The Stag and Hen Weekend Page 3

  Phil laughed. ‘I’ve known you way too long to think for a minute that you’re that ignorant.’

  ‘People change,’ said Simon shrugging. ‘You might not like it. They might not like it. But it happens all the time.’

  The queue surged forward as a large extended family featuring at least four different generations was beckoned to the check-in desk. Phil and Simon picked up their bags and moved forwards to take up the slack and yet another silence descended.

  Simon nudged his friend in the overly jocular fashion that a schoolboy might try to coax another schoolboy out of a black mood. ‘So, come on then, what else is on your mind?’

  Phil frowned. He was sure that he’d snap out of his mood soon but all this attention really wasn’t helping matters. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You said you had a few things on your mind. Unless I’ve miscounted your dad is only one.’

  ‘Well, the other is my kid sister.’

  ‘Caitlin? What’s she done?’

  ‘Nothing yet,’ replied Phil, ‘but that could have changed by Monday morning. Helen invited her to the hen weekend.’

  ‘Oh that,’ said Simon. ‘I thought she was winding you up with something new. That spat with Helen’s been going on for ages hasn’t it? Why are you suddenly worried about it now?’

  ‘Because this is different,’ said Phil. ‘Normally I’m around to referee before the claws come out but who knows what’ll happen without me there? I can feel it in my gut. Trouble is brewing. Caitlin can be pretty bitchy when she wants to be and Helen . . . well once she gets her back up . . .’

  Simon laughed. ‘Remember that time when the four of us went to V festival and that drunk bird kept deliberately bumping into her?’ Simon winced comically. ‘Now that was a tongue-lashing and a half! I bet that girl gets flashbacks even now!’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Phil, ‘so imagine what it would be like being at the receiving end of a tongue-lashing that’s been eight years in the making.’ Simon did his comedy wince again and this time it provoked the beginnings of a smile. ‘See what I mean? It’s too much to even contemplate.’

  ‘Still,’ he continued, ‘I can’t imagine Caitlin getting into anything with Helen the week before the wedding. It’s too important.’

  Phil grudgingly conceded his friend’s point. ‘I suppose not. If they did my mum would have a right go at the pair of them.’

  ‘How’s Caitlin doing anyway?’ asked Simon. ‘Haven’t seen her for a while.’

  ‘You know her,’ said Phil, ‘she’s always fine. Whether it’s being the only girl from our school to get into grammar school or the first member of the family to go to university, that girl always lands on her feet.’

  ‘She seeing any one?’

  Phil studied his friend. ‘Why the interest? You’re not trying to palm that idiot brother of yours off on her again are you?’

  ‘Have you any idea how much that “idiot” is making these days as a fully qualified barrister? Only last week he was telling me how he was test driving a Ferrari!’

  ‘And you think that would impress Caitlin? Honestly, mate, you have no idea of the kind of guy she goes for. I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned up with a proper “A” list celebrity the next time we go to Mum and Brian’s for Sunday lunch. She’s done the rich thing, now she wants them rich and famous.’

  Before Simon could reply there was a sharp tug on his trousers and they were halfway down his thighs exposing his expensive designer underwear to the world. Frantically pulling up his trousers he spun around angrily to see Reuben, Deano, Spencer and Degsy (all dressed in black suits and ties) bent double in hysterics.

  ‘Do that again and I’ll knock you out,’ threatened Simon in a doomed attempt to wrest back his dignity.

  ‘Mate,’ sniggered Deano, ‘it was just too good an opportunity to pass up. You know we love you really.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet,’ replied Simon peering over Deano’s shoulder. ‘And right now there’s a copper with a high-vis vest coming this way who looks like he wants in on the joke.’

  A look of horror spread across their faces, all the more amusing for the lack of an actual policeman. Suitably chastened Deano and the boys immediately shed their adolescent skin and acting more like grown men who had jobs, mortgages and responsibilities, joined Phil and Simon in the queue.

