The afternoon sun beat down on the asphalt as mum pushed through the jeweller's door for the last time that day, her black and white polka dot blouse catching the light. Behind her, Cath's heels clicked an aggressive rhythm on the pavement, her red silk blouse vivid against the grey car park.
Two weeks of escalating arguments had brought them to this moment. Two decades of friendship reduced to bitter accusations and threats. Cath's voice carried across the car park, sharp and cutting.
"You couldn't stand it, could you? That I had something you didn't. That *he* wanted *me*."
My mum kept walking, her mustard skirt swishing with each determined step toward where her son waited in the car. She'd heard enough. The affair with her brother-in-law wasn't her concern - the family had made their decision without her input. But Cath refused to believe it.
"Answer me, you jealous bitch! You had to have my job, didn't you?"
Still Maralyn walked, jaw clenched, fingers tight around her handbag. Six of their colleagues had filtered out behind them, sensing the confrontation that had been building for days.
I sat in the driver’s seat of our Nissan Sunny, watching, a nervousness in the pit of my stomach. I knew from my mum that the tension had been building, the arguments more frequent and much nastier. I had fantasized about my mum and Cath fighting for years, it was the main thought that got me though my teenage years, and now, with both women in their early forties, it might actually happen.
Then Cath's daughter's voice cut through the air: "Fucking old cow!"
My mum stopped. Turned. Her eyes locked onto Cath.
"Put a leash on your dog," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "or she will get hurt."
Cath's face contorted with rage. Twenty-two years of friendship died in that instant.
"You fucking bitch!"
Cath lunged forward, her hands shooting into my mum’s dark brown hair, fingers twisting and yanking. Mum gasped as her head jerked backward, but instinct took over immediately. Her own hands flew up, grabbing fistfuls of that fiery red hair she'd helped Cath dye countless times over the years.
They crashed together, both women pulling savagely at each other's hair, their faces inches apart, breathing hard with fury and exertion. Cath wrenched mum’s head to the side, causing her to stumble in her heels, her fingers tightening in response, eliciting a sharp cry from Cath.
"Get off me!" Cath hissed through clenched teeth, but neither woman released their grip.
They spun awkwardly across the car park, their heels scraping and catching on the rough surface. Mum felt strands of her hair tearing from her scalp, the burning pain only fuelling her anger. She twisted her grip, pulling Cath's head down while trying to maintain her own balance.
Cath's hand released momentarily to grab at mum's blouse, her fingers closing around the silk near the neckline. With a vicious yank, buttons scattered across the asphalt with tiny pinging sounds. The blouse gaped open exposing her bra, but mum barely registered it, too focused on Cath's face contorted with hatred.
"Twenty-two years!" My mum snarled, giving a brutal pull that made Cath cry out. "And you think I'd betray you?"
"You’re a jealous, stuck-up bitch!" Cath shrieked back, her nails raking across my mum's exposed collarbone, leaving angry red lines. She grabbed at mum's blouse again, tearing it further and leaving it barely hanging on.
Mum retaliated, her fingers finding the buttons of Cath's red silk blouse. She pulled hard, and the fabric gave way, revealing the matching red bra beneath. Cath gasped, both at the exposure and the aggression, and her next pull on my mum’s hair was even more vicious.
They stumbled together, neither able to get a decisive advantage. Their colleagues formed a loose circle, watching in shock - some with hands over their mouths, others calling out encouragement to the fighters.
Mum's heel caught on a crack in the asphalt, and she went down, pulling Cath with her. They hit the ground hard, mum on her back with Cath landing partially on top of her. The impact knocked the wind from both of them for a moment, but their hands remained locked in each other's hair.
On the ground, the fight became more desperate. They rolled, their skirts riding up, the rough asphalt scraping exposed skin and shredding stockings. Cath tried to pin mum down, but she bucked and twisted, managing to roll them over. For a moment mum was on top, her torn blouse hanging open, her black lace bra visible, breathing hard as she looked down at her former best friend.
