Driving Lessons
Sophie pulled her car into the office car park and hurried toward the building. Ahead of her, two women were walking slowly, deep in conversation. Right at the entrance, they suddenly stopped, blocking her path. Without a second thought, Sophie wedged herself between them, nudging them aside, and yanked the door open.
“Hey, what’s your problem?” Harsh insults flew at her back.
Normally, she’d have fired back, but today, Sophie was hopelessly late. No time for arguing. She dashed toward the lift just as the doors were sliding open. At the last second, she squeezed inside, bumping into a man and shoving him back.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning away.
Through the closing doors, she caught a glimpse of the irritated faces of the women who’d been chasing her. The lift glided upward. “Should’ve stuck my tongue out at them,” she thought belatedly.
Her face was flushed from running, her hair tousled. There was a mirror on the back wall, but the lift was too crowded for her to reach it. She smoothed her hair with her hand instead.
Behind her, someone scoffed. Sophie was sure it was the man she’d bumped into. She turned to check—and there he was, staring down at her, chin slightly raised. Or maybe it just seemed that way because he was taller. A faint, pleasant scent of his cologne lingered in the air. For a second, they just looked at each other. Then Sophie spun back around, tossing her hair.
The lift slowed to a stop. The doors slid open, and Sophie stepped out, painfully aware of his gaze on her back.
“She’s got a thing for you,” Nicholas teased as the lift resumed its climb. “Couldn’t resist picking a fight, could she?”
“Please. Fluttering lashes and skinny legs don’t impress me. I’ve been around the block. Right now, she’s all fiery and sharp-tongued, but wait till she’s married—then the real her’ll show. ‘Darling, Emma and her husband went to the Maldives, and we’re stuck going to Spain again? I’m sick of it. Sarah has three fur coats, I’ve only got one. I feel poor.’” He pouted theatrically, mimicking his wife’s whining tone.
The others in the lift snickered.
“Just bad luck with Lucy, mate,” Nicholas said as the lift stopped and they stepped out.
“Right this way,” Nicholas nudged.
“Agreed. After her, I can’t even look at women. Enough about that,” David muttered. “Here?” He paused by a glass door.
Meanwhile, Sophie was getting an earful from her boss.
“Where the hell have you been? The client’s been blowing up my phone! You’re blowing the deal!” he shouted, flecks of spit flying.
“Jonathan, I swear, this is the last time. There was traffic—”
“Spare me. Sleep less, leave earlier. One more late mark, and I swear, Thompson—sick mum or not—you’re out. Now get gone. Take the samples and go.”
Sophie backed toward the door.
“Thank you, Jonathan. I’m already halfway there. Promise—no, swear—it won’t happen again—” She pushed the door open with her back and exhaled in relief.
“Smith was looking for you. Went spare,” a colleague said bluntly as Sophie walked in.
“Already found me,” Sophie grabbed the folder from her desk and left.
She skipped the lift, raced down the stairs, burst out of the building—then froze. In her rush earlier, she’d parked her little Hyundai too close to the Kia in front, hoping the driver behind her would leave space.
Clearly, they’d been in a hurry too. A hulking black BMW loomed over her humble car, its front bumper nearly touching hers. Trapped. “What now? How do I get out? If I’d parked like this, there’d be hell to pay…” Except she *had* parked like this.
Walking to the meeting wasn’t an option. Sophie yanked open the door, tossed the folder onto the passenger seat, and twisted the key. Inch by inch, she tried to manoeuvre free, her stomach in knots. Jonathan’s threats echoed in her ears. He’d probably already called the client to say she was on her way. And here she was, wasting time.
One last reverse. She jerked the wheel—then felt a slight thud. The BMW’s alarm blared. Perfect. Sophie edged forward, praying there was no damage. She stepped out—and there it was. A scratch and a small dent on the BMW’s wing. At least the headlight was fine. The car flashed its lights angrily before falling silent.
No one around. The CCTV cameras were too far to catch her number plate. Sophie bit her lip, slid back into her car, and sped off. Nothing left to lose.
When she returned to the office later, she purposely walked past the parking spot. The BMW was gone. “Probably didn’t even notice. But if he did…” Everyone knew her little Hyundai. “Just a dent. Not the end of the world.” Then she frowned. Why was she thinking about that man in the lift?
A week passed. No calls. Sophie relaxed—until an unknown number flashed on her phone.
“Sophie Elizabeth Thompson?” A stern voice. “Detective Harris.” She was typing one-handed, barely listening—until “detective” snapped her attention. “Is registration… yours?”
“Yes,” she answered, ignoring the alarm bells in her head. Too late now. She’d admitted it.
“Come to the station. Room six. Pass at the front desk. If you don’t show, I’ll send a summons.”
“I’ll… I’ll come,” Sophie stammered.
Her face burned. The phone was slick in her sweaty palm. He’d noticed. Damn it. Normal people didn’t drive cars like that. Why did she have to be late, park badly, and— “It’s his fault! Didn’t he see how close he was?” Her stomach churned.
“On the 24th of July, you hit a parked vehicle and fled the scene. That’s a serious offence. Care to explain, Sophie?”
She swallowed. Sitting across from Detective Harris, she felt like a rabbit cornered by a fox. Her fingers twisted the strap of her handbag.
“Don’t bother denying. CCTV caught it all. You checked the damage. You *knew*.”
“*What* offence? The BMW driver parked too close! I barely touched it—just a tiny scratch!”
“How was I supposed to get out? Fly? I’m not Lewis Hamilton! My boss was going to sack me if I was late—I panicked. I’ll pay for the repairs. Please, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” She sounded pathetic. She shut up.
“You *will* pay. Here’s the owner’s estimate.” He slid over a sheet. Sophie’s eyes bulged.
“*How much*? For a *scratch*? Any garage could buff that out in minutes! That’s more than my car’s worth! I’m still paying off the loan!” Her voice cracked.
Harris sighed. “Do you know who owns that BMW?”
“Who *cares*?” she snapped, then forced herself calm. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“That’s for the court to decide. Fleeing the scene worsens your case. Fines, points, maybe even a driving ban.”
“A *ban*? But my mum’s ill—I *need* my car for work!”
Harris tapped his pen. “The victim wants the maximum penalty. A lesson for hit-and-runners. Write your statement. Mention your mum. And Sophie? Admit fault. Beg. It’ll go easier.”
She tried calling the BMW owner. Straight to voicemail. Probably blocked her.
Two weeks later, court slashed the repair bill in half. Mum’s health spared her a ban—but she got 48 hours in a holding cell. “To teach her a lesson.”
Numb, Sophie sat shaking in the corridor. Not just scared of sharing a cell with criminals—though that terrified her—but of her mum finding out. Her weak heart wouldn’t take it. Maybe say she was staying with a friend? No—Mum would call. Phones weren’t allowed in cells. No answer would panic her.
*Why did I run?*
Sophie remembered saving for her car. Passing her test. The pride when she’d bought her little Hyundai. Now this. Nothing like the films. Ahead: bars, locks, a hard bench…
Footsteps. She looked up. A man walked past—vaguely familiar. He stopped outside the courtroom, pulled out his phone. Another man emerged, updating him on the case.
The BMW owner. And his lawyer.
Sophie jumped up.
“Happy now? Some girl scratched your precious car—why not crush her completely, right? Big, strong men. Throw her in with criminals, teach her a lesson.”
Her voice wavered. “My mum’s got a weak heart. Just out of hospital.She took a shaky breath, but before she could storm off, he reached out—”Wait, let me fix this”—and in that moment, the weight of it all lifted, because sometimes the worst mistakes lead to the best second chances.
