I looked at her, this happy, smiling teacher in her lovely clean dress and spotless shoes. I imagined her walking through my house, picking her way carefully, making sure not to stand on a stray needle or knock over one of the overflowing ashtrays.

I shuddered and glanced at the top leaflet on the pile she pushed towards me across the desk.

A glossy photograph of the university. The grey brickwork, the tall windows, the proud turret in the background standing sentry over the students who passed through this coveted place. If these people saw where I came from, the scholarship would be taken away before I even won it.

Clipped to the brochure was another piece of paper. I glanced at it and my blood ran cold as I saw two names hand-written there. One of them was mine. The other was Rebecca Lavery.

‘How many people get a scholarship?’ I asked, my voice rushed. ‘How many places are there?’

Miss Hayle’s smile slipped just a little as she saw what I was looking at. Deftly she reached across the desk and snatched up the list that had broken my heart.

‘Just one,’ she said, the brightness back in her tone, but it was falsely jovial. ‘So you need to continue working extra hard, up your game.’

‘But she doesn’t need it, she has so much money now. She doesn’t even go to school here any more!’ I blurted.

Her smile settled into one of understanding and sympathy. Neither emotion was of any help. I thought fast, and spoke before I lost my nerve.

‘I have to go along Billingham Road to get home. I see her there.’ I paused, and then added for effect, ‘I see her there all the time.’

Miss Hayle, for all her niceness, knew what went on in Billingham Road. And she knew what I was telling her.

The smile slipped, properly this time, and she paled beneath her make-up.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘I see.’

It was a lie, but not an awful one, I told myself as I went home. I had seen Rebecca. Not in the way I had insinuated, not buying or selling on Billingham Road, but I had seen her near there. That dress she had worn, the expensive restaurant I was sure she had been in… My fists curled. She didn’t need this scholarship. I did.

But even if my lie had been enough to remove her name from the list, my battle wasn’t over.

‘Mum, I need to talk to you,’ I said.

She was in the kitchen; a good sign. She wasn’t dressed, but then I hadn’t seen her wearing proper clothes in months, years even.