Cath's makeup was smeared, her lip bleeding from where she'd bitten it in the struggle. Her red blouse was completely open, torn at one shoulder seam, and a tanned breast spilled out of her bra. But her eyes still blazed with fury.
"I hate you," Cath spat, and drove her nails into my mum’s upper arm, dragging them down and leaving deep scratches.
Mum cried out, her own nails finding Cath's neck and raking across it. Both women were marked now - scratches on faces, necks, arms, breasts, their elegant work clothes in tatters.
They rolled again, tangled together, hair flying, fragments of curses and accusations tumbling out between laboured breaths. The car park surface was unforgiving, adding scrapes and cuts to the damage they were doing to each other.
"Stop! Stop it!" Finally, their colleagues moved in. Three women grabbed mum, two grabbed Cath, all of them pulling with difficulty to separate the writhing, snarling women.
It took several attempts. Each time they started to pull them apart, one or both would lunge forward again, trying to get in one more grab, one more scratch. Maralyn's hair had come loose, hanging wild around her scratched face. Cath's red hair was matted and disheveled, her blouse hanging off one shoulder.
"Let me go!" Cath struggled against the women holding her, still trying to reach mum. "This isn't finished you fucking cow!"
"Oh, it's finished," mum said, breathing hard, held firmly by three colleagues. Her torn blouse was barely staying on, her mustard skirt twisted around her hips, her stockings in shreds. Blood from various scratches marked both women. "We're finished. All of it."
The colleagues kept them separated, creating a human barrier between the two battered women. Slowly, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by the throbbing pain of scratches, the burning of pulled hair, the sting of scraped skin.
Cath's daughter rushed forward to her mother, glaring daggers at mum. Other colleagues were gathering scattered belongings - a handbag, several buttons, a broken heel.
Mum straightened as much as she could while being held, holding the remnants of her blouse closed with one hand. She looked at Cath - really looked at her - and felt the weight of everything they'd lost.
But Cath's eyes held only rage and accusation. No recognition of the friendship they'd shared. No question about whether she might have been wrong.
"Come on Maralyn," one of the colleagues said gently to mum. "Let's get you to your car."
They walked her across the car park, still positioned between her and Cath, who was being led in the opposite direction by her own group
As she reached the vehicle, she heard Cath's voice one last time, shrill and full of venom: "This isn't over, Bitch! You hear me? You stuck up cow! This isn't over!"
Mum slid into the passenger seat, her hands shaking as she tried to smooth her torn clothes. She caught her reflection in the side mirror - scratches on her face and neck, her hair wild, her blouse destroyed, blood on her collarbone.
Twenty-two years of friendship. Holidays, parties, secrets, divorces weathered together. All of it destroyed in three minutes on hot asphalt.
I looked over at my mum, and I could tell that despite being quiet she was seething with rage. “Are you ok?” I asked. “Just drive” was the curt reply. My mind raced thinking about what Cath meant about the fight not being finished.
The drive home was tense. Mum sat rigid in the passenger seat, fury radiating from her. Her torn blouse, her scratched face, the shredded stockings - she made no attempt to cover any of it. Words spilled out, bitter and raw: "Fucking bitch! Cheap fucking slut! I’m going to kick her face in!" All the things she wanted to say, wanted to do.
I drove in silence, pulling up to the farmhouse - the same house where I had witnessed my mum fighting in the garden two years earlier. The gravel crunched under the tires. The house was empty; my father long gone, divorced a year prior, and my younger brother away on holiday with his friends.
As I unlocked the front door, headlights swept across the drive. Cath's car.
She erupted from the vehicle, screaming obscenities, her torn red blouse and dishevelled appearance making her look wild, unhinged. “Come on then you fucking cxnt!” she roared.
My mum turned to face her, steadying herself against the doorframe. "I'm not fighting you in the garden," she said, her voice hard. "If you want to finish this, we finish it inside. If you're woman enough."
Cath's answer was to stride forward.
