Amanda Bentley has always dreamed of being a barrister…

But as a platinum blonde bombshell from the wrong side of town, with a perfect tan and sleek high heels, she doesn’t exactly look the part – or fit in with the brash public school boys and cold posh girls of Newcastle Crown Court’s robing room. Amanda’s never been one to back down from a challenge, and so when she wins a prestigious pupillage following law school, she’s determined to make the most of her chance – and make all her dreams come true.

Only three things stand in her way: Sid Ryder - the sexy, irresistible barrister who she absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, sleep with. At all. Marty Gregg - her smarmy law school nemesis, who she’s in direct competition with for the top job. And her big, dark secret that could jeopardise everything she’s worked so hard for.

Who said that following the laws of attraction was going to be easy…?

Fans of Legally Blonde, Joanna Bolouri, Catherine Bennetto and Nicola Doherty will fall head over heels for The Law of Attraction.

The Law of Attraction

Roxie Cooper

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

ROXIE COOPER

was born and bred in Middlesbrough. After studying Classics at university, she became a dancer in a nightclub for a few years before going travelling and living in Australia. When she returned, she swapped dancing on a bar, to practising at the Bar, and became a barrister for seven years.

It was after being constantly told ‘Ooh! You don’t look like a barrister!’ by absolutely everyone she met that the idea for her debut novel was born.

Roxie lives in Yarm, a pretty little market town in the north-east. She’s a bit (lot) obsessed with Prince and spends far too much time watching him on YouTube. Her hobbies include watching musicals, making her hair as big (and blonde) as possible, and wishing she was Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

To the lovely and amazing Sarah Manning – thank you for finding me in the slush pile and falling in love with the characters and story I created. Thank you for being the best agent an author could hope for and giving me the best advice and support I could ever want. But, most of all, thank you for the best lunches and crazy chats (thank God nobody else can hear them!).

A huge thank you to my fantastic editor, Anna Baggaley, and the whole team at HQ and Harper Collins. I will never forget that boiling hot September day I first came to your offices and you were bursting with excitement about this book, and it hasn’t stopped since. I am so lucky, and proud, to be part of this incredible publishing house.

It’s no exaggeration to say that this book would never have been completed without the immense support from my author network and followers on Twitter. Sorry about the cliché, but there really are too many to list. However, special mentions go out to Katie Marsh, Cesca Major and Isabelle Broom for very kindly inviting me to their snazzy book launches in London, where they’d always fill me with encouragement and send me back north full of fire to get this book finished. Extra special thanks to Katie for holding my hand at the very beginning of the process – you gave me the confidence to send my work out into the world.

Thank you to my long-suffering friends, who have had to put up with me going on and on about pretend people and edits for the past year. Laura Knights, Dawn Chaplin, Andrea Bruce, Caroline Wilkinson, Clare Beaumont, Emma Watson and Paula Binney – thank you for pouring wine down my neck when I needed it most and allowing me to just sit and do all the stress-y faces.

Thank you, Sasha Wagstaff, for everything. I don’t know what I would have done without you over the last few years. But I think I’ve finally managed to nail that hashtag shizzle we created.

To my beautiful friend Carol Nuttall, who was there from the start. Who’d have thought a TV movie would be so inspirational? Let’s never stop believing…

My adorable Costa boys in Yarm! Thank you Allan Brown, Mickey Brown, Jonny Fish, Greg Kent, Ollie Mash, Dom Pugh and Bradley Walker for cheering me on with smiles, laughter and the best medium skinny lattes. Thank you, also, to the customers in Costa for clearing off as soon as they see me come in now so that I can sit at ‘my writing table’ – you guys truly are the best!

Thanks to ‘This Guy’ for the trip to Roseberry Topping and getting me to the summit with the Rocky soundtrack and beers. Steve Dobson, thank you for being such a magical, glittery, purple star.

A last massive thank you to anyone who has ever asked how the writing is going, what the book is about, when it’s out, or supported me in any way – it never, ever went unnoticed. Thank you to all my family, friends and people in Yarm. You have made this girl feel loved.

