Two Friends
They used to be friends…
Or so thought the woman from the third floor. Her friend from the fifth was a real stunner—or at least, that’s what she believed. She’d descend to visit the “plain Jane” downstairs, as she called her, only to brag or complain. Once, they’d been classmates, even studied economics at university together. The “plain Jane” graduated and landed a steady job at a bank.
The beauty, meanwhile, married a wealthy older man in her final year and dropped out. After the divorce, she got a modest sum and a small monthly allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid more just to be rid of her, but her lawyer bungled it. Now she was alone, her money vanishing fast thanks to her lavish tastes. So, she was forever on the hunt, only visiting downstairs to recount her triumphs and failures.
“Men are all pigs,” she’d declare, flipping through a glossy magazine—her sole reading material. She’d lecture her friend: “Want to snag a decent bloke? Read these.”
Dressed in a skimpy, low-cut dressing gown, her manicured hands and crimson nails contrasted starkly with her friend’s worn-out robe and overworked hands—washing, cleaning, cooking, and shopping filled her days. Both were single and childless, but the plain Jane longed for both, while the beauty craved only admiration, cash, and zero demands.
“Men are pigs,” she repeated, twirling a menthol cigarette. “One’s balding, another’s short, and the rich one’s tight-fisted—can you imagine?” She scoffed. “An old car, a cottage in the countryside, and he expected me to cook!” Laughing, she added, “Picture me in some rust bucket or slaving over a stove. Disgusting!”
The plain Jane sighed, thinking privately, *I’d take the balding one or the short one. I’d cook. I’d gladly go to the countryside.*
“Pigs,” the beauty concluded.
Meanwhile, she always brought her cat—a scrawny, filthy thing covered in cobwebs. The plain Jane’s cat, a spayed beauty, adored the wretched tom despite his condition.
“What? That witch starved you again? Shoved you under the sofa?” the female cat would ask.
“We men,” the tom would puff up, “don’t complain. So what if she doesn’t feed me? At least she doesn’t throw me out. The sofa’s not so bad—plenty of cobwebs, but good for hiding. And she hardly ever hits me. Only when she’s in a foul mood.”
“Does she ever *have* a good mood?” the female cat pressed.
The tom sighed, nuzzling her. She’d groom his matted fur, and he’d purr, drifting off in her warmth.
“What does she even see in that ragamuffin? He’s hopeless unless you shout or smack him,” the beauty sneered.
The plain Jane cringed, slipping the tom scraps of chicken. He’d eat desperately, crying between bites. The female cat would sigh and lick her miserable suitor clean.
The plain Jane adored her cat, spoiling her rotten. The tom, though, wanted only two things: food and his beloved.
They met like this weekly. The plain Jane cooked dinners, loaned the beauty money from her meagre salary—never repaid. The beauty saw it as a favour. The plain Jane couldn’t demand repayment; she feared losing her only friend.
Then one evening, the beauty burst in, eyes sparkling. “I’ve bagged one! Tall, fit, not old—a multimillionaire with supermarkets nationwide. Oh, I’ll bleed him dry this time!”
The plain Jane forced a smile, sickened. But by week’s end, there was a knock…
The beauty had told her friend she was bringing her fiancé—*her ugly, mousy little friend*—to highlight her own allure. Some women keep such “friends” for contrast.
In they came: the beauty in a stunning dress, arm-in-arm with a tall man in a black suit. Silver temples, dark eyes, an expressive face.
*What a handsome man*, the plain Jane thought, blushing.
“Look what George bought me!” The beauty flaunted a necklace worth a luxury car.
The plain Jane served salads, roast, soup. The man’s eyes lit up.
“We’re off to Nice next month!” the beauty prattled.
“Do you cook like this?” George asked her.
“Ugh!” She recoiled. “Cooking ruins your hands and hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”
George visibly deflated. The beauty rambled about shopping trips. Bored, he perked up when the plain Jane pointed to the cats—her sleek beauty and his ragged tom, who’d trailed his mistress downstairs.
“You *filthy* thing!” the beauty shrieked. “How dare you follow us!” She escalated, screeching like an engine revving.
George watched, horrified, as the cowering tom flattened his ears under the abuse.
Then—*thud*. She kicked the cat full-force. He yowled, slamming into the wall.
George leapt up, face a mask of shock.
“That’ll teach you!” the beauty snarled, turning—her face twisted with rage—to George.
He spoke softly. “You’re vile. Thank God I never proposed.” Kneeling, he petted the trembling tom. “Come with me. I live alone. We’ll manage, just us blokes.”
“Go!” urged the female cat.
The tom lifted his head, hope in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare!” the beauty screeched.
George eyed her coldly. “Try and stop me.” He scooped up the tom and left.
“That *bastard*!” the beauty raged at the departing limo. “Men are *all* pigs! I’ll find someone better!” She flounced out.
The plain Jane sat with her cat.
“Don’t fret,” she soothed. “He’ll be cared for now.” She petted her cat, inexplicably weeping.
Next evening, a knock. George stood there with a pet carrier.
“He kept banging his head, crying to see her,” he said, nodding to the eager female cat. “Mind if they visit? I’ll stay out of your way.”
The plain Jane blushed. “Come in! No need to hide—I’ve got cake and snacks.”
“Oh!” George groaned. “I’ve been run ragged, forgot to eat.”
She flushed, tightening her faded dressing gown. They talked animatedly over tea—as did the cats.
“Tell me everything,” the female cat demanded.
The tom, now clean and fed, puffed up. “A man doesn’t complain. He wrapped me in a towel, then…” He choked up. “He let me sleep *on his bed*. All night, he petted me.”
Sobbing, he buried his face in her fur.
“Look at them,” George murmured. “Like a film. If you don’t mind, I’ll come tomorrow. He shouldn’t lose this.”
The plain Jane blushed again. George noticed—she wasn’t plain at all. He grinned boyishly, eyes crinkling like a child’s.
Suddenly, her stomach fluttered. Breathless, she flushed deeper.
They chatted for hours. The cats dozed, entwined.
What’s the story about? Nothing much. Just friends—or not.
Maybe about George, who turned out decent.
Or true beauty, not the showy kind.
Or the cats.
Or love.
Who knows?
