**Driving Lessons**
I parked my little Fiesta outside the office and rushed toward the entrance, my heels clicking against the pavement. Ahead of me, two women ambled slowly, deep in conversation. Just as I reached the doors, they stopped dead, blocking my path. Without hesitation, I squeezed between them, nudging them aside, and yanked the door open.
“Oi, who do you think you are—” Their sharp words nipped at my back.
Normally, I’d snap back, but today, lateness hung over me like a storm cloud. Ignoring them, I dashed toward the lift. The doors were already sliding shut when I slipped in, bumping into a man and forcing him back a step.
“Sorry,” I muttered, turning to face the closing doors. For a split second, I caught sight of the two women glaring at me through the gap before they vanished. As the lift ascended, a belated thought struck me—*I should’ve stuck my tongue out at them.*
Running had left me flushed, my hair tousled. A mirror lined the lift’s back wall, but it was packed—no chance of fixing myself now. I smoothed my hair with my fingers instead.
Behind me, someone snorted. I was sure it was the man I’d barged into. Glancing over my shoulder confirmed it—he stood there, chin slightly raised, or maybe that was just the height difference. His cologne was subtle but expensive. For a moment, our eyes met. Then I turned sharply away, my hair swirling around me.
The lift stopped with a faint shudder. The doors parted, and I stepped out, his gaze prickling my skin.
“Fancy her, then?” Nicholas teased Vadim as the lift resumed its climb. “Bet she fancied you. Looked like she was itching to tear into you.”
“Please. Fluttering lashes and skinny legs won’t fool me. She’s all bravado now, but wait till she’s married. Suddenly it’ll be, *‘Darling, Amelia’s off to the Maldives with her husband, and we’re stuck in bloody Ibiza again? Sara’s got three fur coats, and I’ve only one—I feel like a pauper.’*” Vadim pouted theatrically, mimicking his ex-wife’s whining tone, drawing chuckles from the others.
“Just bad luck with Helen, mate,” Nicholas said.
The lift halted, and they stepped out.
“Turn right,” Nicholas advised.
“Honestly, after her, I can’t even look at women,” Vadim muttered. “Here?” He paused at a glass door.
Meanwhile, I was in the middle of a roasting from my boss.
“Where the hell do you vanish to? The client’s livid—deal’s hanging by a thread!” His face was puce, spittle flying.
“Edward, I swear, it won’t happen again. There was traffic—”
“Save it. Less sleep, earlier starts—beat the damn traffic. One more slip-up, and I won’t care about your sick mother, got it? Get out. Take the samples and see the client *now*.”
I backed toward the door. “Thank you, Edward. I’ll be there in a flash. Promise—no, *swear*—it won’t happen again.” The second the door shut behind me, I exhaled in relief.
“Williams was looking for you. Proper meltdown,” a colleague said as I entered the office.
“Too late.” I grabbed my folder and fled.
Skipping the lift, I took the stairs two at a time, burst outside, and froze beside my car. In my haste, I’d parked my little Fiesta too close to the Ford in front, trusting the next driver to leave space.
No such luck. A hulking black BMW loomed behind me, barely an inch from my bumper. Trapped. *What now? Walk to the meeting?* I’d have screamed bloody murder if someone parked like this—though, admittedly, I just had.
No time. I slid into the driver’s seat, tossed the folder aside, and turned the key. Inch by inch, I wriggled free, sweat pricking my neck.
Then—*thunk.* A faint but unmistakable scrape against the BMW. Its alarm shrieked. My stomach dropped. I edged forward, praying silently, then got out. A scratch and a tiny dent marred its wing. Thank God the headlight was intact. The BMW’s lights flashed once, then quieted.
No one around. The CCTV was too far to catch my plate. Pulse racing, I jumped back in and sped off. Nothing left to lose.
A week passed—no calls, no trouble. Then my phone rang.
“Zoe Whitmore?” A clipped voice. “Detective Carter. Is car registration EJ12 XYZ yours?”
I swallowed. “Yes.” Too late now.
“Come to the station. Interview room six. If you don’t show, I’ll send a summons.”
“I’ll come,” I whispered.
My palms were slick. *Of course* it was someone important. Who else drives a BMW like that?
“You struck a parked vehicle on July 24th and fled,” Carter said, eyes unblinking. “Serious offense, Zoe.”
I gulped. My fingers twisted the strap of my handbag.
“Hope you’re not denying it? CCTV caught everything. You *saw* the damage.”
“It was his fault! He parked too close. It’s a tiny scratch!”
“You think you could’ve flown out? I’m no Lewis Hamilton!” My voice rose. “My boss threatened to sack me if I was late. I panicked. I’ll pay—just tell me how much.”
His stare didn’t waver. “You’ll pay, alright.” He slid a paper across. “BMW’s brand-new. Owner wants this.”
I gaped. “This is my car’s value! I’ve still got loan payments!”
“Know who owns it?”
“What does it matter? What’ll happen to me?” My voice cracked.
“Court decides. Fleeing worsens it—could lose your license.”
*No. Mum needs me.*
The detective softened slightly. “Write your version. Mention your mum. Better to plead guilty.”
Calling the owner was futile—straight to voicemail.
Two weeks later, court halved the fine. No license suspension—mum’s condition spared me—but two nights in a cell.
I sat stunned in the corridor, shaking. Not the cell itself, but mum finding out. Her heart wouldn’t take it. Maybe lie—say I’m at a friend’s? But she’d call, and they’d confiscate my phone.
Then footsteps. A vaguely familiar man paused nearby, phone to his ear. Someone stepped out of the courtroom—his lawyer, I guessed.
Realisation hit—*that’s him.* I sprang up.
“Happy now? Big man punishing some girl for scratching his precious car? My mum’s got heart problems—what if this kills her?” My voice frayed, my whole body trembling.
“Wait—Nik, what’s she on about?”
“You wanted her punished, no?”
Vadim—that was his name—held up a hand. “Wait here.”
When he returned, it was over. “No cell. Go home. Take care of your mum.”
I gaped. “How?”
“I fixed it. Dropped the charges.”
I nearly forgot to thank him. *Should’ve given me a chance to explain in the first place.*
From then on, I parked carefully—always extra space.
Then, weeks later, I nearly collided with him at the lifts.
“Hello. How’s your mum?”
The memory flashed—me shoving past him after denting his car.
“She’s fine. I—”
“Zoe? You work here?”
“What do you want now?” My hands shook.
“Bad day back then. Ex-wife took my son abroad. Took it out on you—sorry.”
The lift arrived. He gestured for me to enter first. Empty. I stepped in.
He pressed my floor. “You’re in advertising, right? I’m here to see you—need a campaign.”
I stayed silent. *Really?*
The doors opened. I faced him.
“I looked you up. Your business is already established—you work with another agency.”
He flushed. “Caught me. How about lunch instead? Nice place nearby.”
*The audacity. Nearly jailed me, now dinner?*
But he looked so earnest, so unsure.
“Alright,” I said, smiling.