Both women entered the house, Cath's daughter Sara and me following at a distance, uncertain witnesses to what was about to unfold.
The living room - sixteen feet by fourteen, with its three-seater sofa against one wall, matching chairs, TV on a stand - became the arena for everything that had been building between them for weeks.
They went at each other immediately. No words this time, no final accusations or ultimatums - just action. The moment they were both inside the living room, mum’s hands shot up and found Cath's red hair again, the strands still matted and tangled from the car park brawl. Her fingers twisted deep into the roots and pulled with all the fury she'd been holding back during the drive home.
Cath's scream was equal parts pain and rage. Her own hands flew into my mum's dark brown hair, grabbing fistfuls and yanking my mum’s head violently to the side. Both women's faces contorted - jaws clenched, eyes blazing, every muscle taut with effort and hatred. This wasn't the shocked, reactive violence of the car park. This was deliberate. They'd both chosen to be here, chosen to finish what had started on the asphalt, and that choice made every pull, every twist, every moment more vicious than before.
The fight was unrestrained in a way the car park brawl couldn't be - no colleagues to intervene after a few minutes, no public space to consider, no sense that this would be stopped before it reached its natural conclusion. The walls of the farmhouse enclosed them, making this raw and intensely personal. Every ounce of betrayal Cath felt, every bit of rage mum harboured at being falsely accused - it all poured out now. This was fuelled not just by the affair or the job, but by the death of a friendship neither could let go of gracefully. Twenty-two years of shared history became ammunition, every remembered slight and disappointment suddenly weaponized in this moment.
“You fucking cxnt!” Cath spat as mum twisted her head over and clawed at her back, pulling off the remaining tatters of Cath’s blouse in the process. Mum then brought her knee up twice trying to connect with Cath’s face. On the second attempt Cath grabbed her leg and forced her backwards.
Their heels clicked and scraped on the hardwood as they fought for balance and advantage. They crashed into the sofa with enough force to shift it several inches across the floor. Cath used the momentum, shoving mum backward over the armrest, trying to bend her back painfully. But her grip never loosened - she pulled Cath down with her, both women tumbling over the armrest and onto the cushions in a tangle of limbs and fury. They grappled desperately on the sofa, rolling from one end to the other, each trying to pin the other down, to gain some decisive advantage. Their already torn blouses - mum's black and white polka dots, Cath's red silk – reduced to torn rags on the floor.
Cath managed to push herself on top for a moment, her breasts spilling out of her bra. She straddled mum's waist, her hands releasing the hair grip to press down hard on mum's shoulders, simultaneously trying to pin her and punch her in the face. But mum wasn't finished - she bucked violently, her hips lifting and twisting with surprising strength born of desperation. Cath lost her balance and they both went sliding off the sofa, hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy, breathtaking thud that echoed through the empty house. The impact should have stopped them, should have knocked some sense into one or both of them, but it didn't. They rolled immediately, locked together, first Cath on top clawing at mum’s face, then mum gaining the upper position and returning the favour. Their skirts rode up around their middles as they rolled, showing the tops of my mums ripped black stockings and her black satin knickers. Their movements frantic and graceless, all elegance abandoned in favour of pure survival instinct.
“Get her mum!” shouted Sara.
The sounds of their struggle filled the house in a way that seemed impossible for just two people - the repeated impact of bodies hitting furniture and floor, ragged breathing that became gasps and grunts of exertion, sharp cries of pain when nails found purchase or hair was pulled especially hard. mum's elbow caught the TV stand as they rolled past it in their chaotic struggle, and the television teetered for a moment before crashing to the floor with an explosion of breaking glass and splintering plastic. The screen shattered, components scattered across the hardwood, but the destruction barely registered over the sounds of the fight itself.
The women grappled on the floor hands tearing at hair, clawing faces, punching. “Arrgh! Stop biting me you fucking cxnt!” screamed Cath as mum sank her teeth into her shoulder, a flurry of punches was unleashed against the side of my mum’s head to emphasise the point.