For those who thought I couldn’t

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Copyright

PROLOGUE

12.03 p.m.

Saturday 1st November, 2008

They say love and hate are flip sides of the same coin. People can hate those they love, and love those they hate – and everything in between.

Oh, I don’t know, emotions are complicated.

But I regret doing it the second it’s over.

It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for the past three minutes, but at the same time it’s like my rapid breathing is having a sprint with my heart rate to see which can get to the finish line first. The finish line, presumably, is where I spontaneously combust with shame, guilt and horror over what I’ve just done.

A fifteen-year-old girl should not be doing this.

Most girls my age, at this time on a Saturday afternoon, are mooching around town, giggling at boys they fancy, trying on inappropriate clothes and make-up. But then again, I have never been ‘most girls’, and that’s why I’ve ended up here, today… doing this.

A crowd has started to gather, desperately trying to see what all the fuss is about. I’m furiously twiddling the thin black hair bobble I always keep around my wrist – something I always do when I’m nervous.

Three police cars are parked at skewed angles on the road as a result of the speed at which they’ve approached the scene, screeching to a halt, just like in the movies.

It was an eerie approach; no sirens, just a mesmerising sea of bright-blue lights to frame that brief episode of violent activity, played out to a soundtrack of shouted commands and angry, desperate yelling.

And then relative calm.

I can’t move.

What have I done?

I wait for the feelings I had expected: relief, release, revenge – the dish best served cold, or so they say.

But I’m just cold, numb and utterly consumed by the enormity of the moment.

Until it comes, in a savage, irresistible torrent. Guilt strikes like a lightning bolt to my conscience. A tsunami of crushing shame and pure, unadulterated worthlessness, washing through me, sweeping me away to be broken on the rocks of my own self-loathing.

The worst thing about it all is that I should still hate him, but I don’t. I should feel a satisfying sense of revenge, but I don’t.

But that’s the thing about emotions, they’re complicated.

Fucking hell, Amanda Slayder… what have you done?

CHAPTER 1

‘It’s all well and good saying you have all these scholarships, Miss Bentley, but they have to give them to people like you, don’t they?’

Not quite what I expected as an opening question.

I thought they might start with ‘Why do you want to be a barrister?’ or ‘Why do you want to work at these Chambers?’, but not that.

I pause for a few seconds, unsure how to react. If it was a normal person I’d verbally smack them round the earhole for being so rude, but I can’t do that, for two reasons. First, I would blow any chance I have of being offered a pupillage, a job as a junior barrister, here. Second, pupillage interviews are notorious for having a ‘bad cop’ on the panel and there’s a pretty good chance that he is mine. I need to handle this carefully, not blow up in the manner of an angry, hysterical, working-class hero.

Having said that, he’s looking at my long, blonde, peroxided-within-an-inch-of-its-life hair with such disdain, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was appalled, expecting I’d been invited to interview based entirely upon my background (and looks). Ten eyes burn into me, waiting for an answer.

‘People like me?’

‘Well, it’s fair to say your background isn’t conventional in terms of the average barrister…’ he points out.

‘Well, that depends on your definition of conventional and who wants to be average anyway?’

Oh hell. Too feisty.

The other four panel members smirk and scribble down notes. God only knows what.

Shut this down, Amanda.

‘I can assure you I worked hard to obtain those scholarships. I attended rigorous interviews with panels not unlike this one. There’s no doubt in my mind, I was selected upon merit as opposed to my “background”.’

‘Hmm, very well,’ Mr Rude says curtly, without looking up. It’s said in the kind of irritated tone that says he wishes he could really go to town on me, but time constraints won’t allow it.

I focus on breathing and not looking completely intimidated and/or terrified. The other four interviewers on the panel are watching everything I’m doing.

Observing.

Am I keeping cool under pressure? Do I look and act like a barrister?

Mr Rude picks up a copy of my CV and scans it with his posh eyes. I know what he’s going to pick up on, now that he’s assumed the bad-cop, awkward-arse role.

‘You spent your university summer vacations working in Ibiza...’

