Читать книгу The Law of Attraction: the perfect laugh-out-loud read for autumn 2018 - Roxie Cooper - Страница 11

CHAPTER 3

It’s been three months since I received the pupillage offer from Athena Chambers. The day after our big celebration, reality began to sink in and I had many sleepless nights over it. Achieving pupillage is one of those things you work so hard for, and then, when you get it, you torture yourself with self-doubt and the toxic mindset of ‘what if I’m actually not good enough?’ looping in your mind.

Heidi and I worked our little arses off in a huge call centre over the summer. We did as many shifts as was humanly possible and partied as soon as we were out the door. Of course, we always regretted it the next day when we’d take turns in dragging each other out of bed to go to work with a stinking hangover. On some days, we were clearly still drunk.

These were the final days of being reckless. Our last time to be wild; that strange place where you’re straddling student life and being a proper adult, but not really either. You’re still kind of allowed to use your student discount card in Top Shop and get away with all kinds of tax relief.

As from September, there would be no more rolling into work with a hangover (certainly not drunk!) and definitely no more drama. We were going to be lawyers. Time to be a grown-up.

My start date is a crisp September morning. The letter stated I was to arrive at 8 a.m. with my wig and robes.

My robes!

For the first time, I’m really going to wear them in public. I made a special trip to a super-posh shop on Chancery Lane in London to buy them, which was like stepping back into the 1800s. You basically walk in, they refer to you as ‘Madam’, and you stand awkwardly in front of a huge mirror, waiting for them to bring you a robe to try on. Men dressed in full, long-tail jackets with tape measures around their necks appear, as if from nowhere. It’s like something from Harry Potter – like ‘Yes, thank you for my gown, now where do I purchase my wand and owl?’ Once I’d handed over an extortionate amount of money (don’t even ask), I proudly left the shop and bought a little wheeled suitcase to put them in.

As I approach Chambers, I’m prickling with excitement. It seems only two minutes ago I was here in the blistering sun for my interview. In contrast, there is now a snappy freshness in the air, the kind of tangible feeling you only get as the summer slowly descends into autumn. It reminds me of university, when it signified the new Michaelmas term. Except, now, I wasn’t starting a new term, but a new career. A new, exciting life.

Entering Chambers first thing on a Monday morning is quite different to the last time I was here. It’s now buzzing, and there are suits and suitcases flying in and out the door.

‘Miss Bentley, lovely to see you again!’ says Jill. ‘I’ll let Mr Skylar know you’re here. Take a seat.’

Richard Skylar is my pupilmaster and I’m a bit scared about meeting him. As part of pupillage, you’re assigned to a pupilmaster or pupilmistress. I know, it sounds like some kind of sexual-deviant term. Throughout the first six months, you follow them around wherever they go (but not into the toilet, although this has been heard of), watch them in court and do all the paperwork they don’t want to do. After six months, you’re unleashed upon the public and that’s when the panic sets in. They’re more than just a professional mentor; they guide you through all sorts of personal and emotional issues throughout your career.

Obviously, I’ve done my research. Skylar is a well-established and respected criminal barrister of thirty years standing and president of many organisations I don’t know what the acronyms stand for. He sounds exactly like the kind of barrister I need to learn from. His photo on the website suggests he is a very professional man, if not a little intimidating.

Barristers zoom in through the door, glancing at me in reception. It must be obvious I’m the new pupil because I look terrified and my body language is screaming ‘HELP ME. I AM SCARED’ as I sit bolt upright on the sofa.

After a few minutes, I hear something coming from the corridor which sounds like singing. Oh Christ, it’s probably an early morning conference with a crazy client. Jill doesn’t even flinch; she’s probably used to it. The singing gets louder and I shrink into my chair, hoping the lunatic won’t notice me. As I do, a wild-eyed man leaps into the room, displaying what can only be described as jazz hands, finishing what is his rendition of ‘All That Jazz’ from the musical Chicago.

