You’re just a drab mouse with no cash, my mate snapped. And she said it right at the door of my birthday party, tray balanced in her hands.
Honestly, you dont know how to sell yourself, Christina Belshaw lazily stirred her cocktail with a straw, a glittering bracelet flashing on her wrist.
She spoke with that light, almost careless superiority that had become her calling card.
Its not about the pitch, I replied quietly, eyeing the crack in my cheap tea mug. I simply dont have the experience theyre looking for.
Experience, experience how dull, Christina sighed theatrically. All you need is a sparkle in the eye and pricey shoes. Youve got neither.
Christina gave me a assessing glance that made me want to curl up into a ball, as if shed scanned me and handed down a verdict: defective, dispose of.
Listen, I want to help, she leaned in, voice dropping conspiratorial. Youre my best friend. Who else will tell you the truth?
I stayed silent. The words best friend lodged in my throat, sharp and foreign.
You need to get it, love. In our world youre judged by your look, not your connections. Youre a drab mouse with no cash. Until you own that, youll be bouncing from one pennypay interview to the next.
Every sentence landed like a bullet, squeezing the breath out of my lungs.
Im launching a little project, Christina continued, clearly enjoying my reaction. Itll need people for the simplest taskssorting paperwork, greeting couriers.
She paused, letting me digest the offer.
I could take you on, temporarily, of course. Until you find something that truly clicks, she added, a faint smile playing on her lips.
I looked up. In my eyes was a calm steel, as if something inside had frozen into a cold stone. I stared at Christinaperfect hair, disdainfully curved lips, a bracelet worth more than my annual salary. She no longer looked like a friend; she was a predator savoring my humiliation.
Thanks for the offer, I said slowly. But Ill pass.
Christinas eyebrows shot up in surprise. She hadnt expected that.
Youre turning it down? From my chance? Her voice turned metallic. Fine. Just dont come crying later when the rents due and theres nothing left in the bank.
She dramatically fished a stack of large £100 notes out of her bag and tossed them on the table, covering the bill with ease.
Your treat, she said over her shoulder, then strutted off, clicking her heels on the marble floor.
I sat there alone. I didnt touch the money or the cold tea. I watched the expensive cars whiz past the window and, for the first time, felt a thrill instead of despair.
The next morning that buzz turned into a cold, pulsing energy. Id always been the invisible type, but I could spot and hear the things everyone else walked right pastdetails, patterns, hidden motives. That was my real capital.
Sitting at my battered laptop, I drafted a plan. I listed my services on a freelance platform: search and analysis of unstructured data. It sounded vague, but I knew exactly what that meant.
The first months were hell: tiny gigs, fickle clients, pay that barely covered rent and a proper meal. A few times I nearly gave up, ready to ring Christina. Yet the memory of her smile knocked any urge back down a notch.
A breakthrough came after six months. A modest law firm asked me to gather competitor data for an upcoming case. I threw myself at it with desperate resolve. A sleepless week later I delivered a report that helped the lawyers win. They paid me three times the usual rate and became regular clients, referring others.
Soon a trickle of work turned into a steady stream. Within two years I could afford to move out of my flat, rent a small office, and even hire an assistant.
Christina would call now and then, her life sounding like an endless holiday.
Hey, Eleanor! Im out on the Thames with some partners on a yacht. Hows the grind? Still stuck in your little cubicle?
Hey. No, not bored. Still working, I said, scrolling through a new clients financials.
Working? she stretched the word. Dont be shy, my girls on the run spot is still open. Bring coffee to my new assistant.
I might have flinched before, but now I just shrugged.
Thanks, but Ive got my own agency now.
Agency? she laughed. Agency for floorpolishing?
Her words no longer had any bite.
Four more years slipped by. Yermington & Partners occupied a sleek office in the City, with five analysts on staff. Id made a name for myself in corporate intelligence. Then Christina struck.
Her firm, Belshaw Group, swiped a key report of mine, hiring a debtladen junior employee to cheat us.
I gathered every piece of evidenceher financial holes, wasteful spending, outright fraudand sent a flawless analytical report to a potential investor.
The next day Christina called, furious.
Youve ruined everything!
I was just doing my job, I replied calmly.
Two years later, we were celebrating my anniversary at a rooftop restaurant atop the Shard. The place was buzzing with friends, shine, and champagne.
Thats when I saw her, in a servers uniform, tray in hand. Our eyes met, recognition flashing: horror and hatred in hers, cool composure in mine.
I looked at her with none of the glee a petty triumph might bring. I merely gave a barelynoticed nod, acknowledging her presence as something ordinary, then turned back to my guests.
That tiny gesture was louder than any slap. It meant only one thing: to me, Christina no longer existed as a person. Shed become a faceless function with no place in serious matters.
She went pale, bit her lip, and hurried toward the staff exit, trying to preserve what little dignity she had left.
I watched her go and realised the world is oddly fair. Sometimes the one who brands you a drab mouse ends up trapped in his own snare. It isnt revenge; its just the natural balance.
Six months later my business was global, opening doors to new horizons. One evening, while sifting through email, I found a note from a university acquaintance.
…Guess what? I ran into Christina Belshaw yesterday. Shes working as a receptionist at a gym on the outskirts. Apparently she was kicked out of that restaurant after the scandal She even tried to borrow money from me, whining about how everyones betrayed her and how unfair the world is…
I read the last line, closed my laptop, and felt no triumph, no pity. Christinas story was no longer mine.
The next day, passing a shop window, I saw my reflectiona confident woman used to moving forward, knowing her own worth.
I remembered Christinas talk of sparkle in the eye and pricey shoes. My shoes were indeed expensive, but the real sparkle came from somewhere else.
It sprang from realising my own power: understanding that true value isnt what you wear, but what you create with your mind and hands.
I walked into my office, where a fresh, challenging project was already waiting on the desk. Sitting down, a faint smile tugged at my lips.
The drab mouse never turned into a prowling cat. She became what shed always been deep downa clever, unnoticed hunter who knows how to value information and wait patiently for the right moment.
And that moment had finally arrived.