There it is.

‘Yes’

‘What did you do for work there?’ he asks, accusingly.

‘I danced.’

Everyone’s ears prick up waiting to see how I handle this.

‘Was any of it indecent?’

‘Indecent? Do you mean topless? Absolutely not,’ I say, confidently.

There’s frantic scribbling going on now. The only woman on the panel can’t keep up with this. She is both fascinated and outraged at the same time.

‘So, tell us, what skills did you take from this employment that will assist you at the Bar?’ Mr Rude sneers.

Errm.

You’re pissing off the wrong girl here, Mr RudeTwat.

‘I worked seven nights a week, often days too. Working with live performance will serve me well in court because I am accustomed to dealing with situations when things go wrong. I can think on my feet and deal with things in a calm and collected manner… and I am used to wearing wigs now.’

Bit of humour, always a risk. Seems to work, though, as all the other panel members laugh. Mr Rude doesn’t even crack a smile. He just goes on. We’re still not done, it would seem.

‘But you must know you don’t conform to the stereotype of how a barrister looks. People will notice that and judge you on it. And I don’t mean clients; I mean your fellow barristers…’

Like you’re doing now, you mean?

‘How do you think you’d cope with it?’

He sounds annoyed.

‘Mr Dolus,’ I smile, now convinced he’s not so much the bad cop as just a monumental dick. ‘I’ve been judged my entire adult life on how I look. But isn’t that true for everyone? People are rarely a true reflection of how they present themselves externally. I have the qualifications to be here and it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I believe I have the potential to be a great barrister. I don’t really care what other people think of me. If they want to judge, that’s their problem, not mine.’

Wow, almost convinced myself, there.

Dolus doesn’t respond to this. He slings my CV down and leans back in his chair as I smile at him, sweetly.

I subtly, instinctively, reach for the hair bobble, but it isn’t there. I deliberately took it off before the interview, knowing that if I kept it on I’d just be playing with it the entire time.

At this point, the kind-looking man on the panel, who’s obviously had enough of Mr Rude’s dumb questions, takes over.

***

This interview is all I’ve thought about for weeks.

Athena Chambers is the most prestigious set of Chambers in Newcastle. Competition to even get a pupillage interview is fierce, so the fact I did sent me into a tailspin. I’ve been to university (great times, fabulous social life), went to law school (bloody hard times, no social life), and now it’s the difficult part: securing a twelve-month, practical, ‘on the job’ training pupillage in Chambers. These are as hard to come by as pink diamonds. So I really can’t fuck this interview up.

I barely slept last night, running through every conceivable question they could ask me in my head. By 5.45 a.m., I thought I might as well get up, despite my interview being at 10 a.m.

I dithered over my interview appearance. I don’t look like a ‘typical’ barrister. I look more like a brainless blonde bimbo who cares more about which shade of eyeshadow to wear than the latest Law Reports (both important, mind you). Massive debate with my housemate, Heidi, ensued over whether I ought to ‘tone it down for the interview’. Heidi’s exact words were ‘No. Your intellect and sparkling personality will shine through. Your look is an asset, not a flaw.’ I love her.

I compromised in the end by not wearing false eyelashes. My long blonde hair swept down my back, pinned up at either side. I did consider an ‘all-up ponytail’; far too brutal and exposing, though – I wouldn’t be able to think. I selected a well-fitting trouser suit and crisp white shirt, which complemented my hourglass figure and felt more professional than a skirt suit.

It was a beautiful June morning as I strolled down the Quayside. The Tyne Bridge made me feel small and insignificant, as always (although I could have done without that today). Athena Chambers is tucked away in a little courtyard just off the Quayside and, if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t even know it was there; like a members’ only club.

As I faced the big, red, shiny door of Chambers, I immediately forgot the harsh pep talk I’d spent the last few hours giving myself. A quick glance at my watch revealed it was 9.51 a.m. Nine minutes early.

