A tale of Mojitos and Revenge

Ms Robinson is suspicious. Betty has been strangely quite for some days now and is sounding excessively bright on the phone. If only Ms R could put this down to Class A drugs she would be reassured but she fears something far more sinister is up. You know how you feel when children are quiet for a long time and you eventually discover they’ve put the cat in the video? Ms R had that same feeling of trepidation as she knocked on Betty's door.

Laid out on the kitchen bench are a hefty supply of cocktail ingredients, ice and a shaker.

“I need to practice making Mojitos,” she announces.

“Why?”

“Employers are very impressed by skills. Cocktail making is vastly underrated.” Betty is a designer and, like Ms R, freelance. Since we had both endured periods of unemployment, Betty had developed an obsession with expanding her CV having taken the advice of some stupid recruitment gal called Charlotte/Annabel/Imogen a bit too seriously.

And then it came.

“Cynicism is my friend.”

Can you feel the denouement coming?

“I’ve been reading Nick’s emails.”

“You can’t do that. How did you get in anyway?”

“I’ve always had his login but I’ve never used it. Now he’s moved in with that skank, fennel tea drinking, hippie bitch I decided I’d see what was on there.”

“Is that a good idea? I mean you can’t do anything about them being together.”

“No, but I can read his new emails. Which is exactly what I’ve been doing for the past two weeks. Then I delete them.”

“And then..”

“Then I empty the deleted items folder…” At least she's tidy.

Unlike the rest of the world Nick is not addicted to his inbox and often goes for days without looking at his email.

“Betty, that’s fraud. At least I think it is. It’s like opening someone else’s mail anyway. It’s immoral.”

“And Nick is moral? I’m just getting my revenge. Do you like your Mojito?”

Oh dear, we are in a bad place. Readers may not be aware of the case of Lady Sarah Graham Moon who, in 1992, found out her husband, Sir Peter Graham Moon, was having an affair. She scissored the sleeves from 32 of his Saville Row suits, threw a can of white paint on his BMW and then played milkman with his rare wines by distributing them around the village.

Lady Moon's actions made her something of a celebrity: a living, breathing embodiment of the phrase, "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned." But years later she admits it did not make her happy. Frankly it made her feel even more like the sad, old cow who’d been abandoned. This is what we call the Paradox of Revenge or Why Kicking Him In The Head Will Give You A Headache. 99 times out of 100 it will always hurt you far more and you will feel stupid and hate yourself because you will be sliding back into that place you wanted to get away from.

Ms R herself is not immune from vengeful thoughts. Many times she has visualized herself dancing on the grave of those who've hurt her, wearing head to toe Chanel and red lipstick. But of course she would never carry it out. For a start she doesn't have any Chanel.

Having convinced Betty to ignore the voices of her inferior and instead remind herself how clever she is, we find a way through. Three Mojitos later, Betty is sitting on the floor, Caran D’Ache pencils in front of her, drawing the destruction of Nick. She is admiring her drawing. There is blood and guts and someone appears to be running off with his heart. But at least his inbox is safe.