  Phil had known them all in one capacity or another for years. Reuben had been one of Simon’s oldest friends from school and as such had inevitably become one of Phil’s closest friends too. Spencer was the former assistant manager of Phil’s Nottingham store who now worked as a rep for an electronic goods distribution company and had recently separated from his long-term girlfriend. Deano was an old friend from the cricket team Phil used to play with back in his early twenties who along with his ex-wife ran the Horses, an up-market pub and bistro that the six friends often frequented. And finally Degsy was Phil’s oldest school friend who, having followed many different career paths over the years, was currently trying his hand at painting and decorating while trying to win back the mother of his two kids. All six were part of an irregular five-a-side (it was a rare week if all six of them turned up at the same time) team called the Beeston Wanderers who played once a week at the local sports centre.

  After what felt like a lifetime they finally reached the front of the queue and one by one checked on to the flight. En route to the departure gate they were all casually engaged in separate conversations with Phil and Spencer chatting about work, Deano and Simon talking about a couple of films Simon had watched and Degsy and Reuben talking football, but before they reached the escalator that would take them up through to security Simon called them all to one side.

  ‘This is like school trips used to be back in the day!’ whined Degsy. ‘What’s up now headmaster?’

  Simon pulled out a Tesco carrier bag from his rucksack and theatrically dropped his phone in it. ‘This is what’s up.’

  Reuben laughed. ‘Are you going to do a trick?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Phil reading his friend’s mind. ‘I think he wants us all to hand over our phones.’

  Reuben made it clear that he wasn’t going to comply. ‘No, can do,’ he said firmly. ‘I told the missus she’d be able to call me any time.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I want us all to leave them behind,’ said Simon. ‘I know it’s a pain in the arse, but this weekend won’t be the same if we’re all tied to our phones for the whole of it.’

  ‘You just don’t want us uploading pictures of your hairy backside to Facebook!’ retorted Reuben.

  ‘No mate,’ replied Simon, ‘what I actually don’t want is to spend the whole weekend watching you yakking to your missus on the phone.’

  ‘Like that would happen.’

  ‘I’ve seen it with my own eyes! The last time we went to see County play. You spent more time looking at your phone than you did watching the game!’

  ‘We just like to keep in touch that’s all.’

  ‘More she just likes to keep a track of where you are and what you’re doing. Why don’t you go the full hog and get yourself a GPS device fitted?’

  ‘Si’s right,’ said Deano dropping his phone into the bag. ‘I went on a stag do last summer and it was a real drag. You’d be there trying to have a laugh and every five minutes some guy would be taking a call, sending a text or wandering around the pub looking for a signal.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Simon, ‘so that’s two down.’ He jiggled the bag in Phil’s direction. ‘Come on mate, you know it makes sense.’

  Phil looked at the bag blankly. While he didn’t normally feel the need to text home as often as it appeared Reuben did, he did during the normal course of a day like to send Helen at least one or two just to say hello, even more so when he had to go away overnight on business. The idea of not communicating with Helen for the best part of three whole days was disconcerting and if it had been any other group of people in any other situation he wouldn’t even have contemplated it. But these were h
is closest friends who, even though some, like Degsy, weren’t exactly flush with cash, hadn’t so much as raised an eyebrow at the expense involved simply because it was his stag do.

  ‘Okay, I’m in,’ said Phil dropping his mobile into the bag. ‘Let’s keep it old school.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Degsy.

  ‘A pre-Nokia world it is then,’ said Spencer with a stoic raise of the eyebrow before adding his to the bag.

  ‘You guys don’t get it,’ implored Reuben, ‘my missus will do her nut if she can’t get hold of me all weekend. She once couldn’t get hold of me for a day because I’d left my charger at home and by the time I got back from work she’d practically packed her bags.’

  ‘Mate,’ said Simon holding out his hand, ‘you’re embarrassing yourself. Just give me the phone.’

  ‘Just know this,’ said Reuben looking at Phil as he dropped his phone in the bag, ‘you owe me big time.’