Once inside, I was faced with a bright, long corridor with rooms going off either side. As far as buildings go, it was posh. I am not posh. It was one of those crazy old not-sure-what-period-it-belongs-to buildings. Could be Georgian or Victorian, or any other ‘-ian’ – definitely old, anyway. It was very grand: high ceilings, huge coving and massive windows. A chandelier hung in the corridor, catching the light and reflecting it on to the pale yellow walls. The effect was a warm, golden glow, which made me feel slightly at ease. It felt important, respected, traditional and steeped in history. It was everything you imagined a barristers’ set of Chambers to be.

I couldn’t believe how weirdly quiet it was, much more so than I’d expected a Friday morning to be. The waiting area consisted of green-leather Chesterfield armchairs positioned around a dark-oak coffee table. A big reception desk hosted an enormous vase full of lilies.

‘Morning! Is it Amanda Bentley?’ a voice shrilled behind me.

‘Yes,’ I replied, trying not to look like I was about to drop dead with nerves.

‘I’m Jill, Chambers receptionist. Let me show you to the barristers’ lounge. The panel are interviewing and will be ready for you shortly.’

The ‘barristers’ lounge’ was a room at the end of the corridor filled with scruffy-looking sofas and raggedy old rugs, providing a stark contrast to the grandeur of the rest of the building.

Very shabby-chic.

I sat down and waited, feeling light-headed with nerves. I was also in agony with the onset of huge blisters forming on my ankles owing to cheap shoes slicing off my bare flesh. Buying pretty, but cheap, shoes is all fun and games until you have to actually walk in them.

Suddenly, I realised that my mind had gone blank. Completely blank. I couldn’t remember why I wanted to be a barrister, despite having rehearsed this answer for the past two days solid.

What did I think of the new provision of the Criminal Justice Act? NO BLINKING IDEA.

Jesus Christ.

Why did I want to practise criminal law? I literally could not remember.

Before I had time to run out crying, a strict-looking woman identifying herself as one of the interviewers came into the lounge. She was wearing a skirt suit, with shiny brown hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. Flat shoes were on her feet and she was wearing barely any make-up. She was everything I am not and told me the panel were ready for me. Suddenly, I felt like I was Barbie applying to marry Prince William. I cannot pull this off.

The interviews were being held in a meeting room on the first floor, with panoramic views of the River Tyne outside. Old legal books covered the walls on ceiling-to-floor bookshelves. I was seated, on my own, at one side of an enormous table.

The chairman of the panel was the enigmatic and relatively famous, within legal circles at least, Sebastian de Souza QC – obviously a very confident man and safe in the knowledge that he could make most young and impressionable women take their knickers off at the drop of a hat. He leaned back in his chair, twiddling a pen in his hand. In his mid forties or thereabouts, with long, untamed, dark hair, laced with grey streaks, and hazel eyes. Maybe it was money, or the power, or both, but he dripped charisma before he even opened his mouth.

The only other panel member who stood out to me was a guy called Sid Ryder. If you were asked to define the ‘sexy older man in a suit’, you’d describe him. His dishevelled dark-blond hair (lighter at the ends) was long enough to dance around his eyes, brushing his cheekbones every time he moved his head. It was trendy in a way you’d think he wouldn’t be able to pull off because he wasn’t twenty-one, but it somehow worked, despite his being in his mid thirties. His face was dominated by his icy blue eyes and gorgeous dimples every time he smiled. He looked simultaneously charming and utterly filthy. I had to concentrate to not be distracted by him.

Panel interviews are awful. The main rule being: ‘make sure you look at everybody when you answer the questions’. Everyone started scribbling the second I sat down.

How have they found anything to write about me before I even sit down?

‘Amanda. Latin. The girl who must be loved,’ purred de Souza, staring straight at me, locking his eyes directly on to mine.

‘Apparently so, yes,’ I replied, a bit too close to a gasp. God, he’s good. How does he do it?

‘Well… we’ll see, shall we?’ he responded, much more steely-eyed.

Christ alive.

And that’s when Mr Rude came in with his stupid questions.

Once Kind-Looking Man (actually called Peter Lawson) on the panel takes over, however, it is a whole different ball game.

