Once upon a time, there were two friends… Well, at least that’s what the woman from the third floor thought. Her friend from the fifth floor was what you’d call a proper stunner—or at least, that’s what she believed. She only ever came downstairs to visit the “little grey mouse,” as she called her pal from the lower floor, to either brag or moan about her life.
Back in the day, they’d gone to school together and later both enrolled in the economics programme at uni. The mouse actually finished her degree and landed a job at a bank. The beauty, though? She nabbed herself a wealthy sugar daddy in her final year, dropped out, and lived the high life. After the divorce, she got a decent payout and a small monthly allowance. The millionaire ex would’ve paid double just to be rid of her, but her solicitor botched things, and now she was alone—with money that vanished quick, given her taste for the finer things. So, she was always on the hunt, popping downstairs only to regale the mouse with tales of her wins and losses.
“Men are all absolute wazzocks,” she’d declare, flipping through some glossy mag—her sole reading material—while lounging in the mouse’s armchair. “Want to bag yourself a top bloke? Read these.”
She’d be draped in some skimpy silk robe, cleavage on full display, manicured fingers tipped with blood-red nails. A far cry from the mouse’s faded old dressing gown and work-roughened hands—washing, cleaning, cooking, shopping. Neither was married or had kids, though the mouse longed for both. The beauty? All she wanted was admiration, cash, and zero demands.
“Total wazzocks,” she’d repeat, twirling a menthol cig between her fingers. “One’s balding, another’s tiny, and the third—filthy rich but tighter than a duck’s backside. Imagine? An old car, some dingy cottage out in the sticks, and he expected me to cook!” She’d laugh. “Can you picture me slaving over a stove? Revolting.”
The mouse would sigh quietly, thinking, *I’d take the balding one or the short bloke. I’d cook. I’d even go to the cottage.*
“Wazzocks,” the beauty would conclude.
Oh, and she always brought her cat—filthy, scrawny, cobweb-draped. The mouse had a cat too, a proper lady, also fixed, though that didn’t stop the tomcat from panting after her. She adored him right back.
“What? That witch starved you again and shoved you under the sofa?” she’d ask.
“Us blokes,” the tom would puff up, “can’t go whingeing. So what if she didn’t feed me? At least she doesn’t chuck me out. Under the sofa’s alright. Bit cobwebby, but good for hiding. Hardly ever hits me—only when she’s in a mood.”
“She ever in a good mood?” the lady cat would ask.
The tom would sigh, nuzzling into her. She’d pick cobwebs off him, lick his face, and he’d start purring, dozing off in her paws.
“Honestly, what does she see in that ragamuffin?” the beauty would sneer. “Only understands a smack or a shout.”
The mouse would flinch, slipping the tom bits of chicken. He’d eat, choking back tears. The lady cat would sigh, grooming her miserable beau.
The mouse adored her own cat—gave her everything a feline heart could desire. The tom? All he wanted was food and his lady love.
They met like this a few times a week. The mouse cooked, fed the beauty and her cat, even lent her money from her meagre wages—never repaid. The beauty reckoned she was doing the mouse a favour by borrowing. And the mouse? Too soft to argue, too scared to lose her only friend.
Then one night, the beauty swept in, eyes shining. “I’ve landed one! Tall, fit, not old—proper millionaire. Owns a chain of supermarkets. Oh, I’ll milk him dry. No quick divorce payout this time!”
The mouse forced a smile, though it turned her stomach. But by week’s end, her doorbell rang…
The beauty had told her fiancé-to-be (and future divorcee) about her “drab little friend” downstairs—the perfect foil to highlight her own glamour. Some women keep plain pals around just for that.
In walked the beauty, arm-in-arm with a tall man in a sharp black suit. Silver at his temples, dark eyes, an expressive face that betrayed every thought.
*Handsome,* the mouse thought, blushing.
“Look what Georgie bought me!” The beauty flaunted a necklace worth a new car.
The mouse laid out salads, starters, roast, soup. The man’s eyes lit up, impressed.
“We’re off to the French Riviera next month,” the beauty prattled.
“You cook like this?” Georgie asked her.
“Ugh!” She recoiled. “Ruins your nails and hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”
The millionaire visibly deflated. The beauty yammered on about shopping trips and jewellery. Bored, he perked up when the mouse pointed to the cats—the tom had trailed his mistress down, as usual.
“You vile little rat!” the beauty screeched. “How dare you follow me!” Her voice rose, feeding her own rage.
Georgie’s face twisted in horror as the scrawny, cobwebbed cat cowered under the abuse.
Then—she kicked him. Hard. He yowled, slamming into the wall.
Georgie shot up, face white. “Know your place, you brute!” she spat, turning to him—features contorted with spite.
Georgie spoke softly. “You’re a right piece of work. Thank God I never proposed.” He crouched, stroking the shivering tom. “Come on, mate. I live alone. Just us blokes.”
“Go!” urged the lady cat.
The tom lifted his head, hope in his eyes.
“Don’t you dare!” the beauty shrieked.
Georgie eyed her like dirt. “Try and stop me.” He scooped up the tom and left.
“Did you see that? Absolute rotter!” she wailed after the limo. “All men are wazzocks! Doesn’t matter—I’ll find better!”
The mouse sat with her cat. “Don’t fret,” she murmured, stroking her. “He’ll be cared for now.” She wept, though she wasn’t sure why.
Next evening, the doorbell rang again.
Georgie stood there with a pet carrier. “Couldn’t help it. He was bashing his head on the door, crying for her.” He nodded at the eager lady cat. “Mind if I—? Just for a bit. I’ll sit quiet.”
The mouse flushed. “Don’t sit in the corner—I’ve got cake and snacks.”
“Blimey,” Georgie groaned. “Been run ragged all day—forgot to eat.”
She blushed harder, tightening her tatty robe.
Over tea, they chatted. The cats cuddled on the sofa.
“Go on, then,” the lady cat said.
The tom—clean, fed, cobweb-free—puffed up. “Not for us to complain. Fed me proper. Wrapped me in a towel, then…” He burst into tears. “He let me on his bed. Clean sheets. Petted me all night.”
The lady cat licked his face.
“Look at them,” Georgie sighed. “Like something off the telly. Mind if I come tomorrow? Can’t keep them apart.”
The mouse blushed. Georgie noticed she wasn’t a mouse at all—just lovely. He grinned, boyish, like bells ringing.
Her stomach fluttered. She gasped, flushed.
They talked for hours.
The cats slept, entwined.
What’s this story about? Dunno. Maybe friends. Or not.
Maybe Georgie—turned out decent.
Maybe real beauty, not the flashy sort.
Maybe the cats.
Or love.
Who knows?
