Driving Lessons
Emily pulled her Mini Cooper into the office car park and hurried toward the building entrance. Ahead of her, two women walked slowly, deep in conversation. Right at the doors, they suddenly stopped, blocking her path. Without hesitation, Emily shouldered between them, nudging them apart, and yanked the door open.
“Oi, where d’you think you’re—” The insults hurled at her back were sharp, but Emily didn’t engage. She was already late, and today wasn’t the day for an argument. She dashed to the lift just as the doors were closing and squeezed inside, accidentally bumping into a man and shoving him back a step.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning to face the closing doors. For a second, the angry faces of the women she’d pushed past flashed between the gap before they vanished, and the lift glided upward. *Should’ve stuck my tongue out at them*, she thought belatedly.
Her cheeks were flushed from running, her hair tousled. There was a mirror at the back, but the lift was packed—no chance of fixing herself up. She smoothed her hair with her hand instead.
Behind her, someone snorted. She was sure it was the man she’d barged into. To test her theory, she glanced back. He stood there, chin slightly raised—or maybe it just seemed that way because he was taller. A hint of his cologne lingered in the air. For a moment, their eyes locked before she sharply turned away, her hair fanning out behind her.
The lift jolted gently to a stop, the doors slid open, and Emily stepped out, feeling his gaze on her back.
“Fancy her, do you?” James asked Thomas as the lift started moving again. “She was dying to give you a piece of her mind, wasn’t she?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. A pretty face and legs won’t win me over. I’ve been around the block. Right now, she’s all fiery and bold, but wait till she settles down—then the real her will show. ‘Darling, Olivia and her husband just got back from the Maldives, and we’re off to Spain *again*? Boring. Sarah has three fur coats, and I’ve only got one. I feel like a pauper…'” Thomas pouted dramatically, mimicking his ex-wife’s tone. The others in the lift chuckled.
“You just had bad luck with Lucy,” James said as the doors opened and they stepped out.
“Left,” James directed.
“Agreed. After her, I can’t even look at women the same. Enough about that,” Thomas muttered. “Here?” He paused at a glass door.
Meanwhile, Emily was getting an earful from her boss.
“Where the *hell* have you been? The client hung up—you’ve blown the deal!” he barked, spittle flying.
“Simon, I swear, this won’t happen again. I got stuck in traffic—”
“Spare me the excuses. Sleep less, leave earlier. One more late, and I don’t care about your sick mum—you’re out. Now grab the samples and *go*.”
Emily backed toward the door. “Thank you, Simon. I’m already halfway out—promise, *swear*, it won’t happen again…” She slipped into the hallway, exhaling hard.
“Brown was looking for you. Proper raging,” a colleague said as Emily walked into the office.
“Already found me.” Emily snatched her folder from her desk and left.
She skipped the lift, took the stairs two at a time, and froze when she reached her car. She’d parked her Mini too close to the Kia in front, hoping the driver behind would leave enough space.
No such luck. A hulking black Range Rover loomed over her Mini, almost touching its bumper. She was boxed in. *What now? Walk to the meeting?* Simon would murder her.
She got in, tossed the folder onto the passenger seat, and twisted the key. Inch by inch, she reversed, turned the wheel, trying to wriggle free. The threats of losing her job echoed in her ears. Simon had probably already called the client. Every second wasted here felt like digging her own grave.
She *almost* made it—until she felt the nudge. The Range Rover’s alarm blared. *Perfect.* She edged forward, praying there’d be no damage. But there it was—a scratch and a dent on the Rover’s wing. The headlight was fine, at least. The alarm stopped, leaving silence.
No one around. The CCTV was too far to catch her number plate clearly. She sighed, got back in, and drove off. What else could she do?
A week passed—no word from the Rover’s owner. She relaxed. Then, an unknown number flashed on her phone.
“Emily Carter?” A stern voice. “Detective Harris… Does registration AB12 CDE belong to you?”
Her stomach dropped. “Yes,” she admitted before she could stop herself.
“I’ll expect you at the station. Sixth floor. If you don’t show, I’ll send a summons.”
“I’ll be there,” she whispered, her face burning.
He *had* noticed. The Rover’s owner wasn’t just some bloke—he was someone with clout. *Why didn’t I just leave a note?* She felt sick.
“On July 24th, you struck a parked vehicle and fled,” Detective Harris said, sliding a repair bill across his desk. “A serious offense. Do you deny it?”
Emily’s fingers twisted around her handbag strap. “It was barely a scratch! The Rover parked too close—how was I supposed to get out? Fly? I panicked—my boss threatened to sack me if I was late…”
“You’ll pay for the repairs, regardless. Here’s the estimate.”
Her eyes nearly popped. “*This* much? For a *scratch*? I could buy my car twice over for that!”
“Know who the Rover belongs to?”
“What does it matter?” Her voice shook.
“That’s for the courts to decide. Fleeing worsened your case. Suspended license, maybe jail time.”
“*Jail*? But my mum—”
“Write your statement. Admit fault. Beg for leniency,” he said, pushing a pen toward her.
She couldn’t reach the owner—blocked, probably.
Two weeks later, the court halved the repair costs. Her license stayed, but she got 48 hours in a holding cell—”to teach her a lesson.”
Dazed, she sat in the corridor. Not the cell itself—though that terrified her—but her mum finding out. Her weak heart couldn’t take it. Maybe she could lie, say she was at a friend’s…
*God, why did I run?* She remembered saving up, passing her test, the pride of her first car. Now this.
Footsteps. She looked up. A man—familiar?—paused outside the courtroom, made a call. Another man emerged, briefing him.
*That’s him—the Rover owner.* She sprang up.
“Happy now? Big man, punishing some girl for scratching your precious car? My mum’s *ill*—what if this kills her?” Her voice cracked, trembling with rage.
“Wait—Nicholas, what’s she on about?”
“You wanted her punished, didn’t you?” Nicholas faltered.
“Stay here.” The man—Thomas—stepped into the courtroom.
When he returned, he said, “It’s done. No jail. Go home.”
She stared. “*What*?”
“I sorted it. Withdrew the complaint.”
Nicholas started, “Thomas, I had to—” but Emily was already halfway down the hall, forgetting even to thank him. *Should’ve just listened to me in the first place.*
From then on, she parked carefully.
Then, one day, she ran into Thomas at the lift.
“Hello. How’s your mum?” he asked.
She stiffened, remembering their last encounter. “Fine. Why—”
“You work here?”
“What do you *want*?” she snapped.
He looked embarrassed. “Bad day that day. My ex… was taking my son abroad. Took it out on you.”
The lift arrived. He motioned her in first. Alone, they rode up.
“You’re at the ad agency, right?” he asked. “I’m here to book a campaign.”
She eyed him. “I Googled you. Your business doesn’t *need* ads.”
He flushed. “Caught me. Then… lunch? There’s a decent place nearby.”
The nerve. *Nearly jailed me, now wants a date?*
But he looked genuinely awkward, like her answer meant everything.
“Fine,” she said, smiling.
