Six failed driving tests. One instructor who knows exactly how to make sure she passes the sixth... and exactly what he wants in return.

I've failed my driving test five times. Five. I have a 2:1 in English Literature, I can close-read a sonnet in my sleep, and I still cannot reverse round a corner without something going catastrophically wrong. My mother has opinions. My friends have all passed, moved to London, and are living lives that don't involve crying in a Vauxhall Corsa on a Tuesday. I was, by test six, fairly desperate. I just didn't know yet how desperate.

Enter Nigel. Forty-three, thickening round the middle, driving instructor livery peeling off his car doors, absolutely nothing about him that should have made my stomach do the thing it did. Except I've always had a weakness for men like that, the unhurried, unbothered, says-it-once sort, and Nigel clocked it about four minutes into our first lesson. He didn't ask twice. He didn't have to.

There's a version of this story where I say no. Where I drive home, book test seven, and none of what follows happens in a residential street, a National Trust car park, or a layby I will never be able to drive past again without my whole body reacting. That is not the version of this story that happened.

What I discovered, over one very long, very warm September afternoon, is that I am not the sensible, bookish, sort-of-liberal girl I always thought I was. I am considerably filthier than that, and considerably more willing, and it turns out I like being watched a great deal more than I like being good.

I passed my test, for the record. There should be an asterisk on the certificate. There isn't. But I know what it actually cost, and God help me, I've already booked my Pass Plus lesson.