Two Friends
They used to be friends… or so the woman on the third floor thought. Her friend from the fifth floor was what you might call a knockout—well, at least in her own mind. She’d trot downstairs to visit the little grey mouse (as she privately called her friend below) only to brag or moan about her dreadful luck. Once upon a time, they’d gone to school together and later studied economics at university—where the mouse excelled, graduating with honours and landing a steady job at a bank.
The knockout, on the other hand, had bagged herself a wealthy sugar daddy by fifth year and dropped out. Post-divorce, she walked away with a tidy sum and a modest allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid double just to be rid of her, but her lawyer botched the deal. So now she was alone, her funds dwindling fast—what with her extravagant tastes. Thus, she was eternally on the prowl, descending only to regale the mouse with tales of her triumphs (and catastrophes).
“Men are all pigs,” she’d declare, flipping through the latest glossy magazine—her sole reading material.
And then she’d dispense wisdom: “Want to snag a decent bloke? Read women’s magazines.”
She’d lounge in a seductive little robe, cleavage on full display, her manicured hands and blood-red nails clashing with the mouse’s worn-out dressing gown and work-roughened fingers. Laundry, cleaning, cooking, shopping—the mouse did it all. Both were single, childless. The mouse ached for a family; the knockout only craved admiration, cash, and zero demands.
“Men are pigs,” she’d repeat, twirling a menthol cigarette. “One’s bald, the next is short, the third’s loaded but tight-fisted. Can you imagine?”
Then, scandalised: “He drives an old banger, has a cottage in the countryside, and expected me to cook for him!” She’d laugh. “Picture me in some rust bucket or slaving over a stove. Ugh!”
The mouse would sigh inwardly: “I’d take the bald one. Or the short one. I’d cook. I’d happily go to the cottage.”
“Pigs,” the knockout would conclude.
Meanwhile—and here’s the kicker—she’d drag along her cat: a perpetually grimy, skinny thing, forever tangled in cobwebs. The mouse had a cat too, also neutered, though that didn’t stop the scruffy tom from swooning over her fluffy beauty. She adored him right back.
“What? That witch didn’t feed you again? Shoved you under the sofa?” she’d ask.
“Us blokes,” the tom would puff up, “can’t go whingeing. So what if she doesn’t feed me? At least she doesn’t boot me out. Under the sofa’s not so bad. Bit dusty, but good for hiding. And she hardly ever wallops me. Only when she’s in a mood.”
“Does she ever have a good mood?”
The tom would sigh, nuzzling her. She’d pick cobwebs off him, licking his face clean. He’d purr himself to sleep in her paws.
“What on earth does your cat see in my ragamuffin?” the knockout sneered. “He doesn’t know what’s good for him—only responds to a kick or a clout.”
The mouse would wince, slipping the tom bits of chicken. He’d gulp them down, eyes wet. The knockout’s cat would sigh, grooming her wretched beau.
The mouse adored her own cat—spoiled her rotten. Meanwhile, the bedraggled tom wanted only two things: a full belly and his beloved.
So they met weekly. The mouse cooked, fed the knockout and her cat, and lent money from her meagre salary—never repaid. The knockout thought she was doing her a favour by borrowing. The mouse never protested. Too afraid to lose her only friend.
Then, one evening, the knockout burst in, eyes shining.
“I’ve bagged one! Tall, fit, not old—a multimillionaire! Owns a chain of supermarkets. Just wait—I’ll milk him dry. No measly divorce payout this time!”
The mouse forced a smile, stomach churning. But by week’s end, her doorbell rang.
The knockout had brought her would-be husband downstairs to show off the contrast between them—some women keep frumpy friends for that very purpose.
In they swept: the knockout in a showstopping dress, arm-in-arm with a tall man in a sharp black suit. Silver at his temples, dark eyes, a face that broadcast every thought.
“What a handsome man,” the mouse thought, blushing.
“Look what Georgie bought me!” The knockout flashed a necklace worth a luxury car.
The mouse served salads, starters, roast, soup. The man’s eyes lit up.
“Georgie and I are off to the Riviera soon!” the knockout chirped.
“Can you cook like this?” Georgie asked her.
“Ugh!” She recoiled. “Cooking ruins your nails and hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”
Georgie’s face fell. The knockout prattled on about shopping trips and jewellery. Bored stiff, he perked up when the mouse pointed to the cats—the tom had followed them down.
“You little brute!” the knockout shrieked. “How dare you trail after me!” She worked herself into a frenzy, voice rising.
Georgie’s face twisted in horror as the cowering, filthy cat pressed itself into the floor.
Then—she kicked it. Hard. The tom yowled, hitting the wall.
Georgie leapt up. “You utter witch,” he said softly. “Thank God I didn’t propose.” He crouched, stroking the trembling cat. “Come on, mate. You’re coming with me. We’ll live like proper bachelors.”
“Go! Go!” the cat’s sweetheart urged.
The tom lifted his head—hopeful.
“Don’t you dare!” the knockout screeched.
Georgie looked through her. “Try and stop me.” He scooped up the tom and left.
“That absolute swine!” she howled after the departing Bentley. “Men are all pigs! No matter—I’ll find a better one!”
Head high, she flounced upstairs.
The mouse sat on the couch, her cat curling beside her.
“Don’t fret,” she murmured, stroking her. “He’ll be cared for now. Fed. Loved. You should be happy for him.” She stroked the cat—and wept.
Next evening, the doorbell rang again.
Georgie stood there, holding a pet carrier.
“Couldn’t help it,” he said. “He banged his head on the door, yowling. Had to bring him back to her.” He nodded to the cat, already straining toward the carrier. “Mind if I let him out? They can visit. I’ll sit quietly—won’t intrude.”
The mouse blushed.
“Don’t sit in a corner! I’ve got cake and nibbles. Join us.”
“Oof,” Georgie groaned. “Been running ragged all day—forgot to eat. You’re a lifesaver.”
The mouse flushed again, tightening her tatty robe.
They chatted over tea and cake while the cats dozed, snug on the sofa.
What’s this story about? Nothing much. Just friends. Or maybe not friends.
Perhaps it’s about Georgie—who turned out decent.
Or true beauty, not the flashy kind.
Or cats.
Or maybe love.
Who knows?
