Trust No Bitch: Part 2

Cleo King: Wednesday, 6th January, 2014

Sasha Evans was not the kind of person Cleo King would usually make friends with. She was prim, proper and, in other words, everything that Cleo (despite her own affluent upbringing) considered herself to be the antithesis of. Upon first seeing Sasha waltzing down one of the lofty St.Edmunds' hallways, she had bent down so that her mouth was level with Clara Wright's ear and lowered her voice to a whisper.

"Bet the closest she's ever been to getting some dick is putting a condom on a banana in sex ed." She said, Clara convulsing in a fit of raspy giggles. The comment was met with a deprecatory glare from Sasha, though it was unlikely she'd actually heard what'd been said; she had a severe case of resting bitch face and looked permanently disgruntled. The remark in question had been made back in a time where openly insulting Evans wouldn't earn Cleo a telling off from Alice Jenkins. Those 2 had bonded some time after Sasha and Cleo's brief and furtive relationship, over almost as quickly and unexpectedly as it had begun, which was some time in mid January of their first year. Bored and on Christmas break, Cleo had been into London to meet with her dealer, and was running into Oxford Street tube station to make it back to Waterloo in time to catch the last train home. Relying on her usual tactic of subtle seduction, she had made a beeline for the youngest, most attractive ticket officer she could find and proceeded to move through the steps of her standard routine. First, a desperate rifle through her bag, then, a prostrated sigh, next, pleading and finally, if that didn't work, tears.

"Oh for God's sake!" She had exclaimed loudly, throwing a packet of tissues and a 50p lip balm, her go-to props, onto the floor.

"Can I help you?" The officer had asked immediately, like a sailor to a siren's calls. Cleo had smirked and blinked hard, forcing a small tear out as she turned to face him, hurriedly wiping it away once he'd seen.

"I've lost my Oyster card!" She said thickly. "I thought it was in my bag but I looked absolutely everywhere and I just can't find it. I need to get to Waterloo and I'm going to miss my train if I don't get through in a second and I live all the way back in-"

"Really?" Said the officer, raising his bushy eyebrows.

"Yes!" Cleo cried, reaching out and clinging onto the material of his shirt, looking wistfully up at him. She was consciously channelling her inner old Hollywood movie starlet. "Please could you just be an absolute sweetheart and let me through? I promise, I won't tell anyone." She pleaded, the officer brushing her off and shaking his head. Cleo was astounded; she'd never once in her life been rebuffed like that before. Had a bird shat on her without her realising? Had she somehow acquired some kind of mild facial deformity since last checking her flawless reflection in a shop window only 10 minutes before? Had hell frozen over? What the fuck was going on?

"Don't bother with that. I'm gay, love."

Ah. Gay. Well, at least that explains it, Cleo had thought.

"And I saw you pulling this crap with my colleague this morning."

Gay and crotchety. Someone's in desperate need of a knock up the back doors, she had silently sneered. From the outside, however, she was visibly deflating.

"I think you need to come with me." The officer said, putting his hand on the top of her arm and attempting to steer her away.

"No, please! I'm sorry! I'll go and pay for my ticket!"

"No. You're going to come with me. If this was going to be the second time you'd done this today, I don't doubt that you've done it several times before."

"No, please, I was only-"

"Wait! Excuse me, I have your ticket!"

What?