I steal a couple of glances at Jamie, because I’m trying to work him out, but I don’t want to take a good look at him as that seems creepy when he’s sleeping. If he weren’t so rude, I’d describe him as fairly attractive. He’s tall with thick, dark, curly hair, bold eyebrows, and long, dark eyelashes. He is growing an unkempt beard, and as he shifts to face the window, I can just make out the top of a tattoo at the top of his back, most of it covered by the neckline of his T-shirt.
About an hour and a half in, I pull into a petrol station because I need to pee. Jamie has slept this entire time and wakes with a jolt as I park.
“Are we there?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.
“No, sorry. I just need to go to the toilet.”
“Oh right. Cool. I’ll get some food.”
He climbs out and stretches, yawning loudly, and then plods into the petrol station. I follow him in and then, when I’m done, I wait by the car, watching him through the windows as he wanders about the aisles, looking confused. He eventually gets himself to the till and comes sauntering out with a plastic bag full of crisps.
“Did you only buy Quavers?” I ask him, when we’re back on the road and I notice the contents of his shopping bag.
“Yep. Want some?”
“No, thanks. How many did you buy?”
“Five packs.” He opens a bag and digs in. “Reckon that will sort me out. I also bought a Lucozade, so by the time we get to Devon, I’ll be raring to go.”
I smile politely, focusing on the road as he crunches loudly.
“I feel like a new man after that nap,” he informs me. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“Honestly, don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there.”
“Work nights out always get so unexpectedly big, you know? I only meant to join for a couple.” He shakes his head and turns to look at me. “What do you do?”
“I work for Suttworth, the drinks company.”
Usually, this information is met with impressed or, at the very least, nice reactions. Most people have heard of Suttworth and, if they haven’t, then they know the drinks brands.
Jamie, however, is not impressed or nice. In fact, he is physically repulsed. He recoils in his seat, wrinkling his nose and looking at me up and down as though seeing me in a terrible new light.
“Suttworth?” he checks, disgusted.
“Yes, I’m a brand manager there,” I say, a little unnerved by his reaction. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re the enemy.”
“Excuse me?”
“I work for Dancing Bear.”
“What? What’s that?”
“Exactly.” He shakes his head at me, as though I’ve disappointed him somehow. “It’s a small independent brewery.”
“Ah. So by the ‘enemy,’ you mean the big, bad corporation. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stereotype?”
He snorts. “You can’t argue that Suttworth is anything but a big, bad corporation, out to make as much money as possible with no real passion or love for its products.”
“Hey!” I can’tbelievehow rude and disrespectful this guy is! “I’ll have you know that Suttworth is extremely passionate about its brands. In fact, if it weren’t for us, a lot of small companies would have died out long ago.”
“Yeah, because you take over the market and push them out. They have no choice but to let you buy them. Well, you’re not getting your hands on Dancing Bear, that’s for sure.”
“I’ve never even heard of Dancing Bear!”
“That’s because it’s proper local stuff. We don’t have global marketing campaigns or anything that threatens the quality of our product. You’re a brand manager? So, you look after a few drinks brands I’m guessing.”
