They were once friends…
Or so the woman on the third floor believed. Her friend, the one from the fifth floor, was what you might call a stunner—or at least, that’s what she thought of herself. She only ever descended to the “little grey mouse” (as she secretly called her downstairs neighbour) to brag or complain.
Once, they’d been schoolmates. Later, both studied economics at university—though only the mouse graduated, landing a modest job at a bank. The beauty, meanwhile, snagged herself a rich sugar daddy in her final year and dropped out. After the divorce, she walked away with a hefty sum and a small monthly allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid double just to be rid of her, but her solicitor bungled the deal, leaving her alone with dwindling funds—her extravagance saw to that. So, the beauty was forever on the prowl, descending only to recount her triumphs and tragedies to the mouse.
“All men are pigs,” she declared, flipping through a glossy magazine—her sole reading material—perched elegantly in the mouse’s armchair. She dispensed wisdom like gospel. “Want a decent bloke? Read these.”
She wore a silky dressing gown with a scandalous neckline. Manicured hands and blood-red nails clashed with the mouse’s frayed, faded robe and work-roughened fingers—laundry, cleaning, cooking, errands. Neither was married, neither had children. The mouse longed for both; the beauty only craved admiration, money, and freedom from expectations.
“All men are pigs,” she repeated, twirling a menthol cigarette. “One’s bald, one’s short, one’s loaded but stingy—can you imagine? An old car, a poky cottage, and he expected me to cook!” She laughed. “Me, in some rust bucket or slaving over a stove? Disgusting.”
The mouse sighed inwardly. *I’d take the bald one or the short one. I’d cook. I’d gladly go to the cottage.*
“Pigs,” the beauty concluded.
Here’s the thing—she always brought her cat. A scrawny, filthy thing, perpetually dusted in cobwebs. The mouse had a cat, too, sleek and adored. Both were neutered, though that didn’t stop the tom from panting after the feline beauty, who returned his devotion wholeheartedly.
“What? That witch starved you again? Shoved you under the sofa?” she’d purr.
The tom puffed up. “A gentleman doesn’t complain. So what if she forgets to feed me? At least she doesn’t throw me out. Under the sofa’s not so bad—plenty of cobwebs, good for hiding. And she hardly ever hits me. Only when she’s in a mood.”
“She has moods?”
He’d sigh, nuzzling into her. She’d pick cobwebs from his fur, lick his face. He’d purr, then doze off curled against her.
“What does she even see in that mangy thing? He only understands a clout or a kick,” the beauty sneered.
The mouse shuddered, slipping the tom scraps of chicken. He ate ravenously, choking back tears. The beauty cat watched, sighing, then licked her wretched suitor clean.
The mouse adored her own cat—spoiled her rotten, gave her everything a feline heart could desire. The tom? He wanted only two things: a full belly and his beloved.
So it went, several nights a week. The mouse cooked, fed the beauty and her cat, loaned money from her meagre wages—never repaid. The beauty considered it a favour, taking the loans. The mouse never argued. Too afraid to lose her only friend.
Then, one evening, the beauty burst in, eyes gleaming.
“I’ve landed one! Tall, fit, not too old—a multimillionaire! Owns a chain of supermarkets. Oh, I’ll milk him dry. No piddling divorce settlement this time!”
The mouse forced a smile, stomach churning.
A week later, the doorbell rang.
The beauty had told her prize that her “dowdy old friend” lived below—the perfect foil to highlight her own glamour. Some women keep such friends for that very purpose.
In strode the beauty, arm-in-arm with a tall man in a black suit. Silver temples, dark eyes, a face alive with every passing thought.
“Gorgeous,” the mouse thought, blushing.
“Look what George bought me!” The beauty flaunted a necklace worth a luxury car.
The mouse served dinner—salads, roasts, soup. The man’s eyes lit up.
“We’re off to Nice next week!” the beauty prattled.
“Can you cook like this?” George asked her.
“Ugh!” She recoiled. “Ruins your nails and your hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”
George’s face fell. The beauty prattled on about shopping trips, her new dress, the necklace. He stifled a yawn. Desperate, the mouse gestured to the cats—the tom had, as ever, trailed his mistress downstairs.
“You vermin!” the beauty shrieked. “How dare you follow me?” Her voice rose, feeding on its own fury.
George’s face twisted—horror, pity—as the cowering tom flattened his ears under the barrage.
Then she kicked him. Hard.
He yowled, skidding across the floor.
George shot up. “You vile woman,” he said, eerily calm. “Thank God I never proposed.” He crouched, stroked the trembling tom. “Come on, mate. You’re coming with me.”
“Go!” the beauty cat urged.
The tom blinked up at George—hope dawning.
“Don’t you dare!” the beauty screeched.
George eyed her like something scraped off a shoe. “Try and stop me.” He scooped up the tom and left.
“That bastard!” the beauty screamed after the departing Bentley. “All men are pigs! Doesn’t matter—I’ll find a better one!”
The mouse sat on the sofa. Her cat curled beside her.
“Don’t fret,” she murmured, stroking her. “He’ll be cared for now. Fed. Loved. You should be glad.” She said it to comfort them both—yet found herself crying.
The next evening, the bell rang again.
George stood there, holding a cat carrier.
“He wouldn’t stop clawing at the door, crying for her,” he said, nodding at the beauty cat. “Mind if I let him out? Just for a bit. I’ll sit quietly.”
The mouse flushed. “Don’t sit in the corner. I’ve cake, nibbles…”
George groaned. “Been running ragged all day—forgot to eat. You’re an angel.”
She blushed again, tightening her frayed robe.
They talked for hours over tea and cake.
On the sofa, the cats slept, pressed close.
What’s the story about? Nothing much. Just friends. Or perhaps not friends at all.
Maybe it’s about George, who turned out decent.
Or real beauty, not the superficial kind.
Or a tom and a queen.
Or perhaps love.
Who knows?
