Page 64 of The Bargain

His look is knowing, and I have the sudden realisation that North isn’t hazarding a guess—he knows. He knows about physics, not just that I love it, but about the Harvard scholarship, too. Mazzati and he spoke about it, and the fact that these two brilliant men sat in a room together when I wasn’t there to speak about me, about my future, makes my stomach suddenly drop.

“But needs must⁠—”

North gestures at the door on the side of the little waiting area by his office, the one that leads to the small meeting room where he conducts parental and disciplinary meetings.

“I fear the Pearsons were quite insistent that they must speak with you now.” He gives me a half-smile that has an interesting edge of darkness to it. “One should not keep the future prime minister waiting—no matter how precarious the polls make such a position seem.”

I tilt my head, restraining a smirk. “Sir.”

He lets out a low laugh. “An innocent barb, nothing more.” He gestures. “Go ahead, now. Your benefactors are waiting.”

Benefactors—not parents. When I first arrived at Spearcrest, adoption papers freshly signed, people were tripping over themselves to refer to the Pearsons as my “new parents”, and I wondered, back then, if my definition of the word parent was different to everyone else’s.

But Mr North never once referred to them as my parents.

And for that, I’ll always hold him in the highest regard.

24

Forgotten Children

Elias

From the outside, the Pearsons look like every British couple you see in politics. Well-spoken, bland, white. They have a one-inch height difference that indicates that their couple dynamics are appropriately conservative: Mr Pearson always holds doors open for Mrs Pearson, Mrs Pearson always wears dresses and a pleasant smile. They give you the impression that he is the important one, and she reads to children and helps their personal cook make the pot roast every Sunday.

Today, Mr Pearson is in a charcoal-grey suit and navy tie, his receding hair combed to the side, and Mrs Pearson is in a dress with mid-length sleeves and a mid-length skirt, her dark hair cut at the shoulders, past which it never seems to grow. They greet me with smiles: Mr Pearson shakes my hand, Mrs Pearson gives me a hug that feels a bit like bumping into a doorway when you’re leaving somewhere in a rush.

They look like they’re in a really good mood.

And that’s how I know that I’ve fucked up.

“How’s school?” Mr Pearson says, watching me take a seat across from them with a benevolent smile. “Your classes are going well? A-levels are hard work, I know.”

“I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are.” Mr Pearson nods. “You have been since you arrived. Your teachers have nothing but good things to report about you.”

Report. Interesting word to use.

I watch Mr Pearson closely, holding my breath, wondering if he’ll mention the scholarship. Is that why he’s here?

“I hear you’ve not yet involved yourself with any of Spearcrest’s extracurricular activities,” Mr Pearson continues. “You know those will hold you in excellent stead when applying to university, don’t you?”

As would having the prime minister for a father, I think. Only, you’re not doing so well in the polls, are you, Mr Pearson?

But unlike Mr North and his balls of steel, I don’t say it out loud.

My position in the world is far more precarious than his, to be fair.

“I’ll look into it, sir,” I answer mildly.

I cringe inwardly at the way I sound: my London accent erased in favour of a bland half-imitation of my peers’ more polished registers. A sort of Hollywood version, pleasantly non-specific. I never slip into that voice when I’m in Spearcrest, but I always do when I’m around the Pearsons, and I don’t know why.

Why shouldn’t I sound like a ratty little nobody? They chose me because I was a ratty little nobody. They need me to be a ratty little nobody.

How else are they going to crawl up in the polls? Every other day, they’re facing questions about past cuts to social funds, unsavoury comments about the lower classes they’ve made over the years. I’m their shiny redemption arc, their trophy to prove they won at helping the poor.

Mrs Pearson leans forward, her knees crossed primly, her expression arranged into a warm smile that never ever quite reaches the glacial blue of her eyes.