“You there, young man! You hit my car!” A slender woman wrapped in a white wool coat stood on the pavement, glaring at him.
“Maybe you should learn to park properly,” grumbled James. “Buying a licence doesn’t mean you know how to drive. Honestly, women shouldn’t even be allowed behind the wheel.”
“Oh, brilliant! Where exactly was I supposed to park with all these snowbanks around?” She pointed sharply at a towering mound of snow. “Shall I perch it on top of that? I’m calling the police.”
James’ bluster vanished instantly. He’d already had one speeding fine this month—another mark on his record would be disastrous.
“Look, my tyre slid on ice—it wasn’t intentional.”
“And what do you propose?” she asked coldly.
“Let’s just settle this between us.”
“No. This is about principle. I won’t tolerate misogyny.”
“Misogyn-what?”
“Disdain for women!”
James clenched his jaw. “Fine. I was out of line. I’ll cover the scratch—plus extra for the inconvenience. How much?”
After haggling, the woman relented, though James suspected she was milking it. To avoid trouble, he handed over a hefty sum, his wallet groaning in protest.
He exhaled heavily. Now he was in the red again. Worse, today was Emma’s birthday—and he still hadn’t bought her gift.
Opening his banking app, he winced: £300 left, and payday was a week away. Desperate, he rang his best mate.
“Mate, I’m skint myself,” Tom sighed. “Why’d you pay her so much? That car was a Range Rover—she’s loaded! Should’ve just filed a claim. Insurance would’ve sorted it.”
“I’m selling my car next month. A police report would flag it as accident-damaged—good luck explaining *that* to buyers. Know anyone who could lend me cash? Just till payday. I can’t show up empty-handed for Emma.”
Tom chuckled. “Yeah, Emma’s not the ‘cheap card and chocolates’ type. But sorry, bloke—no one I can ask.”
James tossed his phone onto the dash, rolled down the window, and stewed. An hour had passed since the woman vanished around the corner, yet he still sat there, replaying the moment his tyre had caught black ice, jerking the car into hers.
Then it hit him—his emergency credit card! How had he forgotten? Heart racing, he sped to the jeweller’s for the emerald earrings Emma had admired.
That evening, he hovered outside her flat door, roses in hand, the velvet box burning a hole in his pocket. A year ago, he’d never have dreamed a girl like Emma—posh, polished, her dad a retail tycoon, her mum running high-end spas—would glance twice at him. Yet here he was, pulse thudding as he raised his knuckles to knock.
“Happy birthday, love!” He thrust the gifts forward the moment she opened the door.
“James! Oh my God—*these*?” Emma gasped, lifting the earrings. “You’re mad! They’re so expensive!”
“Worth it,” he mumbled, flushing.
Emma, despite her wealth, pinched pennies like a student. She shopped at Tesco, cooked at home, and only once hired a cleaner—when she’d broken her ankle. Yet James always felt out of place. His childhood smelled of offal pies and jelly made from pig’s trotters; hers, of caviar and champagne.
“I hope you don’t mind… I’ve got guests,” she said, tugging him inside.
“Thought it’d be packed.”
“Ugh, you know I hate big parties. Come on, dinner’s ready.” She led him to the kitchen. “Mum, Dad—this is James.”
James froze but kept his cool, shaking their hands.
“You *might* have warned me,” he hissed in Emma’s ear.
“They surprised me! Flew back early from Ibiza. Relax—they’re lovely.”
“Right,” he muttered.
Emma’s parents eyed him like an auction item.
“So, James,” her father began, smile strained. “Tell us about yourself.”
“Work in finance. Started as a teller, now assistant manager. Studying part-time for my degree—”
“Finance?” Her mother turned to her husband. “Any future in that?”
“Limited, unless you’re at the top,” her dad replied, ignoring James entirely.
“Disagree,” James cut in. All three turned. “I’ll be branch manager within a year. Regional director in five.”
Her mother laughed. “*That’s* ambition?”
“Did your first salon pay for the other two?” James shot back.
The polite smiles vanished.
“I *earned* them,” she snapped. “Started in a council-estate hair shop.”
“So what’s wrong with starting as a banker?”
Emma stormed in. “Five minutes gone, and you’re at each other’s throats?” Her new earrings glinted.
Dinner passed in silence until her mother smirked. “James, thoughts on misogyny?”
The table stilled.
“Against it,” he said calmly.
“How *enlightened* of you to know the word.”
“Oddly, I learned it this morning. From a woman in a white coat.”
Emma’s gaze darted between them. Her mother’s eyes glittered—she was gunning for him. Disaster loomed.
Then Emma remembered: her mum had ranted earlier about a “sexist prick” in a car park.
“*Enough*!” Emma snapped. “Mum—this morning, you mentioned misogyny. Now this. What aren’t you saying?”
Her mother folded her arms. “Oh, should I mention your ‘sweet’ James ruined my morning?”
“James, you *knew* her?” Emma looked crushed.
“Didn’t want to ruin your day. I *was* a jerk. Scratched her car, mouthed off… I’m ashamed.”
“Wait—*another* scrape?” Her dad’s voice turned sharp.
“Black ice—just a bump—”
“Show me. Did you report it?”
“We settled it,” her mother cut in. “Right, *James*?” Her glare could curdle milk.
James reached for his coat. “Happy to check now, sir—”
“*Stop*!” Her mother blurted. Everyone turned. She swallowed hard. “There… isn’t a scratch. Well, an old one, but nothing new.”
James gaped. “*What*? You took *£500* from me!”
“You *deserved* it! Men like you—profiling women drivers as idiots!” She tossed her hair. “I’ll refund you. But Emma—a man rude to strangers won’t hesitate to—”
“For God’s *sake*!” Emma exploded. “Get. Out. All of you!”
“Emma!” her mother gasped.
“*Now*.”
James tried to apologise, but Emma pointed silently at the door.
Alone, she slumped by the window, shovelling cake straight from the tub. Outside, the sky hung heavy with clouds—until her phone buzzed: *Look down.*
Three figures waved wildly from the pavement: her parents and James. Another text: *We’ve made up. Come sledging.*
Emma’s breath caught.
“I *did* refund him,” her mother admitted sheepishly when Emma joined them.
“And I apologised,” James added. “Now we’re apologising to *you*.”
“Sledging?” Emma eyed them.
“*Yes*!” Her mother clapped.
James’ idea, apparently.
Tears welled as Emma recalled joking once about her dream birthday: racing down hills on a sled until midnight. Her parents had always booked fancy restaurants instead.
Her dad pulled a bin bag from his car—inside, a rolled-up strip of old lino.
Emma burst out laughing.
