Jealousy Shattered Everything in One Night
Catherine’s voice trembled with fury. “What on earth do you think you’re playing at, Angela Davies?! My husband! Mine! And you, you cheap little trollop, think I don’t see you fawn over him at every residents’ meeting?!”
Angela flinched back, her expensive handbag clattering to the tiled floor. The corridor of the Croydon flat block fell silent, only the distant tick of the lift clock audible.
“Cathy, what rubbish are you spouting? I haven’t got a clue what you’re on about!” Angela tried, though her own voice betrayed her with a wobble.
“Haven’t got a clue?!” Catherine seized her neighbour’s coat sleeve. “Who spent half an hour nattering to my Brian by the bins yesterday? Who’s always leaning over her balcony every morning when he leaves for work? Think I’m blind?”
Angela struggled, but Catherine had the grip of someone who wrestled stubborn jam jars. Both women were pushing fifty, but Catherine was broader and stronger.
“Let go of me this instant!” Angela hissed. “You’ve completely lost the plot! Brian Evans simply said hello, neighbourly like. What’s the big deal?”
“Said hello?!” Sarcasm dripped from Cathy’s words. “He was hanging on your every word like a lovestruck schoolboy! And you simpered back like a giddy teenager!”
Just then, Mrs. Davies from flat seven shuffled out of the lift. Spotting the commotion, she slowed, pretending to rummage for keys while eagerly absorbing every word. Scenes like this were rare treats in their building.
“Cathy,” Angela said softer, “come in, let’s have a cuppa, talk this through calmly. Why air dirty laundry in public?”
“Calmly?!” Catherine shrieked. “I’ll scratch your eyes out! Twenty years Brian and I have been married! Twenty! Then you swan in here, with that DIY-dyed mop, thinking you can pinch someone else’s husband?!”
Angela flushed crimson. She *had* dyed her hair, badly. Grey roots peeked through unevenly, the whole mess a peculiar shade of ginger.
“I’m not pinching anyone!” Angela’s voice rose to a shout. “You’re unhinged, Cathy! Proper barking! I wouldn’t want your Brian if you paid me!”
That did it. Hearing such words about Brian, Catherine snapped. She shoved Angela hard. Angela stumbled backwards, cracking her spine painfully against the radiator.
“Oh, wouldn’t want him?! Then why gawp out the window every time he walks past? Why slap on the war paint for a trip to the Co-op where he might be?”
Angela tried to get up, but pain shot through her back. Tears of frustration pricked her eyes.
“Because I’m a woman, not a garden scarecrow!” she burst out. “Because I like to look presentable, not trudge about in a faded dressing gown like some!”
The barb hit home. Catherine *had* let herself go since their daughter married and moved to Manchester. With Brian pulling double shifts, the dressing gown became uniform, her hair lived in a messy bun, and makeup seemed a distant memory.
“Well then!” Catherine hissed through gritted teeth. “Presentable, is it? Let’s see how presentable you look now!”
She grabbed a fistful of Angela’s hair and yanked viciously. Angela shrieked, clawing at Catherine’s arms.
“Girls! Girls!” wailed Mrs. Davies, abandoning her key pretence. “What in heaven’s name! Neighbours! For pity’s sake, stop it!”
But the women were deaf to her pleas. Catherine tugged hair, Angela raked nails. They tumbled like furious cats on the cold flooring, snorting and grunting.
Suddenly, Catherine’s flat door flew open. Brian stood there, baffled, in joggers and a vest, barefoot. The racket must have woken him from post-shift sleep.
“Cath!” he bellowed. “What the flipping heck?!”
Seeing him, Catherine froze, grip slackening. Angela shoved her away and scrambled up. Her hair was a bird’s nest, scratches marred her face, her coat torn.
“There!” she gasped, pointing at Brian. “Your wife’s source! She decided I’m after you!”
Brian looked bewilderedly from his wife to his neighbour to Mrs. Davies, who was watching, riveted.
“I’m utterly lost,” he mumbled. “Cathy, explain yourself.”
Catherine slowly rose. Her face was scarlet, hair dishevelled, scratch marks from Angela visible on her cheek.
“Oh, like you don’t know!” she rasped. “Chatting to her all nice yesterday! Think I didn’t see?”
“We were discussing the council tax hike!” Brian retorted, affronted. “Angela Davies asked what ours was running!”
“Oh, council tax!” Catherine sneered. “Course! Then why were you giving her puppy dog eyes? And her grinning like a Cheshire cat!”
“Cathy,” Brian took a step towards her. “Have you gone stark staring mad? What eyes? I can barely remember the chat!”
“Can’t remember?!” Cathy gave a bitter laugh. “And her always darting onto her balcony when you leave? Miss that too, did you?”
Angela, who’d been silently fixing her clothes, exploded:
“Get stuffed, Cathy! I’m hanging washing, not ogling your bloke! And look at yourself! What kind of wife are you, shuffling about like Worzel Gummidge? It’s no wonder Brian avoids home!”
That was the final straw. Catherine made an animalistic sound and lunged. But Brian intercepted, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“Stop it!” he yelled. “Enough! You’ve lost your marbles!”
“Let me go!” Cathy thrashed. “I’ll show her who’s Worzel Gummidge! Let me go, Bri!”
“Not a chance!” Brian said firmly. “Inside. Now!”
He manhandled his struggling wife back towards their flat. On the doorstep, Cathy twisted round:
“This isn’t over! Hear me? Not over! I’ll get you!”
The door slammed. Silence fell, broken only by Angela’s ragged breathing and Mrs. Davies’ frightened gasps.
“Oh, love,” the old lady whispered. “What’s the world coming to? Neighbours, carrying on like alley cats…”
Angela didn’t reply. She slowly picked up her handbag, checking its contents hadn’t spilt, and fumbled towards her own door. Her keys shook; it took several tries to hit the lock.
Through the wall came the rumble of Brian giving Cathy a telling-off. His voice was stern, displeased. Cathy’s replies were muffled whispers.
Angela stepped inside and locked the door. She went straight to the hall mirror. The sight was dreadful – scratched face, wild hair, ruined coat. Tears threatened.
She headed to the bathroom, ran the tap, splashed water. The scratches stung, but it was nothing compared to the ache inside. Was she truly that transparent? Did everyone see her crush on Brian Evans?
And she *did* fancy him. Had done since she moved in after her divorce. Brian was polite, decent, always said hello, sometimes offered to carry heavy bags. And yes, she *did* step onto her little Juliet balcony when he left for work. And yes, she’d bought new lipstick and attacked her hair. But she’d done nothing wrong! No flirting, no chasing, just… daydreaming.
Dreaming how lovely it would be to have a husband like him. Steady, reliable, hard-working.
Pauline stared into the windowpane afterwards, the cold glass reflecting how she and Jeremy would now share only brittle nods and forced civility across the corridor, forever carrying the quiet weight of what might have been.