Some acquaintances invited themselves along on our road trip, promising to split the petrol. When we arrived, they said, Well, you were going anyway.
It all started as a typical bit of summer holiday planning. My wife and I, our trusty crossover, over a thousand miles ahead, and that sweet anticipation of the open road. Weve always loved road trips for that wonderful sense of freedom: you pick your own pace, stop wherever you fancy, head off down country lanes on a whim. No worrying about train timetables, screaming children in packed carriages, or last-minute changes to flights.
But this time, we made a fatal mistakeletting our plans slip.
At a get-together with a rather motley crew, I carelessly mentioned that in a couple of weeks, wed be driving down south, in our own car.
Oh! When exactly? piped up the couple across the table.
That was David and Hannah. We werent close friends, just crossed paths in larger groups now and then.
Were heading out on the fifteenth, I replied, not sensing what was to come.
Thats perfect for us! David perked up, even putting down his fork. Were off from the sixteenth, were planning to take the train, but all thats left are the worst seats by the loos. Lets go together! Well split petrol costs, and itll be more fun. Were relaxed, promise not to kick up a fuss.
I glanced at my wife; her eyes screamed a definite no. I started to mutter about how the car was packed, that we take it slow and make loads of stops.
Oh, dont worry, we just have one suitcase between us, David insisted. And itll work out much cheaper. Petrol prices are ridiculous nowadays, so this would halve our costs. Come on, help us out, were not strangers.
So we said yes. The temptation to split the cost won over, and, frankly, it felt awkward to say no. Typical lack of backbonewhich wed pay for over the next fortnight.
If you want things to run smoothly, dont do anyone any favours
We agreed to meet outside our flat at five in the morning. My wife and I were out on time, boot neatly packed: our bags, some water, tools, picnic blankets. David and Hannah, though, were nearly forty minutes late.
Taxi took forever, sorry, Hannah called out breezily, dragging a suitcase the size of a mini-fridge and several bags of snacks behind her.
I thought we agreedminimum baggage, I couldnt help but say.
Oh, shes a girl, she needs outfit choices! David laughed.
So I played Tetris with the bags yet again to squeeze hers in.
Within an hour, the nightmare had begun. Hannah soon felt hot, so we blasted the AC, then David started shivering. They werent fans of my playlist. Then began the constant requests to stop: for coffee, the loo, their legs were cramped, to have a smoke.
My carefully planned route, designed to avoid traffic hotspots, completely fell apart. Rather than a handful of planned breaks, we were stopping constantly, like a coach on a local route.
The real drama came at a motorway service station.
After filling the tank (it came to £80), I got back to the car. David was munching on a hot dog.
So, are we chipping in? I prompted, meaning a transfer.
Lets sort it at the end, he waved me off. No point faffing around with coins every five minutes.
That didnt sit well with me, but my wife quietly said, Just leave it, theyll pay up later. So I let it go. I paid the tolls, toothey didnt even ask about the cost.
They ate their own food the whole way, scattering crumbs everywhere. When I asked them to be careful, they just grinned: Dont fuss, its a car, youll hoover it anyway.
We finally made it to our destination in the dead of night, totally drainednot so much by the drive itself as by the company.
We were just hitching a lift
The next morning, after a decent sleep, we all bumped into each other on the shared kitchen in the guesthouse. I got out my notebook where Id kept track of the expenses.
So, I began calmly. Petrol: £270. Tolls: £50. Thats £320. Split down the middle, thats £160 from you.
David nearly choked on his tea, and Hannahs eyes went wide.
What do you mean, one hundred and sixty pounds? Are you serious? she said incredulously.
Completely, I replied. That was the deal: wed split costs.
David put down his mug and said, But you would have made this trip anyway! Youd have spent that petrol money whether or not we came. Its your car, youd have filled it up anyway. We just took empty seats, thats all.
Hang on, I started to get angry. We discussed this from the start. I put up with extra stops, extra bags, and you were going to cover your share.
What inconvenience? scoffed Hannah. It was fun! We chatted along the way. We thought it was just mates helping each other. If youd said, wed have found a cheaper ride somehow!
My wife couldnt take it anymore. Anyone else would have left you on the hard shoulder for all those crumbs and constant complaints, she snapped.
In any case, David concluded, We can probably do a hundred, maybe one-fifty, just as a gesture. But paying half for something you were doing regardless is ridiculous. Weve got a budget, you know.
I stood up. Keep your money. Consider it our treat. But you can make your own way home.
What do you mean?! David leapt up. Weve got no tickets! You promised us a lift both ways!
We promised to split the cost. You broke that deal. Have a nice holiday.
Going our separate ways
For the next ten days, though we stayed in the same village, we hardly crossed paths. Once or twice we saw them on the beach, and they looked the other way.
The day before we left, I got a message from David: Come on, dont be stubborn. Lets do £120 each for the round trip. Lets drive back together, we didnt get tickets, and the bus makes Hannah sick.
I didnt reply.
We packed up, checked the oil, and set off before sunrise. The journey home was bliss: our own music, stops when we wanted, and the longed-for peace and quiet.
Later, word got around among mutual friends about what an awful person Id been, abandoning them in a strange place over a bit of money. David and Hannah spent hours changing buses and spent far more than theyd bargained for. Now theyre happily telling everyone how terrible we were.
But at least we learnt a valuable lesson. Now, whenever anyone hints, Oh, going out of town? Could you give us a lift? I smile politely and say, Sorry, we prefer travelling just the two of us.No more the more the merrier for us. Now, we savour every road trip just as we used to: windows down, our playlist, comfortable silence or laughter when it suits us, and spontaneous detours whenever a sign catches our fancy. Its a luxury I wont give up for anyones convenience.
Funny thingsometimes, as we cruise through rolling hills or stop at a weathered little service café, we remember that disastrous trip and find ourselves grinning. Its a storya cautionary talethat we tell each other whenever a new holiday comes up. A reminder that sometimes, the most valuable souvenir from a journey is the resolve to protect your peace, and to guard the empty seats in your carlike the best seats at the theatrefor those who truly make the ride worthwhile.