He asks me the kinds of questions you’d expect from a pupillage interview, which really gives me a chance to shine* (*give all the rehearsed answers I’ve been practising for the last three days, but pausing before I give them so it looks like it hasn’t even occurred to me before, and I’ve only just thought of this brilliantly thought-out answer on the spot).

The all-important ‘Why Do You Want To Be A Barrister?’ question is first. I give the official answer: academic challenges, interest in the law, love of advocacy, and so on. But I do not reveal everything; that an incident when I was fifteen allowed me to visit a Crown Court, and from that moment on I was hooked. I remember how majestic the barristers looked in their robes and wigs, how respected they were; people listened to them. They combined intellect, knowledge and a passion for justice with flair and showmanship in the courtroom. By the end of the hearing, my mind was made up. I had to do this. No other career would do.

Naturally, every aspect of my background served as a hurdle to entering the profession. A girl from the north-east of England with a funny accent, brought up on a council estate – and I was not privately educated, the first in my family to go to university. The careers advice chats were always the same:

‘So, Amanda, any thoughts about what you want to do when you finish school?’

‘Yes, I’m going to be a barrister,’ I’d say, defiantly.

Every single time, it was met with a patronising ‘Oh dear, how do I break this to you gently’ face and an even more patronising ‘It’s good to have other options’ line.

But hard work and stubbornness go a long way, so here I am.

The panel fire out questions in quick succession. I barely have time to think but at least I remember to look at everyone, swivelling my neck in excellent Exorcist fashion to ensure I do.

‘What’s your idea of a great way to spend a Friday night?’ Sexy Sid suddenly asks.

What?

I think about it for a few seconds. I have no idea what the purpose of this question is, but I’m not about to lie.

‘Going out dancing and drinking cocktails with my friends,’ I wince.

Not sure if that’s the right answer, but I’m certainly not going to say ‘sitting at home reading about the new sex offences regulations’.

Absolutely no idea how this goes down. De Souza smirks, probably trying to telepathically sense where a girl like me would go out drinking on a Friday night.

‘Well, you’ll fit in very well here then,’ Sid replies, doing the charming smile thing. Then I just melt into my chair, never to be seen again.

After forty-five minutes of being relentlessly interrogated, Kind-Looking Man informs me that the interview is over, unless I have any questions, which I do.

‘How many pupillages will you be offering this September?’ I enquire.

‘Well, we say only one, but if we had more than one outstanding candidate, we would consider two.’

Yikes.

And that is it. My time’s up and I’ve done all I can.

‘We’ll let you know either way on Monday and send a letter out first thing tomorrow morning. Thank you so much for coming in,’ says Kind Man. And, before I know it, I’m ushered out.

I walk very quickly back down the corridor, picking up pace as I reach the end. Sunlight streams on to my face as I wrench the heavy door open. I take my sunglasses out of my handbag and coolly put them on to hide the big fat tears beginning to form in huge blobs in my eyes.

I’m exhausted. For weeks I’ve been preparing for this interview and now it’s over. A huge wave rushes over me; whether it’s relief, worry, or both, I honestly don’t know.

I walk away from Chambers at a snail’s pace and almost get run over twice. As I wait for the bus, I go through the interview, but the whole thing turns into a load of scenes and voices swirling around my head in a big confused mess.

I really hope I haven’t blown it.

CHAPTER 2

The last thing I feel like doing tonight is going out and getting hammered. All I’ve thought about is yesterday’s interview; how it went, how I could have answered each question better – going round in circles. I’d be quite happy lying on this sofa until Monday, eating crap food, drinking wine and watching Netflix, while crying about how I’ve fucked up my one big chance in life. But I promised Heidi we’d go out tonight and she isn’t letting it go.

At 5.45 p.m. she stands over me, menacingly, hands on hips, scorn pouring from her eyes.

‘Mandy, I’m giving you ninety minutes to sort yourself out. Stop moping and go get glam. You don’t have a say in this.’

I screw my face up, recoiling even further into my foetus position.