  Clutching the bag of phones Simon disappeared in search of a left luggage locker and returned some twenty minutes later just as a message came over the tannoy: “Could passengers Dean, Corrbridge, Collins, Hudson, McDonald and Brayford please come to gate 11 immediately where flight 368 to Amsterdam is ready to depart.”

  Not needing to be told twice the boys ran full pelt along the corridor to security while Simon went into a long explanation of why it had taken him the best part of half an hour to leave the bag of phones at the left luggage counter which involved staffing problems and a malfunctioning credit card reader. Once they were through to the other side, they were conscious of the curious looks they were getting from their fellow passengers because of their matching attire.

  ‘Do you think the whole weekend’s going to be this frantic?’ panted Phil as he handed in his ticket to the flight staff.

  ‘Nah, mate,’ replied Simon, ‘Take it from me, my son, this is the easy part.’

  4.

  Having gratefully consumed (after much mockery) the packed lunch Helen had made within half an hour of taking off, the group spent the remainder of the journey trading drinking stories. They’d landed at Schipol Airport, caught the express train into Amsterdam Centraal and were now standing in the square outside the station enjoying what Deano claimed to be the best sight so far: six beautiful twentysomething girls, all wavy hair, summer tops and short shorts, making the most of the early afternoon sun.

  ‘Wherever they go tonight,’ drooled Deano, ‘is where I am going to be.’

  ‘Mate,’ said Simon, as the girls passed by oblivious of the boys’ appreciative gaze, ‘if they’ve got any sense they’ll be spending the weekend in a different country not hanging around bars here waiting for you to pester them.’

  Deano grinned. ‘This kind of bitterness really doesn’t become you, fella.’

  ‘Bitter? Why should I be bitter?’

  ‘Because you’re married, mate. So tonight while I’m giving it the chat with some young Dutch filly, you will have no choice but to look and bite your fist in – that’s right, I said it – bitterness.’

  ‘Mate.’ Simon put his arm around Deano and planted a patronising kiss on his friend’s head. ‘If I’m biting my fist while you’re talking to some young Dutch filly it’ll be for one reason only: to stop myself laughing as she kicks you to the kerb. Don’t forget, I’ve seen you in action. Watching you on the pull is like watching a car crash in slo-mo. You want to look away but you just can’t.’

  The boys burst into raucous belly laughter, momentarily drawing the attention of the girls. Phil looked up at the perfect blue sky, closed his eyes and soaked up the sensation of the sun on his face. It was going to be a good weekend, a really good weekend.

  ‘Fun though this is,’ he said, ‘we should get to the hotel, check in and start enjoying ourselves. This weather is too good to waste.’

  ‘Phil’s right,’ said Spencer, ‘the sooner we get to the hotel the sooner we can get the beers in.’

  ‘And what about the suits?’ asked Degsy tugging on the lapel of his jacket. He looked like an overgrown schoolboy on his way to a funeral. ‘I don’t know about you lot but I’m baking in this thing. Are we ditching them?’

  ‘It’s up to Phil,’ said Simon. ‘What do you reckon? Suits on or suits off?’

  Phil reflected. However corny Simon’s idea had been, as Spencer had put it when they had queued up to go through immigration, they ‘looked the business’.

  ‘Suits on,’ said Phil. ‘After all it’s not every day you get to look like you’re in a movie.’

  ‘What my boy wants, my boy gets,’ nodded Degsy. ‘But if we are going to look like a bunch of tarts for the rest of the day then at least let’s get a group shot while we still look half decent.’

  Rooting around in his bag Degsy pulled out a digital camera, and catching the eye of a young woman passing by called her over and asked her to take a couple of pictures of the boys. Embarrassed but game for a laugh the woman agreed and so the boys mugged for the camera while she snapped away.

  Leaning over Degsy’s shoulders the boys reviewed the woman’s handiwork and while comments ranged from ‘We look like bank managers,’ to ‘this picture’s so cool I’m going to get it blown up and hang it in my living room,’ Phil opted to keep his thoughts to himself because the only thing he could think of as he took in the boys’ grinning faces was how lucky he was to have such a great bunch of mates by his side.

