28April
I can still hear her voice echoing across the reception desk, Youre just a grey mouse with no money, she snapped, standing by the entrance with a tray of drinks on my birthday. Christina, languidly stirring her cocktail with a straw, flashed a bracelet encrusted with tiny gems on her wrist.
Her tone was that careless, almost disdainful superiority that has become her calling card.
It isnt about how you present yourself, I replied softly, glancing at a crack in the cheap tea cup I was holding. I simply lack the experience theyre looking for.
Experience, experience how dull, she sighed theatrically. What matters is the sparkle in your eyes and a pair of pricey shoes. Youve got neither.
Christina Bell gave me an appraising look that made me want to curl up into a ball, as if shed scanned me and delivered a verdict: useless, discard.
Listen, I want to help, she leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Youre my best friend. Who else will tell you the truth?
The word best lodged in my throat, sharp and alien.
You need to understand that in our world people are judged by their clothes, but their worth is measured by their connections. Youre a grey mouse with no cash. Until you accept that, youll keep wandering from one pennyworth interview to the next. Each of her sentences hit the mark, squeezing the breath from my chest.
Im starting a small project, Christina continued, clearly enjoying my reaction. Well need people for the simplest tasks sorting paperwork, greeting couriers. She paused, letting the offer sink in.
I can take you on, temporarily, of course. Until you find something that truly suits you, she added, a faint smile playing on her lips.
I lifted my eyes. A calm steel lay behind them, as if something inside had frozen into stone. I looked at Christina the perfect hairdo, contemptuous curl of her lips, a bracelet worth more than my annual salary. In that moment she was no longer a friend but a predator savoring my humiliation.
Thank you for the offer, I said slowly. But Ill decline.
Her eyebrows shot up in surprise; she hadnt expected that.
Youre turning down my chance? she snapped, her voice metallic. Fine. Just dont come crying later when you cant afford the rent on your flat.
She fished a stack of £100 notes from her handbag and slammed them onto the table, covering the bill with a casual flourish.
Treat yourself, she tossed over her shoulder, then sauntered away, heels clicking on the marble floor.
I stayed seated, untouched by the cash or the cold tea. I watched the sleek cars race past the window and, for the first time, felt a spark of excitement rather than despair.
The next morning that excitement hardened into a cold, pulsing energy. I had always been invisible, but I could see and hear what others missed details, patterns, hidden motives. That was my genuine capital.
I sat down at my aging laptop and drafted a plan. I listed my services on a freelance platform: search and analysis of unstructured information. It sounded vague, but I knew exactly what lay behind those words.
The first months were a nightmare: tiny gigs, fickle clients, payments barely covering rent and groceries. A few times I nearly gave up, tempted to call Christina. Yet the memory of her smug grin pushed me back, more forcefully than any setback.
Six months later the breakthrough arrived. A modest law firm hired me to gather competitor data for an upcoming trial. I threw myself into the work with desperate determination. After a sleepless week I produced a report that helped the solicitors win the case. They paid me three times my usual rate and became regular clients, referring me to their contacts.
Soon a trickle of work turned into a steady stream. Within two years I moved out of my cramped flat, rented a modest office in central London, and even hired an assistant.
Christina still called from time to time. Her life sounded like an endless fête.
Olivia, love! Im out on a yacht in the Solent with a few partners. How are you? Still stuck in your little office?
Hi. No, its not boring. Im working, I replied, scanning the financial report of a new client.
Working? she elongated the word. Dont be shy, my girlontherun spot is still vacant. Youll bring coffee to my new assistant.
In the past I might have flinched, but now I just shrugged.
Thanks, no need. I have my own agency.
Agency? she laughed. Agency for floormopping?
Her words no longer held power over me.
Four more years passed. Harrington & Partners occupied a bright office in the City, with five analysts on staff. I had become a recognised name in corporate intelligence. Then Christina struck again.
Her firm, Bell Group, stole one of my key reports. She recruited a young, indebted employee, exploiting his weakness.
I gathered all the evidence, uncovered her financial holes, wasteful spending, and fraud, and sent an immaculate analytical dossier to an investor.
The next day Christina rang, furious.
Youve ruined everything! she yelled.
I was only doing my job, I answered calmly.
Two years later, at a rooftop restaurant atop a skyscraper, we celebrated my anniversary. The venue glittered, friends laughed, and amid the waitstaff I saw Christina, tray in hand, her uniform immaculate. Recognition flashed in both our eyes: horror and hatred on hers, cold composure on mine.
I looked at her without a hint of glee, gave a barely perceptible nod to acknowledge her presence as something ordinary, then turned back to my guests. That small gesture was louder than any shout; it meant that, to me, Christina no longer existed as a person. She had become a faceless function with no role in my affairs.
She paled, bit her lip, and hurried toward the staff exit, trying to cling to what little dignity remained.
Watching her go, I realised how justly the world balances itself. Sometimes the one who calls you a grey mouse ends up trapped in the very snare they set. It isnt revenge; its natural equilibrium.
—
Six months later my business had gone international, opening doors I never imagined. One evening, while sifting through my inbox, I found a message from an old university friend.
Guess who I saw today? Christina Bell, working as a receptionist at a suburban gym. Apparently she was thrown out of a restaurant after that scandal the same night. She tried to borrow money from me, whining that everyone had betrayed her and the world was unfair
I read the note, closed my laptop, and felt neither triumph nor pity. Christinas story had ceased to be part of mine.
The following day, passing a shop window, I saw my own reflection a confident woman accustomed to moving forward, aware of her worth.
I recalled Christinas brag about sparkle in the eyes and expensive shoes. My shoes were indeed costly, but the true sparkle came from nowhere near them. It was born of recognizing my own strength, of understanding that real value lies not in what you wear, but in what you create with mind and hands.
I stepped into my office, where a new, complex project already waited on the desk. Sitting down, a faint smile curled my lips.
The grey mouse never turned into a feral cat; she became exactly what she always was at heart a shrewd, unnoticed hunter who values information and patiently waits for the right moment.
That moment had finally arrived.
