Free The Stag and Hen Weekend by Mike Gayle Page B

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