‘Aaannd aaaalllll thhhhhaaattttt jaaaaaazzzzz… THAT JAZZ! PAHHH!!’ He’s wearing a waistcoat over a garish salmon-pink shirt, with a bright-green tie. He’s an imposing, tall man, looks about fifty-odd, with wild, ‘mad professor-esque’ grey hair, and he is wearing huge, black-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t look like a criminal. In fact, he looks vaguely familiar.

I sit watching, quite horrified, as the man freezes in full jazz hands mode, staring at me.

This is Richard Skylar. My pupilmaster. The man from whom I am expected to learn the fine art of advocacy.

‘Erm…’ I mutter.

What does he expect me to do?

He instantly snaps out of jazz hands mode and stands up straight. ‘Well, come on, Barbie! No time for sitting around, we’re starting a trial in a few hours!’ he barks.

This is utterly bizarre.

I follow Skylar into his attic office and there is no chatting on the way. He sits behind his desk and points to a chair on the other side of it, presumably for me to sit down. Having lugged my suitcase up all the stairs, I am now panting quite a bit, which is quite the disgrace for a twenty-three-year-old woman. The desk is huge and made of dark mahogany wood, covered in bundles of paper, none of which appears to be in any kind of order. Some of the bundles have coffee-cup rings on, highlighted by the bright stream of sun pouring in through the small window.

He folds his arms and looks very stern, seemingly choosing to ignore the musical feast bestowed upon me only minutes before.

‘Right,’ he asserts. ‘My name is Skylar, Richard Skylar. Not Rich, Richard. I’ve given you a day’s grace for today, but from now on you will come into Chambers at 7.30 a.m. and will not leave until I say you can go. I will be giving you weekly advocacy exercises to perform for me.’

I nod intently, hoping Skylar can’t hear my heart racing ten to the dozen or my gulping at the information he has just dispensed.

‘You are my fourth pupil and will be my last, so you’d better be good,’ he goes on.

Oh fuck. The pressure.

‘I’ll try my best, Mr Skylar.’

‘I want you to know that you can always come to me for advice. I am always contactable, day or night. But NEVER call me when Doctor Who is on because I simply will not answer. I am allowed an hour off per week from my pupilmaster duties. Understand?’

‘Yes, Mr Skylar,’ I pant.

‘Richard,’ he states. ‘And the last thing… when it comes to pupillage, know this – there is no such thing as a stupid question. Got it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good!’ he booms.

Skylar then gives me a very quick tour of Chambers, introducing me to about twenty people. I grin stupidly while he tells me all of their names (which I instantly forget). He then tells me that, as a pupil, it is tradition for me to complete a ritual at the start of the day. I wonder what this can be, until it becomes clear when we enter the kitchen.

‘Right, mine is big, black and very hot,’ Skylar states.

‘Sorry?’ I reply, wondering if I’ve heard right.

‘Coffee. Every morning. It’s tradition for the pupil to make all the barristers a hot drink,’ he reveals.

Surely he can’t mean everyone?

‘And yes, I do mean everyone,’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘Although given that we have taken two pupils this year, your duty will be shared.’

I still haven’t met the new pupil. Richard says he is starting today, too, and so I should try and meet him. His pupilmaster is Gene Dolus, aka Mr Rude from my pupillage interview.

Lucky him.

Time ticks on and we leave Chambers at about 9.15 a.m. and walk to the Crown Court.

Newcastle Crown Court is a splendid building located right on the Quayside. The best thing about it is the glass lift which travels up and down the exterior, which we run into after going through security. As it ‘pings’ to the second floor, everyone exits and hurriedly marches to the Robing Room.

The Robing Room is a large changing room where barristers put their robes on ready for court. Wooden lockers surround the walls; wigs, gowns and collars are strewn haphazardly around the place.

Upon entering, the scattering of barristers turns to look at us as we walk to Skylar’s locker. There’s a main top table, occupied by several barristers, already robed. They look like the ‘cool gang’ every college and school has, and which I have never been a part of. A mixture of men and women, their voices lower as we unpack our things. They are shameless in their nosiness; peering over, laughing, blatantly staring.

