Driving Lessons
Millicent parked her Mini Cooper outside the office and rushed toward the building entrance. Ahead of her, two women strolled leisurely, chatting. Just before the doors, they abruptly stopped, blocking her path. Without hesitation, Millicent squeezed between them, nudging them aside, and yanked the door open.
“Oi, where d’you think you’re going?” Harsh insults followed her.
Any other day, she would have fired back, but today Millicent was hopelessly late. She ignored them and dashed to the lift just as its doors yawned open. People were filing in, and at the last moment, she barged inside, jostling a man backward.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning toward the closing doors. For a split second, the angry faces of the women chasing her flashed between the gaps before the lift ascended smoothly. “Should’ve stuck my tongue out,” she thought belatedly.
Her cheeks were flushed from running, her hair tousled. There was a mirror at the back, but the lift was crammed—no chance of fixing herself up. She smoothed her hair with a hand.
Someone behind her gave a quiet snort. She was sure it was the man she’d bumped. Glancing back, she saw him standing there, chin slightly raised—or was that just the height difference? She caught a whiff of his cologne. Their eyes met briefly before she turned sharply away, her hair swirling.
The lift shuddered to a stop, doors sliding open. Millicent stepped out, feeling his gaze on her back.
“Fancy her, do you?” Nigel asked Benedict once the doors closed again. “Couldn’t keep her eyes off you. Bet she was itching to give you an earful.”
“Don’t be daft. A flutter of lashes and slim legs won’t fool me—seen it all before. She’s all fire now, but wait till she’s married. ‘Darling, Jemima and her husband jetted off to the Maldives, and we’re stuck in Spain *again*? I’m sick of it. Lucy’s got three fur coats, and I’ve only one—I feel like a pauper!’” Benedict pouted comically, mimicking his ex-wife’s whine. A few stifled giggles came from nearby.
“Just your luck with Lottie,” Nigel remarked. The lift halted, and they stepped out.
“Right, this way,” Nigel directed.
“Honestly, after her, I’ve gone off women altogether. Enough of that,” Benedict sighed. “Here?” He paused by a glass door.
Meanwhile, Millicent endured a furious dressing-down from her boss.
“Where the devil do you disappear to? The client hung up—you’ve bungled the deal!” he roared, flecks of spittle flying.
“Edward, I swear, it won’t happen again. There was traffic—”
“Spare me. Less kip, earlier starts—beat the traffic. One more slip, and mark my words, Whitcombe, I won’t care about your sick mother. You’re out. Now scram. Take the samples and get to that client.”
Millicent backed toward the door.
“Thank you, Edward. I’m on it. Promise—no, *swear*—it won’t—” She nudged the door open with her back and exhaled sharply in the corridor.
“Skarsgard was looking for you. In a right state,” a colleague greeted her when she entered the office.
“Found me already.” Millicent snatched a folder from her desk and left.
She skipped the lift, bolted down the stairs, and froze in the car park. In her hurry, she’d parked her Mini too close to the Ford in front, trusting whoever parked behind her to leave space.
No such luck. A hulking black Range Rover loomed over her Mini, its bumper nearly touching hers. She was boxed in. “Now what? Walk to the meeting? If *I’d* parked like this, there’d be hell to pay…” Except she *had* parked like that.
No time to walk. She slid behind the wheel, tossed the folder onto the passenger seat, and twisted the key. Inch by inch, she tried to wriggle free, steering carefully, heart pounding.
Edward’s threats echoed in her ears. He’d likely already called the client to say she was en route—yet here she was, wasting precious minutes.
One last reverse—she misjudged it, jolting backward. A soft *thud*. The Range Rover’s alarm blared. Perfect. She edged forward, praying no damage was done, then stepped out. A scratch and a small dent marred the Rover’s wing. At least the headlight was intact. The alarm ceased with an indignant flash.
No one around. CCTV was distant, probably hadn’t caught her plate. She sighed, got back in, and sped off. Nothing left to lose.
Returning later, she passed the spot—the Rover was gone. “Maybe he didn’t notice. But if he did… everyone knows my Mini.” She brushed it off, riding the lift up to the ad agency. Oddly, she thought of the man from before.
A week passed. No one came for her. Then, an unknown number called.
“Millicent Alice Whitcombe? Inspector Higgins speaking.” She typed one-handed, phone wedged between ear and shoulder, barely listening—until “Inspector.” Her stomach dropped. “Is registration number… yours?”
“Yes,” she said, ignoring the alarm bells. Too late. She’d admitted it.
“My office. Sixth floor. Pass at reception. Fail to show, and I’ll send a summons.”
“I—I’ll come.”
Her face burned, the phone slick in her clammy hand. *He noticed*. Of course—a Rover like that? How had she managed to be late *and* park like a fool? But *he* was at fault too—hadn’t he seen her Mini? A dull ache settled in her gut.
“On the twenty-fourth of July, you struck a vehicle in your office car park and fled. That’s a serious offence. Care to explain, Miss Whitcombe?”
She swallowed, staring at Inspector Higgins like a rabbit at a snake, fingers clawing at her handbag.
“Surely you won’t deny it? CCTV caught everything. You *saw* the damage.”
“*What* offence? The Rover driver parked too close! I barely tapped it—a tiny scratch!”
“Was I supposed to *fly* out? I’m no Formula One driver!” Her voice shook. “My boss threatened to sack me if I was late—I panicked. I’ll pay for repairs. Please—it won’t happen again!” She cringed at her own pleading.
“You *will* pay. Here—see what the owner’s claiming.” He slid a paper across. Her eyes scanned the figures.
“*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.
Higgins sighed.
“Know who owns that Rover?”
“What does it matter?” she snapped, then checked herself. “What’ll happen to me?”
“Court will decide. Fleeing worsens it. Fines—possibly a ban.”
“A *ban*? But my mum’s ill—I *need* my car for work!”
Higgins tapped his pencil.
“The claimant wants maximum penalty. A lesson. Write your version—mention your mum. Blaming him won’t help. Admit fault, show remorse.” He pushed a pen and paper toward her.
“Can I speak to him? Who *is* he?”
“Prominent businessman. Doubt he’ll entertain you. But try.” He scribbled a number. “Had you stayed, this’d be different…”
The Rover’s owner didn’t answer. Probably blocked her.
Two weeks later, court halved the repair sum, spared her licence—her mum’s health swayed them—but sentenced her to two days in a holding cell. “To teach you not to flee.”
Dazed in the corridor, she trembled. Less the cell itself—though *that* terrified her—than her mum finding out. Her weak heart couldn’t take it. Maybe claim she was staying with a friend? But her mum would call—no phones in cells. The silence would panic her.
*Why did I run?* She remembered saving for the Mini, the pride of passing her test. Now this. Nothing like the films. Ahead lay bars, locks, bunks…
Footsteps. A man approached—vaguely familiar. He paused by the courtroom, phoned someone. Another man emerged, briefing him.
The Rover’s owner and his rep. She sprang up.
“Happy now? Some girl scuffed your posh car—why not throw the book at her? Big, strong men, eh? Let her sit with thieves and addicts—teach her a lesson!” Her voice frayed. “My mum’s got heart trouble. Just out of hospital. Would you care? Not *your* mum, is it?”
“Hold on. Nigel, what’s she on about?”
“You wanted her punished, no?” Nigel shifted awkwardly.
“Wait”Wait here,” Benedict said, then turned to Millicent, his expression softening as he added, “Let’s sort this out properly—no one’s spending the night in a cell over a scratch, least of all someone just trying to get to work on time.”