Neither woman seemed to notice the TV or any other collateral damage. They were locked in their own world of fury and desperation, a world that contained only the two of them and two decades of complicated history now reduced to hands grabbing, pulling, scratching, punching – trying to hurt, trying to dominate, trying to prove something that perhaps neither could articulate. What had been damaged in the car park was destroyed here. Both women’s blouses and bras had been torn off, skirts were ripped and were up around their middles, stockings and tights shredded. Their hair was wild and tangled, far beyond the dishevelment from earlier. Fresh scratches, cuts and bruises marked skin that was already marked from the car park – faces, necks, arms, shoulders breasts – a roadmap of their mutual destruction.
They struggled back to their feet somehow, both breathing hard, both swaying slightly but neither backing down. Within seconds they crashed together again, this time colliding with one of the matching chairs. It scraped loudly across the floor, hit the wall, and tipped onto its side. The fight continued with relentless intensity, neither woman willing to concede, neither able to find the strength to simply stop. They were both running on pure adrenaline now, pouring two weeks of escalating anger and twenty-two years of complicated friendship - with all its love and resentment, support and competition, loyalty and jealousy - into every movement. This wasn't just about the affair or the job anymore. It was about everything, and nothing, all at once.
Cath seemed to sense it slipping away - the fight, the advantage, perhaps even the righteousness of her anger. With a desperate, primal scream, she launched herself at mum with everything she had left. Her hands found my mum’s throat, fingers pressing in as she drove forward, using her weight and momentum to slam mum back against the wall. For a moment, she had it - mum pinned, gasping, Cath's face inches from hers, tears and mascara streaking down her flushed cheeks. 'You ruined everything!' Cath shrieked, her voice breaking. She tried to press her advantage, one hand leaving my mum’s throat to grab at her hair again, to slam her head back against the wall. It was vicious, uncontrolled, the last desperate gambit of someone who knew they were losing more than just a fight. But desperation made her sloppy, and the shift in her grip gave mum the opening she needed.
Mum’s hands came up between Cath's arms, breaking the chokehold with a sharp upward thrust. In the same motion, she grabbed Cath's wrists and twisted, spinning them both away from the wall. Cath stumbled, her exhaustion finally showing, her legs unsteady. Mum used that moment, that split-second of imbalance, to reverse their positions entirely. She drove forward, forcing Cath backward across the room until the back of Cath's legs hit the overturned chair. Cath went down hard, landing on her back on the floor, and mum followed her down, her knee pressing into Cath's chest, her hands pinning Cath's wrists to the floor on either side of her head. They stayed like that, both heaving for breath, mum on top, Cath beneath her, the fight finally reaching its inevitable conclusion. Cath struggled weakly once, twice, but there was nothing left. Her body went slack, and the tears came - real, broken tears that had nothing to do with physical pain.
Mum pulled away, breathing hard, her own tears falling now. Not tears of pain, but of everything lost. She looked at the woman who had been her best friend for twenty-two years - through marriages and divorces, holidays and heartbreaks, secrets and celebrations - and saw only a stranger. In her anger she kicked Cath in the side twice as she lay sobbing. “Happy now? Are you happy now!?” mum shouted, “You stupid bitch!”
Mum collapsed on to the sofa as Cath lay on the floor, both women battered and weeping, the ruins of their friendship scattered around them as tangibly as the overturned furniture.
Cath's daughter helped her mother up eventually, both of them leaving without another word. The sound of the car pulling away seemed impossibly loud in the sudden silence.
Mum remained on the sofa, The house felt different now, marked by violence it had never seen before.
"That fucking cow. We’re done!," she said quietly, though whether she meant the fight or the friendship or both, even she wasn't entirely sure.
The next day, Cath's belongings that had been left at the house over two decades - a jacket, some books, photographs from holidays together - were tossed into a black bin bag. My mum left it at the end of the driveway.
It was never collected.
Twenty-two years of friendship, ended by two fights in one day. They never spoke again.
