You’re a drab mouse with no cash, snorted her friend, as she lingered by the door with a tray on Imogen Erwins birthday.
Maybe you just dont know how to sell yourself, Charlotte Brighton lazily stirred her cocktail with a straw, a glittering bracelet of tiny stones flashing on her wrist.
She spoke with that breezy, almost careless superiority that had become her trademark.
Its not about the pitch, Imogen replied quietly, eyeing the crack in her cheap tea mug. I simply lack the experience the role demands.
Experience, experience what a bore, Charlotte sighed theatrically. What matters is the sparkle in your eyes and a pair of pricey shoes. You have neither.
Charlotte gave Imogen an appraising glance that made her want to curl up into a ball, as if a verdict had been passed: deficient, discard.
Listen, Im trying to help, Charlotte leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. Youre my best mate. Who else will tell you the truth?
Imogen stayed silent. Best mate lodged in her throat, sharp and alien.
You need to understand, in our world people are judged by their clothes, not their connections. Youre a grey mouse with no money. Until you accept that, youll keep trudging through pennypinched interviews.
Every word hit the mark, squeezing the breath from her chest.
Im launching a little venture, Charlotte continued, clearly enjoying Imogens reaction. Well need hands for the simplest jobssorting paperwork, greeting couriers.
She paused, letting Imogen digest the offer.
I could take you on. Temporarily, of course, until you find something you truly love, she added with a barely perceptible smile.
Imogen raised her eyes. In them lay a calm steel, as if something inside had frozen into a cold stone. She stared at Charlotteperfect hair, contemptuous lip curl, a bracelet worth more than Imogens annual salary. She saw not a friend but a predator savoring her humiliation.
Thanks for the offer, Imogen said slowly. But Ill pass.
Charlottes eyebrows shot up in surprise. She hadnt expected that.
Youre turning me down? From my chance? she snapped, her voice metallic. Fine. Just dont come crying when you cant afford the flat rent.
She dramatically fished a stack of crisp £50 notes from her bag and flung them onto the table, more than enough to cover the bill.
On the house, she tossed over her shoulder and strutted away, clicking her heels on the marble floor.
Imogen sat alone, untouched by the money or the cooling tea. She watched expensive cars zip past the window and, for the first time, felt a spark of excitement rather than despair.
The next morning that excitement morphed into a cold, pulsing energy. She had always been invisible, but she could see and hear what others misseddetails, patterns, hidden motives. That was her real capital.
Sitting at her ancient laptop, she drafted a plan. She listed her services on a freelance platform: search and analysis of unstructured information. It sounded vague, but Imogen knew exactly what lay behind it.
The first months were hell: tiny jobs, capricious clients, pay that barely covered rent and a packet of beans. She nearly gave up a few times, tempted to call Charlotte, but the memory of Charlottes smile slammed any urge back down.
A breakthrough arrived after six months. A modest legal firm hired her to gather competitor data before a court case. Imogen tackled it with desperate resolve. A sleepless week later she delivered a report that helped the lawyers win. They paid her three times her usual rate and became regular clients, passing her referrals along.
Soon a trickle of work turned into a steady stream. Within two years she moved out of the cramped flat, hired an assistant, and opened a modest office.
Occasionally Charlotte called. Hey, Immy! Im out on a yacht on the Solent with some partners. Still stuck in your little cubby?
Hi. No, not bored. Working, Imogen replied, scanning the latest clients financials.
Working? Charlotte elongated the word. Dont be shy, my girls on a sprint slot is still open. You can bring coffee to my new assistant.
Imogen, who once would have flinched, simply shrugged. Thanks, but Ive got my own agency now.
Agency? Charlotte laughed. Agency for floormopping?
Charlottes words no longer carried weight.
Four more years passed. Erwin & Partners occupied a sleek downtown office with five analysts on staff. Imogen had become a recognised name in corporate intelligence. Then Charlotte struck.
Her firm, Brighton Group, pilfered a key report from Imogen, recruiting a debtladen junior employee to betray her.
Imogen gathered the evidence, uncovered Charlottes financial holes, wasteful spending, and outright fraud, and sent a flawless analytical dossier to a potential investor.
The next day Charlotte rang, screaming, Youve ruined everything!
I was just doing my job, Imogen replied calmly.
Two years later, at a rooftop restaurant atop a glassclad tower, Imogens birthday celebration glittered with friends and champagne. Among the waitstaff she spotted Charlotte, tray in hand, eyes flashing with recognitionhorror on Charlottes side, icy composure on Imogens.
Imogen looked at her without a hint of schadenfreude, merely giving a slight nod as if acknowledging a familiar face in a crowd. She then turned back to her guests and continued the conversation.
That small gesture was louder than any shout. It signalled that, to Imogen, Charlotte was no longer a person but a faded function with no place in her important affairs.
Charlottes complexion drained, she bit her lip and, trying to preserve the last shred of dignity, hurried toward the staff exit.
Imogen watched her go, realizing how neatly the world balances itself. Sometimes the one who labels you a drab mouse ends up trapped in his own snarenot out of vengeance, but because the universe prefers fairness.
Six months later Imogens business had gone international, opening new horizons. One evening, while sifting through her inbox, she found a note from a university acquaintance:
Can you believe I just saw Charlotte Brighton? Shes working as a receptionist at a suburb gym. Apparently she was thrown out of that restaurant after the whole scandal. She tried to borrow money from me, whining that everyones betrayed her and the worlds unfair
Imogen finished reading and closed her laptop without a flicker of triumph or pity. Charlottes story was no longer hers to tell.
The next day, passing a shop window, Imogen saw her reflectiona confident woman accustomed to moving forward, aware of her own worth.
She recalled Charlottes mantra about sparkle in the eyes and pricey shoes. Her shoes were indeed expensive, but the real sparkle had never come from them. It sprang from the awareness of her own power, from understanding that true value lies not in what you wear but in what you create with mind and hands.
She walked into her office, where a new, complex project waited on the desk. Settling into her chair, a faint smile curved her lips.
The drab mouse never became a ferocious cat. She became exactly who she always was deep down: a keen, unobtrusive hunter who values information and patiently awaits the right moment.
And that moment had finally arrived.