‘Richard,’ I whisper, ‘why are they all staring at you?’

Skylar laughs. ‘They’re not staring at me, they’re staring at you,’ he says, wrenching his folders out of his suitcase.

‘Me? Why? What have I done?’

Skylar turns to me. ‘You’re “fresh meat”. They’re intrigued. They’ll all want to get to know you for different reasons, very quickly. Happens to all pupils, especially female ones. Just be aware of it.’

Like I didn’t feel exposed enough today. Why isn’t there a lecture on this at law school?

Skylar tells me he expects me to robe, too, which I do, hardly containing my excitement. I must look like a complete novice because, despite practising at home, I still take ten times longer than everyone else.

What do I do with my hair, though?

I’ve practised this so many times at home and thought it looked okay, but now, in the cold light of day, surrounded by other real barristers, I look naïve and silly. The wig is suddenly a very foreign object to me and I don’t know how to handle it, much as childless women hold newborns at arm’s length with a look on their faces that screams ‘WHAT DO I DO WITH IT NOW? TAKE IT AWAY, PLEASE’. It’s taken on a life of its own, much like an excited hamster or something, and I begin to hate the goddamn thing. However I put it on, it looks utterly ridiculous.

Skylar eventually becomes impatient, telling me to stop ‘fannying’ with it and get a move on as we have to go meet his client.

All morning is spent running between courts, the cells, clients and other barristers. Everyone is always in such a hurry and I start thinking seriously about going to the gym and investing in some sensible heels. But the barristers look so dramatic running past. It’s something about their cloaks billowing behind them, like watching a legal pop video with a wind machine… it’s all very theatrical. But before I know it, it’s lunchtime.

Thank God, a breather!

I nip to the loo, which I have been dying to do for the last three hours, without daring to ask if I could go. That’s another thing; going to the toilet when you’re fully robed is quite the chore. Suddenly have all the sympathy for brides on their wedding day. And is it necessary to take your wig off? Physically not, but it just feels weird to be weeing with a seventeenth-century horsehair wig on your head. Almost like I should be pulling a super-snooty historical face as I’m doing it, not checking my smartphone for WhatsApp messages.

Yes, welcome to my new, amazing life.

As I walk out of the loos, I find myself in the middle of a very awkward scene.

A very tall, slim, female barrister is standing in the middle of the otherwise empty Robing Room having a stand off with someone. Her flaming-red curly hair pokes out of her wig at contorted angles around her face, contrasting with her big emerald-green eyes. She is glaring very intently, but scarily, at a man with his back to me.

‘Come on now, I don’t think there’s any need to be so insolent…’ she sneers in a heavy Irish lilt.

‘Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle black, Clarinda,’ the male calmly shoots back.

At this point, the woman clocks me and turns back to the man.

‘We’ll talk about this later, Sid,’ she spits, before calmly walking out.

The male turns round and smiles in a way that suggests he is grateful for the interruption.

‘Laugh a minute around here!’ he smiles, raising his eyebrows. It’s Sid Ryder from my pupillage interview, looking supremely hot and all ‘sexy-older-man-y’ in his robes. ‘Amanda, isn’t it?’ he asks, narrowing his eyes.

‘Yes, it’s my first day today.’

‘Which song did you get?’ he queries in his soft Geordie accent.

‘Sorry?’

‘The welcome song from Richard? Don’t tell me… ‘All That Jazz’?’ he miraculously guesses.

‘Yes! What’s all that about?!’ I ask, relieved that I clearly didn’t just imagine it after all.

‘He does it to all his pupils on their first day. He varies the song, but ‘All That Jazz’ is his favourite. He likes to do the jazz hands,’ he laughs, doing a watered-down version of Skylar’s own effort.

‘It might seem like a stupid question…’ I begin.

‘Didn’t he tell you there’s no such thing as a…’

‘Stupid question…’ we both say in unison, laughing.

‘But what’s it about?’ I ask.

‘He likes to see how you cope with it, how you react. He’ll do weird little things like this all the time,’ Sid explains. ‘I should know, I was his first pupil, many years ago.’