  The Royal Standard, was, as Spencer put it, ‘a hotel with a two-star upstairs and four-star downstairs’. So while the lobby looked like London’s Bloomsbury the rooms were more like Blackpool’s Golden Mile. Disappointed though they were by the threadbare carpets and dated decor, this only served to reinforce their resolve to spend as much time out of the hotel as possible, so once they had dumped their bags they were back downstairs in the lobby ready to investigate all that Amsterdam had to offer.

  Much as Phil hoped that there might be the opportunity at some point of seeing Amsterdam’s more cultural sights, he knew they wouldn’t be going anywhere or doing anything before sinking the first pint of the weekend. With this in mind they headed to Leidesplein.

  When Phil had told the guys at work where he was going for his stag weekend, Leidesplein had been the place they had all agreed that he should visit and as the boys finally reached their destination, having passed all manner of interesting bars and cafés on the way, Phil could see exactly why: it was a stag weekend paradise. A large square, surrounded on all sides by bars, cafés, restaurants and pubs and with more of the same on every street that radiated out from each corner, it was as if a team of Dutch town planners had consulted with a broad range of young British men in order to come up with their perfect weekend destination. Ticking all the boxes from all-you-can-eat curry houses within staggering distance of Irish theme pubs right through to industrial sized coffee houses with menus featuring twenty-two different kinds of hash, it was a veritable cornucopia of manly distractions and as such, pretty much the perfect location for the boys to have their first pint of the weekend.

  Choosing a pub with outdoor seating overlooking the busy square, the boys sat down at an empty table, rearranged the chairs to accommodate their group and donned their sunglasses, certain, if only for this particular moment, that this was indeed the life.

  A waitress approached. She was young and pretty and it was a forgone conclusion that Deano would try and chat her up.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ she began with a smile. ‘You look very hot in those suits.’

  ‘We’re working a look,’ explained Deano, before anyone else could respond, ‘you know, Reservoir Dogs. Quentin Tarantino. You must have seen it.’

  She nodded and smiled knowingly. ‘So you and your friends are on a British stag party? No?’

  ‘We are as it happens,’ he replied, ‘but I have been here on business before now.’

  ‘Which business is that, mate?’ teased Phil. ‘Banking? Finance? Novelty rubber chickens?’

  ‘I’ll have you know I have
business dealings that might surprise you, thank you very much,’ retorted Deano in a bid to save face. ‘It’s not just Si and Reuben who know a thing or two about the Footsie one hundred.’

  ‘Mate,’ laughed Simon. ‘You know nothing about the Footsie one hundred. Don’t forget I do your accounts. I’ve seen your way with a calculator and it’s not nice.’

  Confused, the waitress continued with her patter. ‘So, are you liking Amsterdam so far?’

  ‘We’re liking it a lot more now you’re here,’ leered Deano,

  As embarrassed for Deano as he was for the waitress, Phil stepped in. ‘Any chance we could order a couple of lagers?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course.’ She took their orders and returned inside the bar.

  Reuben groaned at Deano. ‘Could you have been any more obvious about trying to get into her knickers?’

  ‘I was doing no such thing!’ protested Deano. ‘I was merely making conversation. That’s what human beings do.’

  ‘She was barely eighteen! You dirty old perv!’ chuckled Degsy. ‘You’re old enough to be her geography teacher!’

  ‘Are you lot going to be like this the whole weekend?’ sulked Deano. ‘You’re seriously cramping my style.’

  ‘If this is you in action I can safely say that you won’t need us to cramp your style, you’re killing it as it is.’

  Deano and Reuben’s bickering seemed to set the tone for the rest of the afternoon, and as the ice-cold lagers arrived and the light-hearted banter continued, Phil thought their afternoon together was one of the best they had enjoyed for months. Everybody seemed on good form, the conversation as always veered between vaguely intelligent political debate and downright silliness, and the heat of the sun made everything perfect.