Some acquaintances wangled themselves an invitation to join us on our car trip, promising to split the costs. When we arrived, they shrugged and said, Youd have gone anyway.
It began just like any other summer holiday planning. My wife and I, our trusted crossover, more than six hundred miles ahead of usand the sweet anticipation of the open road. Weve always loved driving holidays, the sense of liberty: deciding our own pace, stopping where we fancied, taking a detour whenever the fancy struck. No train timetables, no screaming children through thin hotel walls, no delayed flights.
This time, though, we made a fateful slipwe let our plans slip out at a dinner party.
It was during a relaxed evening with a mixed crowd, when I mindlessly mentioned that in a couple of weeks, wed be heading down south. And, crucially, in our own car.
Oh, really? When exactly? piped up the pair across the table.
That was Paul and Rachel. Not close friendsmore acquaintance than anything, usually only meeting at big gatherings.
Were heading off on the 15th, I replied, suspecting nothing.
Well, that lines up perfectly for us! Paul perked up, even putting his fork down. Our holiday starts on the 16th. We wanted to take the train, but there are only the rubbish seats left, right by the loo. Why not go with you? Well split the petrol 50-50more fun, much cheaper, and were totally easy-going!
I glanced at my wife; one look told me she was against the idea. I tried to stammer an excusecars already packed, we prefer a slow pace and frequent stops.
Oh, come onjust one suitcase between us! Paul pressed. And the money! Petrols dear as gold these days; this way, we both save a bundle. Help us out, were hardly strangers.
In the end, we relented. The savings argument tipped the scales, and truthfully, I just felt awkward refusing them outright. Weak-willed, I admitsomething wed regret over the next fortnight.
If you want a quiet life, dont do anyone a favour.
We agreed to meet outside our flat at five in the morning. We were out on the pavement bang on time. Our boot was neatly packed: our bags, water, tools, blankets. Paul and Rachel, naturally, turned up nearly forty minutes late.
Taxi took forever, Rachel called breezily, trailing a suitcase the size of a mini-fridge and several extra bags full of snacks.
We did agreeminimum luggage, I finally snapped.
Shes a woman, she needs outfits, Paul laughed.
So began the first game of Tetrisrepacking everything just to wedge their things in.
An hour into the drive, the ordeal began. Rachel felt hot, so we blasted the air con. Ten minutes later, Paul was freezing. They didnt like my music. Then came the endless requests to stop: toilet, coffee, stretching their legs, Rachel needed a cigarette.
My carefully planned routedesigned to skirt the worst trafficwas in tatters. Instead of rare, strategic breaks, we stopped like a local bus.
The real drama erupted at our first petrol station.
I filled up the tank; total came to £78. Returning to the car, I found Paul munching on a hot dog. Shall we split it? I asked, expecting a bank transfer.
Lets just add it all up at the end, Paul waved me off. Easier that way, mate.
I didnt like it, but my wife whispered, Dont start nowtheyll settle up at the end. So I let it go. I paid for the toll roads, toothey never even asked the cost.
All the while, they polished off their sandwiches, leaving crumbs all over the seats. My pleas for tidiness were met with grins: Come on, its a carjust give it a hoover later.
By the time we arrivedlong after midnightwe were exhausted, not by the driving, but by the company.
We were just going the same way, thats all.
The next morning, after a good sleep, we bumped into them in the communal kitchen. I pulled out the notebook where Id written down every expense.
Right, I began coolly. So, petrols come to £312, tolls to £65. Thats £377. Halved, its £188.50 from you.
Paul choked on his tea, Rachels eyes popped.
What? Nearly two hundred each? Seriously? she spluttered.
Thats exactly right. We agreed: half each.
Paul set down his mug. But youd have gone anyway! You wouldve spent that whether we came or not. Its your car, your journey. Were just filling empty seats.
Wait a second, I could feel my temper rising, we agreed beforehand. I put up with the faffing, the extra bags, the constant stops. This was a shared cost.
Come off it, Rachel snorted. It was fun! Friends road-tripping. If wed known wed have found a ride for less on BlaBlaCar or something.
Someone else would have dumped you on the hard shoulder for those crumbs and complaints, my wife muttered darkly.
In short, Paul concluded, we can give youwhatmaybe thirty, forty quid between us? Symbolic, you know. But half the cost? Thats crazy. Weve budgeted for this trip.
I stood up. Dont bother. Take it as my treat. But youll have to sort your own way back.
What? Paul leapt up. We dont have tickets! We agreed there and back!
We agreed on sharing the cost. You broke it. Enjoy your holiday.
Separate holidays, separate returns
For the next ten days, we hardly crossed paths, though staying in the same village. Saw them once or twice on the beachthey pointedly looked away.
The day before we were leaving, Paul messaged: Alright, lets not be stubborn. Well give you £75 each for both journeys. Come on, weve no tickets, Rachel gets travel sick on the coach.
I ignored it.
We packed up, checked the oil, and set off at dawn. The drive home was blissour choice of music, our own stops, and a glorious, peaceful silence.
Later, mutual friends told me Paul and Rachel were slagging me off, calling me a bad sort, abandoning mates in trouble over a couple of hundred quid. Apparently, they had a nightmare getting home on buses, spending more, frazzled and furious.
But at least we learned our lesson. Now, if anyone hints, Off to the countryfancy giving us a lift? I smile, and politely but firmly say, Sorry, we prefer it just the two of us.
And thats the story. Sometimes, being kind turns into a headache, so best to trust your instincts and stick to your own plans.
