The Stag and Hen Weekend (19 page)

Phil wasn’t convinced. ‘Dad, with the best will in the world the boys would be easy to find even if we’d all gone to New York. They’re creatures of habit, plus they’ll have massive hangovers and be desperate to get rid of them and finally, they probably won’t have eaten anything since . . .’ Phil stopped as it dawned on him exactly where his friends would be. ‘I’m an idiot! I know exactly where they are, right. That place we went to yesterday. They’ll be at the Shamrock Inn off Dam Square knocking back a full English breakfast and wishing for the most part that they were dead.’

Phil was right about everything. Not only were the boys at exactly the same bar, they were even at the same table and when they spotted Phil and Patrick crossing the square they let out a mighty cheer followed by a round of applause.

‘Like father like son!’ called out Degsy as the two men approached the table. ‘Where have you two been all night? Living it up without us? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

‘And you thought you’d find us by parking your arses outside an Irish pub and tucking into a double heart-attack on a plate?’

‘So where were you then?’ asked Simon. ‘We stayed in Café Hoppe until gone one waiting for you to turn up.’

Phil shrugged. ‘Long story, I’ll explain it all later.’

Simon looked at Patrick. ‘And what happened to you? One minute we were all in that bar in De Wallen and the next it was like you’d just vanished.’

Phil and his dad exchanged glances. ‘I don’t know what to say boys. I can only apologise for any trouble that I caused.’

‘But where were you? We looked for you for ages.’

Phil knew the boys wouldn’t give up until they got their answer. ‘He got nicked.’

‘Nicked?’ said Spencer spitting a mouthful of tea back into his mug, ‘What for?’

Phil looked at his dad. ‘Do you want to tell them or shall I?’

‘It was a bit of a misunderstanding with the local constabulary lads. Nothing to be proud of.’

‘He got caught selling hashcakes to tourists.’

This time it was Reuben’s turn to spit out his tea. ‘He got caught doing what?’

Phil decided to jump in before the questions got out of hand. ‘Look, it’s all done and dusted and I’m sure, once he’s had time to digest it all, he’ll bore you to tears next time you see him, but for now, let’s just say it’s a lesson learned.’ Phil checked out the self-inflicted damage that the boys had wreaked about their own person. Degsy’s skin looked grey, Reuben had dark shadows under his eyes and Simon’s eyes were so bloodshot that they almost looked like they would crack if he blinked too hard. ‘I don’t need to ask how the rest of your night went, do I? Your faces say it all. What time did you get in?’

Simon shook his head mournfully. ‘We didn’t. After we lost your dad we went to some club near Leidesplein and when we got bored of that we went to another and then around six some girls that Deano got talking to told us about some bar that they were going to, so then we went there and had a few drinks and Deano didn’t get anywhere with the girls, so we pretty much fell asleep on the sofa and by the time we woke up it was gone ten. We staggered out, jumped on a tram to the hotel, had to jump off it because it was going the wrong way, jumped on a different one, made it to the hotel, grabbed our stuff, got the concierge to put it in storage and then rocked up here to try and recover.’

‘And you think a bit of fried bread and a couple of bangers is going to help you do that? You look like extras from
Dawn of the Dead
.’

Simon chuckled. ‘You can talk, fella, have you looked in the mirror lately? Bit of a late one was it?’

‘You could say that,’ replied Phil. ‘So what’s the plan? Wait out hangovers and the like here and then hop on the plane?’

‘Funny you should ask,’ said Simon, ‘we were just talking about that when you arrived.’

‘And?’

‘Well, given that this is your stag weekend the conclusion we came to is that it should be up to you. Anything at all, you name it and we’ll go there.’

‘Anything?’

‘Yeah, anything.’

‘Fine,’ said Phil, ‘then I want to go to Vondelpark.’

‘To see your dad’s tree?’ asked Degsy. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d be interested.’

‘I’m not,’ replied Phil enigmatically. ‘It’s just something I want to do.’

