“Yes.”
“I bet you don’t even like half of them.”
“I love all my brands!” I lie, before glancing at him. He’s raising his eyebrows at me, unconvinced. “Okay,fine,I don’t love all of them, but not everyone has the same taste buds! And I love most of them. That’s why I’m so good at selling them. I’m very passionate about what I do and, for your information, I’m very good at it.”
“Maybe,” he replies, “but I would safely bet anything on the fact that you don’t know those drinks or the people behind them like myself and the team know Dancing Bear. We have true passion. Not passion we’re paid to have.”
I stare at him openmouthed. “You are such a snob!”
“I’m the snob?!” He raises his hands. “I’m not the one who works for the giant, posh, sleek company.”
“Oh, let me guess, Dancing Bear is probably based in East London, and all your colleagues have scruffy beards like yours,wear checkered shirts and trainers to work, and listen to ‘edgy’ bands that are, in fact, terrible and that’s why they’re not popular.” I take my eyes off the road to look at him smugly, pleased to see he’s shifting in his seat as my words hit home. “You don’t even know me and you’ve judged me straightaway and told me I’m not passionate about what I do. You and your team at Dancing Bear think you’re unique and cool and trendy, when you’re all the same: pretentious snobs, looking down your noses at everyone else.”
“My beard is not scruffy,” he mutters.
He looks out the window and I stare straight ahead, both of us remaining in angry silence for a good few minutes. This guy is a piece of work. Here I am doing him a massive favor and he spends the journey insulting me! I cannot believe Ryan is friends with him. You know, I always had a high opinion of Ryan, but it’s hard not to judge him on the company he keeps.
“Fine,” he says eventually, letting out a sigh. “I maybe shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions straightaway. I don’t know you, you’re right. I’m sorry. That was rude.”
I nod, but don’t say anything. I’m not sure I’m ready to accept this apology and I’m going to stay up on my high horse a little longer. Clearly, I am a master at arguing my point.
“But I stand by the fact that by covering so many brands, it’s unlikely you have the same passion that I do for Dancing Bear. And I’d also like to address the comment about ‘edgy’ bands. I can guarantee that my music taste is better than yours.”
“You have no idea—”
“I have gathered some idea from the fact that on this car journey so far you have played a podcast about lemurs, followed by a playlist that included Take That and a song about swimming in the year 3000.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t even pretend you don’t know who Busted are. And you were supposed to be asleep!”
“You are a true product of meaningless nineties mainstream, auto-tuned pop.”
“Ha!Busted was in the noughties! So there.”
He doesn’t look impressed by this correction and I admit, it’s not my best argument. But how dare he insult my cultural taste?! I am well aware that I’m not exactly a music maestro, but I also don’t care. I have never met anyone sosmugandrude.
We return to our silence and remain that way for the rest of the journey. I have to put on the radio just so there’s something to listen to and purposefully turn it up loudly when a pop song comes on, just to make a point. He rolls his eyes and continues to stare out the window.
When we arrive at the country house hotel where we’re staying for the wedding, and where the BBQ is being hosted, I get out of the car as soon as is humanly possible. As I lug my huge case out of the boot, he raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything. Oh, now he’s judging how much stuff I’ve brought with me? What, I’m a bad person because I bring several outfit choices?
Who is this guy?!
“Thanks for the lift,” he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I’ll pay you petrol money.”
“No need,” I snap, slamming the boot shut and locking the car. “Enjoy the wedding.”
And with that, I turn on my heel and march into the hotel, determined to avoid him for the rest of the weekend and then, hopefully, for the rest of my life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Bollocks.”
I step back from the seating chart in dismay. Niamh examines it next and turns to me, confused by my reaction.
“What’s wrong? We’re on the same table!”
“Yes, but so is that Jamie guy,” I huff, leading her away so the people hovering behind us can get a look at their fate. “The one I had to give a lift to yesterday. The worst journey ever. He’s a nightmare!”
“He’s actually really lovely. You must have got him on a bad day.”
