Page 6 of Stella is Starting Over

I’m trying to work out how many hours of my life I’ve spent on stag dos. So far I’ve got to 324 – nine stags in total, using thirty-six hours as a standard measurement to account for some of them being shorter than a full weekend. Actually, I realise, clearing the calculator on my phone because I can’t do mental maths, I’ve forgotten one. It’s 360 hours, not 324.

This one was a good one, in fairness. When you hear ‘stag do’, you picture a group of rowdy men dressed in fishnets and gimp masks, harassing the locals and snorting something questionable in the loos of a filthy club. That is very much not us. A smiling Dutch girl one of the guys got talking to in the Rijksmuseum called us ‘the least threatening stag’ she had ever seen, which I felt was quite a significant compliment. She wasn’t wrong, either. Far from sinking a six-pack each on the train home to drain the last of the juice from the weekend, we’re scattered across the economy carriage of the 10.13 a.m. from Amsterdam to London (one change at Brussels, annoying but significantly cheaper), all very keen to get home despite having had a perfectly nice time.

Tim, the groom, is sleeping, head pressed against the window, and Theo is doing the same, only he’s using Tim as his pillow. Charlie and Graham are playing snap because they bought a pack of cards in the Eurostar departure lounge, with big ideas about poker, and then realised they don’t know how to play anything other than snap. Two of the stag’s mates from work, whose names I didn’t fully get at the start of the trip and therefore have avoided calling anything all weekend, are sharing headphones to watch a film on an iPad. Tim’s younger brother, Ed, has gone to see if they’ve got any of the ‘really cool Dutch crisps’ in the bar car.

I try to get my phone to connect to the very not working Wi-Fi so I can see if Orla has messaged me.

‘How’re you feeling?’ Ed is back, holding three packets of said crisps. I look up.

‘Not bad,’ I say. ‘I was pretty restrained, went harder on the first night. Always the trick.’

‘Lucky you,’ he replies. The train lurches and he looks even more nauseous. ‘I had seven beers last night.’

He reads in my face that I clearly think these are amateur numbers, and says, ‘I haven’t been drinking this year, solidarity with Jules and all that.’

‘I didn’t know you were having another one,’ I reply, my enthusiasm entirely genuine. Ed and his wife had a nightmare getting pregnant with their first kid. I remember Tim glumly telling me at the pub that he was worried they might ask him to be a sperm donor. I reassured him that given he was eleven before he could tell the time, they probably wouldn’t want his DNA. ‘That’s great news,’ I add.

‘Yeah.’ He looks bashful. ‘Nice to have a weekend away before the madness starts again. And I reckon it’s the last stag I’ll go on, now Tim’s finally locked someone down. Getting a bit old for it all these days.’ As he finishes the sentence he seems to realise that he’s said something potentially offensive because his face falls. ‘I only mean. . .’ he says, with no idea what he’s going to follow it up with. I laugh, to put him out of his misery.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Fewer and fewer of us singles left.’

My laugh has done too good a job of reassuring him because he beams and then doubles down. ‘Not even fewer – none. You’re literally the only one left.’

‘No,’ I start, looking around the carriage. ‘I’m not the only. . .’ I trail off. Because of all the men in our group here, I actually— yeah. I actually am. ‘Fuck me,’ I say. ‘You’re right.’

He looks worried. ‘But you like it that way, right?’

The train crackles with an announcement, first in Dutch and then in English, telling us that we’re about to arrive into London.

‘I’d better sit down,’ Ed says. It’s not a flight, he absolutely doesn’t need to take his seat for landing, but I sense he thinks he’s put his foot in it and wants to escape.

His guilt is entirely misplaced. I was surprised to realise that all of our gang are married, but certainly not upset. Like he said, I like it.

We’re out in the station before my phone finally decides to start working. Orla has indeed messaged me. Her flight has landed – good old Ryanair, not going to risk paying compensation by being a minute late. She’s navigating customs and then she’ll be in a cab, which gives me two and a half hours to be ready for her.

It’s a cold, clear day. Sunday lunchtime. We all say our goodbyes, exchanging hugs and excitement about the wedding, and then they’re all on the Tube, or trains to the countryside, where their wives and kids are awaiting their return. I, on the other hand, decide to walk from Kings Cross to my flat, a pleasing twenty-ish minute stroll over to Barnsbury.

I stop at M&S to get supplies: steak, because if I try to cook anything else it’ll ruin the illusion that I’m a competent adult; rocket salad, because someone I dated in my twenties insisted that plates needed salad and I’ve realised she’s right; and a packet of chocolate mini rolls because Orla told me last time I saw her that her mother didn’t let her have sugar as a kid, so she’s never enjoyed any chemical-riddled party foods. Then I stop at the florist by the Tube to get something to make the flat smell nice, and the wine shop for the velvety red she was so taken by on her last visit. Seduction shop completed, I let myself in through the front door and then the door to my flat, and note with relief that I did not leave a load of laundry in the washing machine as I’d been intermittently telling myself I probably had.

I take a long, hot shower to get the train off me, then I pull on a pair of cords and a wool jumper she’d liked last time. I change the sheets, put on some music and then start half reading, half pretending to read. I splay the book cover down when the intercom goes, hoping she’ll notice that I’m halfway through something that won a lot of very highbrow literary prizes.

‘Hello?’ I answer.

‘Did you want to buy some drugs?’ she says, voice loud.

‘Absolutely not, I’m waiting in for the Mormons,’ I respond, buzzing her in.

She manages to look sexy even while pulling a wheelie suitcase, which is quite an achievement. ‘Trying to get me in trouble with the neighbours?’ I ask, kissing her.

‘Always.’

Orla finds my relationship with the people downstairs extremely amusing. They’re a stern-looking couple in their early twenties who put a TRADITIONAL VALUES sticker in their window. Orla is fully aware that I have a decent number of female visitors come through the flat, and takes great joy in both being one of them, and being provocative about being one of them.

‘You look gorgeous,’ I say, entirely truthfully. She’s just got off a plane but she’s the kind of very thin, very pale woman who looks neat even when she should really look rumpled. Her dark hair is pulled back severely, her skin a blinding contrast against her black T-shirt when she takes her coat off.

‘Can I have a shower?’ she asks. ‘I—’ She stops herself. I imagine she was probably going to say something about being worried that she smells, and then realised that we’re not quite familiar enough for that.

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘There’s a robe on the back of the door and a hairdryer—’