiden Reid. Anyway, she seemed to think the reason they split up was because he still had a thing for Helen and I had sort of planned to see her tonight to find out more, but Si talked me out of it.’

‘Talked you out of it?’ said Patrick indignantly. ‘Why would you want to be talked out of it? If this woman knows more than you, you should hear what she’s got to say because at least then you’ll be able to make up your own mind.’

‘I don’t need my mind to be made up,’ protested Phil. ‘It is made up. Helen’s marrying me next weekend. That’s all there is to it.’

‘If that really is all there is to it then why don’t you find out anyway?’ suggested Patrick. ‘Honestly, son, sometimes I think your sister was born with more testosterone than you. Just get in there, find out what you want to know and then act accordingly. That’s the trouble with your generation. Too much thinking and not enough action.’

Phil wasn’t about to let that comment go unchallenged. ‘Says the man who spent the last two decades of his working life on the dole.’

‘But at least I lived the life!’ boasted Patrick. ‘At least I’ve got stories to tell! At least when I’m lying on my deathbed I’ll have no regrets.’

‘Well you should have if you’ve got anything close to a conscience,’ retorted Phil.

‘Oh, you know I don’t mean all of that,’ said Patrick dismissively. ‘I mean the other stuff. The life stuff. You shouldn’t get trapped in your own head son. If your gut is telling you to talk to this woman and put your mind at rest then that’s what you should do. What have you got to lose?’

12.

Armed with the knowledge gleaned from the folded flyer in his pocket that Sanne wouldn’t be coming on stage until ten thirty, Phil continued with the evening as planned. This meant that over the next hour he and the boys roamed Leidesplein drifting from theme bars to real ale pubs in search of good times. Now, they were holed up a bit further out of the neon glare of Leidesplein in a tiny bar sandwiched between a bakery and a travel agent’s.

‘You want another?’ asked Simon noticing Phil’s empty glass.

‘I can’t,’ Phil replied. ‘I’m off in a sec. Where do you reckon you’ll be around midnight?’

Simon shook his head and sighed. ‘Are you going where I think you’re going?’ he asked. ‘I thought we agreed it was a bad idea.’

Phil glanced over at his father who was deep into an anecdote about the time he roadied for Pink Floyd during the first leg of their 1972 European tour. ‘I just changed my mind, that’s all.’

Simon raised an eyebrow in resignation. ‘Do you want me to come with?’ he asked. ‘Bit of moral support?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ he replied. ‘Just tell me where you’ll be at midnight and I’ll meet you there.’

Simon looked over at the boys and asked the question. Deano and Patrick answered simultaneously. Deano’s suggestion involved a visit to De Wallen while Patrick seemed entirely focused on getting stoned.

‘I’m too old to get stoned,’ said Simon, ‘and I don’t want to watch some miserable economic migrant taking off her kit while her dead eyes scream how much she hates me.’ He picked up Reuben’s guidebook and made a decision on behalf of the group. ‘We’ll be in a bar called Hoppe near Spuistraat,’ said Simon. ‘The Dutch drink there apparently so it can’t be that bad.’

Outside Phil took a moment to get his bearings. Although he had been in Amsterdam for less than thirty-six hours, he was beginning to get a feel for the city and without even referring to the map in his back pocket he took a left and headed towards the bright lights at the end of the road, confident that he would know exactly where to go once he reached it.

The Yellow Robot, as Phil discovered, was a small subterranean club less than a hundred metres away from Amsterdam’s infamous Milkweg club and housed in what according to a sign outside the venue used to be a coffee merchant’s back in the 1800s. Relieved to have found the place with relative ease Phil descended the stairs, paid the entrance fee, and then entered the room where a young man on stage armed only with an acoustic guitar was in the middle of what Phil assumed was an ironic cover of a Kanye West song.

The song finished, the crowd clapped and Phil looked around. Although there were plenty of tables dotted about, they were all taken and even standing room at the back of the room appeared to be at something of a premium. Phil made his way to the bar and ordered a beer while the Kanye West cover guy announced in English that he was about to play his final song of the night, a ballad, about a girl he’d once spent the night with during the year that he was living in Barcelona. The audience clearly loved both him and his tragic demeanour and applauded him frantically and later (at his encouragement) even joined in with the song’s heartbreaking refrain.

Although Phil loved talking about hi-fi and hi-fi related equipment because of what he did for a living, he had pretty much given up on modern music only stooping to purchase the occasional must-have CD which he would play for a week before abandoning it in favour of stuff that had long since proved its worth and stood the test of time like early Dylan, the Rolling Stones, Etta James, early Don Cherry or even mid-period Beastie Boys. Hearing the Kanye West cover guy, and more importantly seeing the way the audience reacted to him, made Phil resolve that first thing Monday morning he was going to trawl Amazon in a bid to catch up on everything he’d been missing out on since he’d unofficially decided to allow himself to get old.

The house lights came up signalling an interval and Phil sipped on a bottled Amstel while a technician came on stage and began setting up for Sanne, carrying off the previous act’s microphone and returning with a new microphone, a stool and a small table on which he placed a bottle of water.