The boys responded with a variety of groans making it clear that they had in fact been hoping that Phil would be as keen to sit outside the Shamrock Inn doing as little moving as possible as they were, but when Phil said that he was happy to go on his own, they reluctantly rose as one to their feet, donned their sunglasses and followed Phil to the tram stop.

There was only one reason Phil wanted to go to Vondelpark and that was because of Sanne. She had wanted to take him there after their visit to the Van Gogh Museum and he had declined; now he wished that he could just go back in time, stop being such an idiot, and make the most of hanging out with someone like Sanne. But without a time machine to hand his only option was to take himself off to see the things she might have wanted to show him.

Vondelpark was much like any other urban green space, but just as parks in England come alive in a heat wave the same was true here. It seemed like everybody in Amsterdam from teenage boys larking about by the edge of the lake through to multi-generational families preparing barbecue lunches was out enjoying the sunshine.

The boys made a lap of the park and bought ice creams from a nearby stand and, while the majority went off with Patrick to see if they could find the very tree he claimed to have woken up in all those years ago, Phil and Simon lay down in the shade of a plane tree watching them.

Simon shook his head. ‘They’ve got no chance have they?’

‘Of finding a tree that Dad claims to have woken up in some time in the seventies?’ replied Phil. ‘Nah, mate. No chance.’

‘And yet still they search.’

‘Well, if it makes them happy.’

Simon looked up at the leaf canopy above his head. ‘I’ve been a bit of an idiot haven’t I?’

Phil joined his friend looking up at the tree. ‘Yeah.’

‘You were right about Caitlin, she’d never want to get back with me. It’s not like she didn’t make it clear enough the half a dozen times I asked her. I suppose I just didn’t want to hear it.’

‘So what now?’

Simon laughed. ‘Now, I’ve screwed up my life? Not a clue.’

‘Couldn’t you talk to Yaz, try and maybe patch things up?’

‘You think it’s patchable? I screwed her over and left her and the kids to chase after Caitlin of all people! I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t kill me on the spot the second she hears the full story.’

‘Still,’ said Phil, ‘what other option is there?’

‘None,’ replied Simon.

Phil sighed. ‘Don’t you sometimes wish that life was just a little less complicated?’

‘Meaning yours is up the spout too?’ grinned Simon. ‘Last time we spoke you were minutes away from flying back to the UK, hunting down Aiden Reid and stringing him up good and proper.’

‘And I nearly did,’ replied Phil. ‘Among the many mental things that happened to me last night I tried to get a flight back home.’ Phil told Simon everything that he had learned about Aiden Reid’s weekend.

Simon sat bolt upright. ‘And he’s there now? We should hire a plane and kill the tosser right now! What have you done about it? Have you called Helen? Tried to warn her at least?’

‘And say what exactly? He’s been there since Friday night – chances are anything that he wanted to say to her has already been said. She’ll already have made her decision.’

‘Mate,’ exclaimed Simon, ‘just listen to yourself. You’re giving up without a fight! Just because he’s famous and loaded doesn’t mean you have to roll over and admit defeat. Don’t sit there feeling sorry for yourself, get up and do something!’

‘Like what?’

‘Like anything!’

‘I’ve told you there’s nothing I
can
do. Plus, last night it sort of got really—’ Phil stopped suddenly and leapt to his feet.

Confused, Simon stood up too. ‘Are you going to finish that sentence? What happened? Are you saying something happened with Sanne?’

‘Forget all that for a minute!’ replied Phil. ‘I’ve got it! I’ve finally got it!’

‘Got what?’

‘One minute: nothing and then the next it was like – bam! – and it was there in my head! Helen’s mobile number,’ said Phil breaking into a run.

With Simon by his side Phil ran to the entrance to the park and then stopped as he remembered he and the boys had no way of contacting each other should he lose them again. He ran back to his friends, who were all standing at the base of a beech tree looking up at its branches.

‘We’ve got to go,’ panted Phil, ‘I need to get something and we all have to go.’

