Two Friends
They were once friends… well, at least, that’s what the woman from the third floor liked to think. Her friend from the fifth floor was what you’d call a knockout—or so she believed. She’d only come down to visit her plain, mousy friend (as she secretly called her) to either brag or complain. Back in the day, they’d gone to school together and later enrolled in the same business program at university—the mousy one actually graduated and landed a steady job at a bank.
The knockout, on the other hand, bagged herself a wealthy sugar daddy in her final year and dropped out. After the divorce, she got a decent lump sum and a modest monthly allowance. The millionaire would’ve paid her off with even more just to be rid of her, but her lawyer bungled the deal, leaving her alone with fast-dwindling funds—given her expensive tastes. So, she was always on the hunt, descending to her friend’s flat only to regale her with tales of her triumphs and misfires.
“All men are pigs,” she’d declare, flipping through a glossy magazine—the only thing she ever read. “Want to land a decent bloke? Read women’s magazines.”
She lounged in a skimpy silk robe, cleavage on full display, manicured fingers and blood-red nails a stark contrast to her friend’s threadbare dressing gown and work-roughened hands—always scrubbing, cooking, shopping. Neither was married or had kids, but the mousy one longed for both, while the knockout only craved admiration, money, and zero responsibility.
“All men are pigs,” she repeated, twirling a thin menthol cigarette. “One’s bald, another’s short, the third’s loaded but stingy—can you imagine? He drove an old car, had a countryside cottage, and expected me to cook!” She cackled. “Me, in an old banger or slaving over a stove? Ugh.”
The mousy one sighed inwardly. *I’d take the bald one or the short one. I’d cook, I’d go to the cottage…*
“Pigs,” the knockout concluded.
Meanwhile—gentlemen and ladies, take note—she always descended with her cat in tow: a filthy, scrawny thing, perpetually draped in cobwebs.
The mousy one had a lovely cat too, also neutered, which didn’t stop the tomcat from panting after her. She adored him right back.
“What? That witch didn’t feed you again? Shoved you under the sofa?” she’d ask the bedraggled tom.
“Us lads,” he’d puff up, “can’t complain. So what if she doesn’t feed me? At least she doesn’t throw me out. Under the sofa’s not so bad—bit dusty, but good for hiding. And she hardly ever whacks me. Only when she’s in a mood.”
“She has moods?” the lady cat would ask.
The tom would sigh and nuzzle her. She’d groom his matted fur, and he’d purr himself to sleep in her warmth.
“What does your cat even see in that wreck? He’s hopeless unless you shout or smack him,” the knockout sneered.
The mousy one flinched and slipped the tom bits of chicken. He’d wolf it down, choking back tears, while the lady cat licked his sorry face.
She adored her cat. Gave her everything a feline heart could desire. The tom? He wanted just two things: a full belly and his lady love.
So they met a few times a week. The mousy one cooked, fed the knockout and her cat, even lent her money from her meagre salary—never repaid. The knockout thought she was doing *her* a favour by borrowing. The mousy one never argued. Too scared to lose her only friend.
Then one evening, the knockout burst in, eyes shining.
“Got him! Tall, fit, not old, filthy rich. Owns a chain of supermarkets. Oh, I’ll milk him dry—no cheap divorce this time!”
The mousy one forced a smile, hiding her disgust. But by week’s end, her doorbell rang…
The knockout had told her fiancé-to-be (and future ex) about her “dowdy little friend” downstairs—the perfect foil to highlight her own glamour. Some women keep plain friends around for that very reason.
In swept the knockout, arm-in-arm with a tall man in a sharp black suit. Salt-and-pepper temples, dark eyes, a face that betrayed every thought.
*What a handsome man*, the mousy one thought, blushing.
“Look what George bought me!” The knockout flaunted a necklace worth a luxury car.
The mousy one served salads, roast, soup. The man’s eyes lit up.
“George and I are off to the South of France soon,” the knockout prattled.
“Can you cook like this?” George asked her.
“Ugh!” She recoiled. “Ruins your nails and hair. That’s what restaurants are for.”
George’s face fell. The knockout rambled about shopping sprees until, desperate, the mousy one pointed to the cats—the tom had trailed his mistress down, as usual.
“You vile creature!” the knockout shrieked. “How dare you follow me!” Her voice climbed, feeding her own rage.
George’s face twisted in pity at the cowering, cobweb-draped tom.
Then—*thwack*—she kicked the cat hard. He yowled, slamming into the wall.
George shot up, horrified.
“That’ll teach you!” she snarled, face contorted.
George spoke softly. “You’re vile. Thank God I didn’t propose.” He crouched, stroking the trembling tom. “Come on, mate. I live alone. Just us blokes.”
“Go!” urged the lady cat.
The tom blinked up, hopeful.
“Don’t you dare!” the knockout screeched.
George eyed her like dirt. “Try and stop me.” He carried the tom out.
“All men are pigs!” she yelled at his retreating limo, then flounced off.
The mousy one sank onto the sofa. Her cat curled beside her.
“Don’t fret,” she murmured, stroking her. “He’ll be loved now. Fed, groomed—you should be happy for him.” But she wept.
Next evening, the bell rang.
George stood there, holding a pet carrier.
“Couldn’t help it. He banged his head on the door, crying for her.” He nodded at the lady cat, who strained toward the carrier. “Mind if I let him out? I’ll stay out of your way.”
The mousy one flushed. “Don’t sit in the corner—I’ve got cake and nibbles.”
George groaned. “Been running ragged all day—forgot to eat. You’re an angel.”
She blushed again, tightening her faded robe. Soon, chatter filled the room. And not just theirs…
“Well?” the lady cat asked the tom.
He was clean, well-fed, cobweb-free.
“Not a chap’s place to moan,” he said grandly—then burst into tears. “He—he let me sleep on his bed. Clean sheets. Petted me all night.”
The lady cat licked his face.
“Look at them,” George marvelled. “Like a film. Mind if I come back tomorrow? Can’t keep them apart.”
The mousy one blushed. George suddenly saw she wasn’t mousy at all—quite pretty, really. He grinned, boyish, and her stomach fluttered.
They talked for hours over tea and cake.
The cats snoozed, snug on the sofa.
What’s the story about? Nothing much. Just two friends. Or maybe not friends.
Maybe about George, who turned out decent.
Or real beauty, not the flashy kind.
Or the cats.
Or maybe love.
Who knows?
