15April
You’re a dull mouse with no money, Emma snarled, yet it was my birthday when she lingered by the doorway with a tray.
Your presentation skills are lacking, Christina Blake lazily swirled her ginandtonic with a straw, a glittering bracelet flashing on her wrist. She spoke with that casual, almost careless superiority that had long become her trademark.
This isnt about presentation, I whispered, staring at the crack in my cheap tea mug. I simply dont have the right experience for the vacancy.
Experience, experience how tiresome, Christina sighed theatrically. All you need is a sparkle in the eye and an expensive pair of shoes. Youve got neither.
Christina gave me a assessing glance that made my stomach clench, as if shed scanned me and delivered a verdict: redundant, dispose of.
Listen, Im trying to help, she leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorial. Youre my best friend. Who else will tell you the hard truth?
I stayed silent. The words best friend lodged in my throat, sharp and alien.
Understand this: in our world people are judged by their attire, but theyre dismissed by their connections. Youre a grey mouse with no cash. Until you accept that, youll keep floundering through pennypinched interviews. Each sentence hit its mark, squeezing the air from my lungs.
Im launching a small venture, Christina continued, evidently enjoying my reaction. Well need people for the simplest tasks sorting paperwork, meeting couriers. She paused, letting me digest the offer.
I can take you on, temporarily, of course. Until you find something that truly fits you, she added with a barely perceptible smile.
I lifted my gaze. In my eyes lay a calm steel, as if something inside had frozen into cold stone. I looked at Christina her perfect hair, the disdainful curve of her lips, a bracelet worth more than my annual salary. I no longer saw a friend, but a predator savoring my humiliation.
Thank you for the offer, I said slowly. But I must decline.
Christinas eyebrows shot up in surprise; she hadnt expected that.
Youre turning it down? From my chance? Her voice rang like metal. Fine. Just dont come crawling later when you cant cover the rent. She dramatically fished several large notes from her handbag and flung them onto the table, more than enough to settle the account.
Treat yourself, she tossed over her shoulder and strutted away, clicking her heels on the marble floor.
I sat alone, untouched by the money or the cold tea, watching expensive cars whiz past the window. For the first time, I felt not despair but a thrilling spark.
The next morning that spark hardened into a cold, pulsing energy. I had always been invisible, yet I could see and hear what others missed details, patterns, hidden motives my sole, genuine capital.
Sitting at my battered laptop, I 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 it.
The first months were a grind: tiny gigs, capricious clients, payments that barely covered rent and food. A few times I nearly gave up, almost dialing Christinas number. But the memory of her smile knocked any urge to surrender down a peg.
Breakthrough came after six months. A modest legal firm hired me to gather competitor data before a court case. I tackled it with desperate determination. After a sleepless week I delivered a report that helped the solicitors win. They paid me three times the usual rate and became regular clients, recommending me to their contacts.
Soon a modest stream of work flowed in. Within two years I rented an office and hired an assistant.
Christina popped up now and then. Olivia, love! Im out on the Solent with some partners on a yacht. Still stuck in your little office?
Hi, I replied, scanning a new clients financial statements.
Still working? she stretched the word. Dont be shy, my girls on the run slot is still open. Bring coffee to my new assistant.
Earlier I would have recoiled. Now I just shrugged.
Thanks, but Ive got my own agency.
An agency? she laughed. Cleaning floors?
Her words no longer held sway.
Four more years passed. York & Partners occupied a central office with five analysts. Id become known in corporate intelligence. Then Christina struck. Her firm, Blake Group, swiped one of my key reports, hiring a indebted junior employee to betray me.
I compiled the evidence, uncovered Christinas financial holes, wastefulness and fraud, and sent an immaculate analytical dossier to an investor.
The following day she rang, furious.
Youve ruined everything! she screamed.
I was simply doing my job, I replied calmly.
Two more years slipped by. At a rooftop restaurant in a London skyscraper we celebrated my anniversary glitz, friends, champagne. There, among the waitstaff, I saw Christina in uniform, tray in hand. Recognition flared in our eyes: horror and hatred on her side, cold composure on mine.
I met her gaze without a hint of glee, merely acknowledged her presence as something ordinary. Then I turned back to my guests and continued the conversation. That simple gesture struck harder than any slap; it meant that, to me, Christina no longer existed as a person. She had become a faceless function with no place in serious affairs.
She went pale, bit her lip, and hurried toward the staff exit, trying to cling to what remained of her dignity. I watched her leave and realised how logically fair the world can be. Often the one who brands you a grey mouse ends up trapped in his own snare. It isnt revenge; its natural balance.
Six months later my business had gone international, opening new horizons. One evening, while sifting through my mail, I found a note from a university acquaintance:
You wont believe it, I ran into Christina Blake yesterday. Shes working as a receptionist at a gym on the outskirts. They say she was barred from that restaurant after the scandal She even tried to borrow money from me, whining that everyones betrayed her and the worlds unfair
I closed my laptop calmly, feeling neither triumph nor pity. Christinas story was no longer mine.
The next day, passing a shop window, I saw my own reflection a confident woman accustomed to moving forward, aware of her worth. I recalled Christinas line about a sparkle in the eye and expensive shoes. My shoes were indeed pricey, but the true shine came from elsewhere.
It originated from the awareness of my own power, from knowing that real value lies not in what you wear but in what you create with mind and hand.
I walked into my office where a complex new project awaited on the desk. Settling into my chair, a faint smile curved my lips.
The grey mouse never became a feral cat. She turned into what she always was deep down: a shrewd, unnoticed hunter who knows how to value information and wait patiently for the right moment.
And that moment had finally arrived.
