Driving Lessons
Emily parked her car outside the office and hurried toward the entrance. Ahead of her, two women strolled slowly, chatting. Just before the doors, they suddenly stopped, blocking her path. Without hesitation, Emily wedged herself between them, pushed them aside, and yanked the door open.
“Oi, where do you think you’re going?” Harsh insults flew at her back.
On any other day, she might have snapped back, but today, Emily was hopelessly late. She ignored the exchange and bolted for the lift. The doors were already open, people filing inside. At the last second, Emily squeezed in, bumping into a man and forcing him back.
“Sorry,” she muttered, turning away as the doors closed. For a fleeting moment, she caught the angry faces of the women she’d shoved aside. The lift ascended smoothly. “Should’ve stuck my tongue out at them,” Emily thought belatedly.
Her cheeks were flushed from running, her hair a mess. The lift’s mirror on the back wall was unreachable—too many people packed inside. She smoothed her hair with a quick hand.
Someone behind her scoffed. Emily was sure it was the man she’d bumped. She turned to check. He stood there, chin slightly raised—or maybe it just seemed that way because of their height difference. His cologne smelled expensive. For a beat, they locked eyes. She whipped back around, her hair swirling.
The lift shuddered to a stop, the doors parting with a whisper. Emily stepped out, sensing his gaze on her back.
“Fancy her, did you?” Nicholas teased as the lift resumed its climb. “She looked ready to snap your head off.”
“Hardly. I’m not some doe-eyed rookie. Women like that—full of fire until they marry, then it’s all ‘Darling, the Johnsons holidayed in the Maldives, and we’re stuck in Spain again?’ Three fur coats for her friend, but only one for her? Pathetic.” He mimicked a pout, drawing chuckles.
“Just bad luck with Laura, mate,” Nicholas said. The lift stopped, and the two stepped out.
“Left,” Nicholas directed.
“Agreed. After her, I can’t even look at women. Enough about that.” He paused at a glass door.
Meanwhile, Emily was in the middle of a dressing-down from her boss.
“Where the devil have you been? The client hung up—you’ve botched the deal!” he roared, flecks of spit flying.
“James, I swear, it won’t happen again. Traffic was—”
“Spare me. Leave earlier. One more slip, Sinclair, and you’re out—sick mum or not. Now grab the samples and go.”
Emily backed toward the door. “Thank you. I’m already gone. Promise—no, swear—it won’t happen again.” She exhaled relief in the hallway.
“Smith was looking for you. Fuming,” a colleague greeted as Emily entered the office.
“Found me already.” She snatched the folder from her desk and left.
She skipped the lift, took the stairs two at a time, and froze on the car park. In her rush, she’d parked her little Hyundai too close to the Kia in front. She’d hoped the driver behind would leave space.
No such luck. A hulking black Mercedes loomed over her car, barely a finger’s width from her bumper. Trapped. “Now what? If I’d parked like this, there’d be hell to pay.” Except she had.
Walking to the meeting wasn’t an option. Emily slid into the driver’s seat, tossed the folder aside, and twisted the key. Inch by inch, she wrestled the car free, sweating under James’s looming threat.
A final reverse—too sharp. A faint thud. The Mercedes’ alarm wailed. Emily’s stomach dropped. She edged forward, stepped out, and winced. A scratch and a dent on the Mercedes’ wing. At least the headlight was untouched. The car blinked angrily, then fell silent.
No one around. The CCTV was too far to catch the plates. Emily exhaled, got back in, and sped off. What else could she do?
A week passed with no word. She relaxed—until an unknown number flashed on her phone.
“Emily Sinclair? Detective Harris.” She barely listened until—”Is car registration… yours?”
“Yes.” The trap snapped shut.
“Meet me at the station. If you don’t show, I’ll send a summons.”
Her face burned. Of course he’d noticed. People like that didn’t drive Mercedes. But he’d parked too close too! A dull ache settled in her gut.
“July twenty-fourth, you hit a parked car and fled. That’s a serious offence.”
Emily swallowed. Detective Harris’s gaze pinned her like a rabbit in headlights. Her fingers twisted her handbag.
“Don’t deny it. CCTV caught everything. You even checked the damage.”
“It’s a scratch! Any garage could fix it in minutes. This bill’s worth my entire car. I’m still paying off the loan!”
“Know who owns that Mercedes?”
“What does it matter?” Her voice cracked. “What’s going to happen?”
“Court will decide. Fleeing worsens it. Fines, maybe license suspension.”
“I can’t lose my car—my mum’s ill—”
He tapped his pen. “The owner wants the book thrown at you. Write your version—mention your mum. Beg mercy, don’t blame him.”
The owner wouldn’t take her calls. Probably blocked her.
Court slashed the repair bill in half. Her license stayed—but two nights in a cell. “To teach you.”
Emily sat stunned in the corridor. Not the cell itself, but her mum’s panic if she found out. Her weak heart couldn’t take it. Maybe say she was at a friend’s? But no calls allowed. Mum would fret herself sick.
“God, why did I run?” She remembered saving for the car, passing her test, the pride. Now this. Courts weren’t like films. Bars, locks, cots—
Footsteps. A vaguely familiar man. He paused outside the court, phoned someone. A second man emerged, briefing him. The Mercedes owner.
Emily sprang up. “Happy now? Big man crushing some girl over a scratch? My mum’s heart could fail. But who cares, right?”
“Wait—Nicholas, what’s she on about?”
“You wanted her punished, no?”
“Stay here.” The man—David—disappeared inside.
Nicholas paced, glowering. The wait dragged.
“All done. You’re free. Go home to your mum,” David said, reappearing.
“What?”
“I fixed it. Dropped the charges.”
Her legs almost failed. She bolted without thanking him. Why should she? He could’ve listened sooner.
From then on, she parked carefully. Weeks later, she bumped into David at the lifts.
“Hello. How’s your mum?”
She stiffened, recalling crashing into him, his car.
“Fine. I—”
“Emily, you work here?”
“What now?” Her voice shook.
“Sorry. That day—my ex was taking our son abroad. I took it out on you.”
The lift arrived. He gestured her in. Empty.
He pressed her floor. “You’re in advertising? I’m here to book a campaign.”
Silence. Was he serious?
The lift stopped. She faced him. “I looked you up. Your business is thriving. You work with another agency.”
His gaze flicked away. Served him right.
“Caught me.” He smiled sheepishly. “Lunch, then? There’s a decent place nearby.”
The nerve. Jail one minute, restaurants the next.
But he looked so lost, almost pleading.
“Alright,” she said, smiling.
—
**Lesson:** **Haste makes waste—but kindness, even delayed, can mend fences.**