‘But we’ve only just found your dad’s tree!’ said Deano. ‘It’s a pretty cool one too, and look right up there in the branches: a couple of parrots! How cool is that?’

Phil shook his head in disbelief and looked. He couldn’t see any parrots but this was the least of his objections. ‘How can you even tell if it’s the same tree? Don’t you think it might have changed a little bit in the last forty-odd years?’

‘It’s definitely the one!’ said Patrick. ‘When you go to bed in a hotel and wake up in a tree my friend, believe me you remember the tree!’

‘Fine! Take a snap of the tree
and
the bloody parrots if it makes you so happy and then let’s go!’

Deano whipped out his digital camera and handed it to Phil while the boys and Patrick (who was beaming like he’d just won the lottery) stood with their arms around each other in front of the tree. Just as Phil pressed down on the shutter release three pale green parrots swooped down from inside the tree, rested on a branch next to his father’s head as though desperate to be in the shot and then, alarmed by Patrick’s yell of surprise, soared up into the safety of a nearby oak tree.

‘Can we go now?’

‘Go where?’

‘A phone shop,’ said Phil. ‘I need to buy myself a phone.’

Phil ran as fast as he could back out on to the street and then stopped as he realised that he had no idea where to find a mobile phone shop.

Determined not to fall at this first hurdle Phil stopped an elderly man wearing a yellow sun hat.

‘Excuse me, do you know where I can find a mobile phone shop?’

The man spoke in a flurry of dissociated consonants that Phil assumed was Dutch.

Phil explained that he didn’t speak Dutch but the man just shrugged and continued on his way, so Phil ran to a group of teenage girls standing at a tram stop and asked the same question. Their immediate reaction was to giggle amongst themselves for a frustratingly long time because they were teenage girls and that’s what teenage girls did whether they were from Nottingham or the Netherlands, but then one of them composed herself long enough to screech: ‘There is a GSM shop, maybe three hundred metres that way!’ and so Phil thanked her profusely and then ran full pelt in the direction in which she had pointed.

He almost had the shop in his sights when he came to a sudden halt. Coming down the street towards him were the guys from Essex who they’d had words with on Friday night. He counted them up; there were at least twelve to his seven if he included his dad, which he wasn’t sure he should in the circumstances.

This is it, thought Phil, this is how my life is going to end: at the hands of a bunch of soft southern bricklayers.

‘Look who it ain’t,’ called Tall Guy who had done most of the talking on the Friday night. ‘It’s Mr Suited and Booted and his friends. Told you we’d meet them again sooner or later.’ He walked over to Phil. ‘Not so hard now are you?’ he spat as he pushed him in the chest.

Phil pushed him back and a scuffle of sorts ensued with both groups edging closer. Wrenching the guy’s arm away from his jacket Phil managed to break free of his grip but only at the expense of his clothing. There was a loud rip as the sleeve of his jacket came loose.

‘Wait!’ yelled Phil as the boys rushed to his side. The last thing he needed was a fight. Phil looked at the Essex stag boys as if seeing them for the first time. Were they really all bricklayers? Were they even all from Essex? Somehow Phil doubted it. By and large they looked just like the boys, thirtysomething husbands, fathers and boyfriends all of whom no doubt had work first thing Monday morning. So okay, some of them were arseholes when they had had a skinfull, but at the end of the day these guys could easily have been people he’d call friend.

‘Which one if you is getting married?’ asked Phil, addressing the Essex stag boys.

‘What’s it to you?’ barked Tall Guy.

‘Listen,’ said Phil, ‘before this kicks off I just want to speak to him, man to man.’

‘It’s me,’ piped up a young guy at the back of the group, ‘what is it you want to say?’

Phil held up his hands in peace and walked over to the young guy, holding out his hand. ‘My name’s Phil. What’s yours?’

‘Jim,’ replied the young guy, reluctantly shaking Phil’s hand.

‘Nice to met you, Jim. Where you from?’