‘Oh, I didn’t know that,’ I confess.

‘Don’t worry,’ he laughs, ‘you’ll get used to it.’

I have the same pupilmaster as Sid Ryder. Swoon-a-roon.

‘Oh, and just ignore that,’ he says, rolling his eyes in the direction of the door. ‘Curse of the very recent ex, I’m afraid,’ he explains, clearly a bit embarrassed by the whole thing.

‘Well, that’s none of my business,’ I say oh-so-casually. ‘I’d better derobe and shoot off. Richard’s waiting for me downstairs. I’ll see you around Chambers’.

‘Yes. You will,’ he says with a smile I want to melt into.

As he walks towards the Robing Room door, Sid gives me one last tip.

‘Amanda, expect the unexpected with Richard. He’ll drive you crazy but he’ll make you into one hell of a barrister’

Hmm…

Skylar is taking me to a restaurant called Rino’s for lunch. It’s a quaint little authentic Italian job around the back of the court.

A small, shabby-but-verging-on-trendy place, this venue has obviously been running for years. The mismatched wooden chairs surround tables with little candles on. Black-and-white photos of customers adorn the walls, all embracing the same dark-haired, cigar-chomping man (presumably Rino). Even though it’s early afternoon and sunny outside, the dark blinds shut the light out, creating an intimate and cosy vibe. But Skylar assures me this is the place where friendships are formed, connections and deals made.

There are already members from Chambers in there so the waiters pull up another table and we join them. Suddenly, I feel even more exposed. Not only do I have to sound intelligent, witty and all-round interesting; I also have to worry now about using the correct cutlery, not spilling anything, and correct pronunciation of ‘bruschetta’ when ordering.

For God’s sake.

More introductions follow as I sit smartly, grinning like a prized pig, forgetting everyone’s names. Skylar does his freaky mind-reading thing again when he spots me looking at the menu (prices).

‘Look, don’t worry about how much anything costs. It’s a tradition of the Bar that pupils don’t pay for anything – coffees, drinks, lunches…’ he tells me, not even attempting to hide his resentment.

Oh, the relief. Finally, a tradition I can get on board with.

Our table is a mixed bag of Chambers folk. They’re all animated in conversation, being a bit loud. Everything seems overexaggerated. Talking over each other. Bottles of wine are brought to the table and they pour away. The air is filled with the sound of chatter. Nobody seems to be remotely concerned with the fact that it’s a Monday afternoon and most of these people will have to go back to court in an hour and continue with their trials. I’d be sloshed if I was necking wine like they are now.

This doesn’t seem like Skylar’s scene at all and I wonder why he’s brought me here. It’s a strange, quasi-social setting. I am trying to impress Skylar but I don’t know whether I am allowed to talk about anything other than law. Not sure if I can start chatting about where the latest storyline in Game of Thrones is going, and I’ve never even watched Doctor Who. Obviously sensing my discomfort, he asks me general questions about where I’m from and so on. I tell him I am from Teesside, not far from Newcastle. Although I am fond of where I am from, I could never go back there to live.

‘So, what do your parents do?’ he asks, after ordering for both of us (phew).

‘Well, my mam runs a working men’s club and her partner is in a Rat Pack tribute.’

Skylar raises his eyebrows. ‘Quite the diverse family unit.’

‘Yes, you could say that.’

‘What does your real father do?’ Skylar asks, a little too directly for my liking.

My chest tightens at the very mention of him. I’m suddenly flustered. Panicked. I should have expected questions like this. I avoid eye contact and look towards the window, wishing I could see out of it.

‘Oh, he’s, erm, not really around any more actually…’

Please don’t ask anything else. Think of a way to change the subject.

I feel my face start to flush.

Thankfully, I’m saved from any more questions by someone hollering at me from the other end of the table.

‘Amanda! Bet you’ve ruffled some feathers in the Robing Room this morning! Billster, you asked her out yet?’ shouts some ‘charming’ barrister I think is named John, but equally could be Harry/Michael/Any Other Name.

