The Lie by Petra Hammesfahr

her lie about the driving lesson and realized that her money had been misappropriated.
    Next Sunday! Time was getting short. She couldn’t do anything about her driving on Saturday. On Sunday she was standing by the street outside her flat with her new hairdo and perfect make-up, wearing the clothes Nadia had bought in the boutique. Johannes Herzog gulped when she got into the BMW. “You look great,” he said.
    A compliment like that to a woman of her age from a man in his twenties was not to be sniffed at. It was just that inside she didn’t feel anything like so radiant as she looked outside. After four or five months - she couldn’t remember exactly how long it was - she’d woken at six on a damp sheet stained red. And with the period came that general out-of-sorts feeling and massive self-doubt. She couldn’t possibly drive the Alfa down the autobahn and out into the country next Sunday.
    Johannes raced round the bends in his usual style, surreptitiously giving her sidelong glances. Eventually he asked, “Don’t you feel well?”
    No. She felt anything but well. She was afraid she was going to fail miserably next Sunday right from the start, on the journey out. Johannes flung the car round the next bend. “All this hurtling round corners is making me feel sick,” she said in answer to his question.

    It was the first time she’d criticized his driving. He was genuinely puzzled. “Am I driving too fast?”
    â€œI never do more than fifty on a road like this,” she said. That was the speed limit indicated on the signs they’d hurtled past only a few minutes ago.
    â€œI’d no idea you could drive,” he said.
    â€œI don’t have much opportunity,” she explained. “I haven’t got a car of my own at the moment, of course. But I’ve just been offered a company car; they want me to take over the courier work. I’d love to do it, only I’m afraid my lack of driving practice would mean I couldn’t.”
    Taking the broad hint, Johannes nobly pulled up at the side of the road. This time next week, she thought as he got out. In her mind’s eye she saw the little photo of a blond man. Michael Trenkler, who else? As it was only for a few minutes, and as he wouldn’t have time to devote himself to her to any extent, there really was no risk - provided she got there safely.
    She slid over into the driving seat. The engine was still running, Johannes had put it in neutral and applied the handbrake. Left foot on the clutch, right foot on the accelerator, engage first, take off the handbrake. And slowly - the BMW shot out into the middle of the road.
    â€œEasy does it,” said Johannes, leaning back and coolly crossing his legs. “You should have said something and I could have let you try sooner, I’m not fussy about letting other people drive my car. But what’s this about courier trips? I thought you worked in an office?”
    â€œYes. But these courier firms aren’t a hundred percent reliable,” she explained. “If something’s urgent, you have to see it gets there yourself.”
    It all sounded somewhat laboured, but at least she was driving at almost twenty miles per hour on the right side of the road. The engine protested. She changed up into second, crept up to thirty in third and managed to reach fifty without having the feeling she was at the wheel of an uncontrollable rocket. Johannes just sat there and let her get on with it, listening to her telling him how much she was looking forward to the courier trips because, of course, they were paid extra.
    A little later than usual they reached the car park at the old folks’ home. Johannes looked for a space and pointed. “There,” he said, indicating an empty place. The only one left. It was much too narrow for her.

    â€œIt’d be better if you parked it yourself.” she said.
    â€œNo. Any idiot can drive.