Chapter 1
It was a dick move
Clara
“Hey Ozzie,”I said softly as I took one of the tiny chairs at the timeout table.
Ozzie gave me one brief, furious look, then crossed his arms over his little seven-year-old chest and glared out of the window.
I sighed.
Since the beginning of the school year, Oscar Sterling had consistently been the most challenging child in the class. Today, he’d ripped pages out of his reading book and then thrown the book at Margot Harding. At a normal school with normal kids, maybe this wouldn’t cause all-out panic, but I didn’t work at a normal school. Molton Prep was one of the most exclusive prep schools in London. These were no run-of-the-mill seven-year-olds. Margot was the daughter of Oliver Harding, the Duke of Buckingham, and Oscar was Lord Sterling’s son. Both of these men were utterly terrifying.
Luckily, being only a teaching assistant, I didn’t havemuch direct contact with parents. That had been one of the stipulations I made before accepting this job. It meant I took the lower-paid assistant role, rather than that of form tutor, but that suited me just fine. I was able to keep the lowest profile possible – something I always aspired to – and I didn’t have to deal with any Dukes of this or Lords of that on a regular basis. Given my almost crippling shyness when it came to adults, coupled with my unusual… circumstances, which made anonymity of vital importance, even the school agreed that this was for the best.
Lily, the form tutor, was deep in conversation with a furious-looking Margot, whose tiny body was stiff with affronted rage, her small fists clenched at her sides. Lily gave me a very brief “oh shit” look before going back to placating the little girl. We had just over an hour to defuse this situation before parents started to arrive. My mind flashed to Ozzie’s dad, and my breath caught in my throat. Lord Sterling was one of the most intimidating men I’d ever seen in my life. Tall, built, dark hair, eyes so blue they were almost otherworldly, deep commanding voice (no doubt inherited from centuries of his ancestors ruling over the lesser mortals of this country). He was super scary, completely fascinating and, given that he was a barrister of all things, about the last manIshould be obsessing over.
Luckily, someone like him would never notice someone like me. And I should be grateful for that. Lord Rafe Sterling was one of the most renowned criminal barristers in the country, and apparently on course to be one of the youngest judges ever appointed in the UK. Clearly not satisfied with the vast Sterling wealth, he was chasing the ultimate promotion.
For me, contact with police, barristers and especially judges was extremely ill-advised given my background. Notthat I could have spoken to Lord Sterling anyway. Considering I could barely string two words together when talking to our very kind and motherly headmistress, I doubted a conversation with a man like Lord Sterling would be on the cards.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t watch him, though.
If there was one thing I was good at, it was watching. Silent observation had been a survival technique for me when I was growing up, and it still served me well then. So, every Tuesday morning and afternoon, I would look out of the classroom window, making sure I was out of sight behind some questionable year 3 artwork, to see Lord Sterling drop Ozzie off at school and pick him up at the end of the day. Usually, he was in a three-piece suit. In the colder months, he wore a long, dark coat over his suit, which flew out behind him in the wind and made him look one hundred percent the aristocrat he was. This was one small highlight of my narrow life, one thing I let myself have just for me. I stored up those images of him and revisited them at night when I was alone.
Fantasising about the totally unobtainable Lord Sterling was the closest thing I’d had to a sex life in years.
In my fervent imagination, I wasn’t mousy and short, I didn’t have to wear glasses to see beyond my fingertips, and I wasn’t in woolly jumpers and thick tights (all of which were either black or grey). No, I dressed in the kind of glamorous, attention-grabbing outfits I’d seen the women in his life wear when he took them out (I may have Googled the man a time or hundred).
“Ozzie, love,” I said gently again, shifting closer to his stiff little body. “I can see you’re having some big feelings. Maybe we could talk about them. You know it’s not okay torip up books, and it’s definitelynotokay to throw them at other children.”
“I hate books,” he mumbled, still staring out of the window. “And IhateMargot.”
“Hate’s a very strong word, Ozzie. Margot’s your friend. I think she’d be really sad if she thought you hated her.”
Ozzie shifted on his chair and glanced over at Margot who was still talking to Lily. “She’s a know-it-all teacher’s pet.”
My eyebrows went up at that. “Teacher’s pet? Really, Ozzie?” I didn’t argue with the know-it-all comment – that one was fairly accurate – but Margot Harding was anything but a teacher’s pet. She was a great kid, but submitting to authority wasnother strong suit. “Hun, she locked Mrs MacGraw in the supply cupboard when she was filling in for me last week.”
The corner of Ozzie’s mouth lifted in a small smile. “Yeah, that was funny.”
I bit my lips to stop myself smiling too. In all honesty, itwasfunny. Mrs MacGraw was a stuck-up bitch. Still, Margot shouldn’t have done it. I bumped Ozzie gently with my shoulder.
“Why don’t you tell me what made you sad?”
He looked down at his lap and his shoulders slumped. When he spoke, his voice was only just above a whisper, and I had to strain to make out the words.
“I still can’t read very good.”
I swallowed past the lump in my throat. He sounded so completely defeated. His defiance from earlier evaporated, and insecurity took its place.
“Ozzie, we’ve talked about this, love,” I said softly. “You find reading a little bit tricky, and I think that’s because yourbrain muddles the letters up a bit. But there are lots we’re going to do to help. Are you finding the new books easier?”
I had started the assessments for dyslexia with Ozzie two weeks ago. Even this early, I could tell that he was profoundly affected, so I’d gone ahead and bought some resources. The books he was using now had dyslexia-friendly fonts with wider-spaced lines, and some, like the one he’d ripped the pages out of, had coloured paper instead of white, all of which might help Ozzie make better sense of the words.
“Margot asked why my paper was yellow,” Ozzie mumbled. “She thinks I’m stupid.”
“Did she say that?” I asked in surprise. Margot was a handful, but she wasn’t a cruel child.
