Trust No Bitch: Part 1

Clara Wright

The taxi had dropped them at the edge of the woodlands that bordered the cove; there was no direct path there, only a slight slope on the other side of the woods that acted as a path down to the shore. At a brisk pace, it was less than a five minute walk through the overgrowth but with a bare-foot Lilly, it took slightly longer. Of course, Cleo lead the way; she strolled slightly in front of the four assembled behind her, all in a row, equal distance apart, Lilly dangling her heels in one hand as she went. To the outsider, it could seem insignificant, but the arrangement was deeper rooted than Cleo's affinity for symmetry. Break the system and the consequences could be cataclysmic. There was an unspoken rule that Cleo always led; she had to be the one that people saw first. The other four, in comic book terms, would be considered her "henchwomen". The only time the rule was amended was when Clara burst through the ranks to unleash a verbal (or physical, if they were unlucky) tirade on an unsuspecting enemy. That was another implicit rule: Clara Wright was the unforeseen assailant. It would be farcical to assume that Cleo did the dirty work herself. She was practically cadaverous with her sylphlike waist and spindly legs; she rarely physically fought, lest she splinter. If anyone dared to insult Cleo in Clara's presence, she was the one to deal with it. The first time had been around the beginning of second year. They'd been in the laundry room, when Cleo had heard "some slut" she despised "talking shit" about her. Clara had just returned from scouring the back room for spare fabric conditioner to find Cleo leant against a washing machine. She greeted Clara with a venomous glance towards the other aisle, which was obscured by the row of washers, and a gesture for her to listen. Sure enough, the indignant murmurs of Georgina "Georgie" Caines, the woman Cleo had beaten to become the upcoming year's athletics representative and a friend of Gemma's, wafted over from the neighbouring aisle.

"God, I hate her!" Georgie was saying. "You should have seen her down the pub the other night just rubbing it in all our faces and then everyone's clapping her on the back and shit when none of us even like her. How the hell did she win? Who voted for her? That's what I want to know! I mean we all thought Gemma Akintola was for sure going to win, she's the best runner out of all of us but then...I don't know what happened there. But anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, at the pub, even Kelly bought Cleo a pint. Kelly said she would be happy if she dropped off the face of the earth last week. My P.B has been better than Cleo's all season. So has 90% of the group. Everybody. I deserved that. Kelly, as much as she pisses me off, deserved that. Gemma deserved that, I don't care what the coach says. You. One of us. Just not that stuck-up sket. It's just so unfair." As soon as Georgie had finished talking, Clara turned her attention back to Cleo who stood there shaking her head, lower jaw protruding.

"It's that stupid slut, Georgie Caines." She whispered. "God, I despise that girl. She's been talking shit about me for weeks."

And that was all it took to prompt Clara into action. Without even pausing to deliberate exactly what it was she was going to do, she deposited the fabric conditioner at her feet and stormed around the corner to the aisle down which Georgie still stood, one handedly shoving clothes into a washer, mid-phone call.

"Georgie." Clara said loudly, not waiting for Georgie to turn round. Instead, she strode right over and slammed her open washing machine door shut, almost abscising Georgie's fingers in the process. "I can hear everything you're saying and so can Cleo. We're round the corner." Finally spinning round to face Clara, Georgie raised her eyebrows.

"And?" She scoffed.

"You'd think that you'd have checked before you started talking a load of shit about her, wouldn't you?"

"Get her to come round here herself and I'll say it to her face, love." Georgie retorted through gritted teeth, her eyes flashing mutinously. 

"I'm not your fucking love, love." Clara snarled back, balling her tiny hands into fists. This, however, only caused Georgie to smirk and look Clara up and down with her dark, insolent eyes.