The whole table erupts into laughter as ‘Billster’ holds his hands up in a ‘Not Me, Gov’ type way.

Lovely.

Skylar shoots them all a look of fury before adding, ‘Wasting your time. She’s got standards, this one. Don’t underestimate her.’

That shuts them up. Skylar might be a little odd but he obviously has influence. The Chambers throng get back to their yakking and I continue my small talk with Skylar.

Once we move on to coffees, shit gets serious. Skylar folds his arms, resting them on the table. He leans towards me, lowering the tone of his voice so that nobody else can hear.

‘Amanda, look around you. All this. These people…’

I do as he says.

‘These people are your judge and jury. They will judge you – fairly and unfairly – over the next twelve months. You need to get over seventy-five per cent of Chambers to vote for you over the other pupil if you’re to win the tenancy. These are the people you need to impress.’

And there it is. Stripped bare.

‘So it’s basically a year-long interview?’

‘Oh, it’s worse than that,’ Skylar laughs. ‘You’re being assessed on your academic ability in an interview. Pupillage is a popularity contest. You need to get on with everybody to win this. Think of it as an election campaign.’

‘But surely, if you work hard, that’s all that matters?’ I put to him, naively.

‘Not at the Bar, Barbie.’

Oh.

‘You want to win this? Get on with everyone – men and women. Make friends but don’t be too friendly. Know your enemies. Be smart. Don’t be bitchy. Be willing to help anyone and work hard. And, for God’s sake, do NOT get involved in any drama, scandal, or have sexual relations with anyone at the Bar.’

And there we have it. So much to take in.

I finish my coffee, my mind whirling with what Skylar has just told me. Reality has truly bitten. Skylar spies me salivating at a huge wedge of carrot cake, which he buys for me on account of it being my first day, but says I’m not to expect every day because ‘contrary to popular belief, barristers are not made of money’.

Shortly after, we head back to Chambers because Skylar needs me to look at some paperwork before I go home. I already feel like a pro at this barrister-ing lark.

Kind Man Lawson from the pupillage interview comes in to ask how I am doing.

‘It’s been great, Peter. Really enjoyable and informative,’ I say enthusiastically.

‘Wonderful, so glad we haven’t put you off. I just wondered if you would like to meet the other pupil in the lounge? He’s just got back from court.’

‘Yes! I’ve been looking forward to meeting him,’ I say, honestly. Intrigued, more like. But taking Skylar’s advice on board, I really should make an effort with him. Perhaps we can start going for drinks and having weekly gossip about Chambers. Nothing wrong with healthy competition.

‘Well, Martin is great. He’s already had everyone laughing this afternoon. Seems like a lovely chap.’

Skylar reluctantly agrees that I can go meet Martin and then have an early finish (yesss!) but be back at 7.30 a.m. sharp in the morning.

As I walk to the lounge, I hear roars of laughter. Martin sounds like quite the entertainer. I walk in to find a throng of barristers all directing their attention on to the other pupil, who is sitting with his back to me.

‘Oh Greggsy, what a story, mate! You didn’t put that on your CV! Classic!’ one barrister says while applauding.

Hang on… Greggsy? Martin?

No. Please NO.

Peter gathers the room’s attention before saying, ‘Amanda, I’d like you to meet our other pupil, Martin Gregg.’

Upon this grand announcement, Martin Gregg stands up and turns around. Rather suspiciously, he doesn’t look surprised to see me at all. There he is, wearing a bright-red tie, top button unfastened, looking dishevelled.

Already settled in, I see.

His black hair is gelled in a way that suggests his mam has done it for his first day at school.

‘Mandy! What an amazing coincidence!’ he says in a way which suggests this is not a coincidence, by any stretch of the imagination.

‘You two know each other?’ some random barrister I can’t remember the name of asks.

‘Oh yes. Very well, actually,’ Martin offers with a much-dramatised wink.

I, on the other hand, am so horrified and speechless, I can’t even react to it.

This can’t be happening.

I do know one thing, though: this is going to be a very long twelve months.