‘But…’

‘No buts! Come on!’ she says, pulling me off the sofa with such force that I actually bounce on to the floor, making us both laugh. ‘Okay! I’m going!’

Two hours later, we’re in our favourite bar, Cryptic. In high contrast to yesterday’s conservative interview look, I’m now sporting a black body-con dress so tight I can’t wear knickers with it, big hair and even higher heels. I suspect Mr Rude would have a heart attack if he saw me tonight.

To a casual observer, I probably look very lucky; I am slim with curves in the right places, long blonde hair, big blue eyes, ‘cute button nose’ (or so I’ve been told) and ‘bee-stung’ lips (magazine terminology). Because of this, and because I’m classed as intelligent, people seem to assume that my life is all shades of wonderful. The truth is, my appearance is probably the only thing I’m actually confident about. People don’t have a clue about the stuff going on inside, behind the constant smiles, under the bleach… and why would they? At the end of the day, why would they care about your personal issues when you can do a great liquid eyeliner flick?

Heidi is quite the siren tonight, going for a slut-red mini-dress which should look tarty and yet she manages to make it look classy, but that is Heidi all over.

It’s a lovely warm summer evening, which means we can sit outside. But because I’m with Heidi, we can’t ‘just sit’ outside. Best viewing tactics must be fully executed. Close enough to the entrance/exit to see new talent come in, but not right next to the door because that’s ‘too close’, meaning guys ‘won’t see’ us/her. She has a weird system I’ll never understand. It’s something to do with parading yourself like a peacock, but guys fall at her feet, so who am I to judge?

Heidi is my best friend in the whole world. She is model-esque with the longest legs you’ve ever seen. She has a sexy, yoga-toned figure (rather her than me) and a razor-sharp, brunette bob. Because of this, she is never short of male attention. She stirs up contradictions in both sexes. Women are fascinated with her because she’s so bloody perfect, but hate her for it. Men are intimidated by her, but simultaneously worship the ground she walks on. She doesn’t really ‘do’ emotions.

Another thing Heidi doesn’t really do is boyfriends. She does playtoys, fuck-buddies, flings, attached men, unavailable men, rich men, interesting guys who have no money, intelligent men, hot but stupid men… but they all have the same thing in common: they’re all under Heidi’s spell. She could have anyone she wants, but she gets bored of them very quickly. Well, she says it’s because she gets bored, but it must run deeper than that

My own love life is disastrous. You know how there’s a spectrum of guys? Bad boys on one end (chase you for months then act like complete dicks when you eventually fall for them, never text you, act like complete players and chuck you away when they get sick of you?); and on the other end of the spectrum you have too-nice-for-words guys (complete gents, pay you loads of compliments, would make great husbands and would ALWAYS text you back). Well, I always go for one or the other – never anywhere in between. This causes problems because it never ends well. I gravitate towards the bad boys because, y’know, don’t we all? I’ve had some proper horror shows, but my best way of dealing with them is to just not think about them, because if you just ignore the CringeFlings then they cease to exist. That’s basically the rules of physics. But, having said that, I don’t like the really nice guys either because they lavish me with compliments and loveliness and it makes me feel… uncomfortable.

Between the pair of us, Heidi and I are a relationship car crash, which is a huge shame because we spend hours planning our weddings.

We’ve been friends since the second week of university when I sat next to her in a lecture on contract law (the legal concept of ‘discharge by frustration’, funnily enough). She leaned over and whispered, ‘Have you seen the arse on that guy, Tom?’ in her obvious-but-not-too-harsh Geordie accent. We’ve been inseparable ever since. I suppose it could be said that we bonded through our love of law (and Tom’s arse, come to think of it, an arse Heidi would be digging her nails into on a regular basis until she got bored of it, which was after about three weeks).

Of course, she got a job at Newcastle’s best commercial law firm. She’s unbelievably bright, killed it at the interview and had an offer before she even left the building.

After several cocktails in Cryptic we move to the main stretch of bars in Jesmond. We couldn’t afford to live here when we were at university but vowed we would when we became ‘grown-ups’. Look at us now, the bees-knees. Okay, so we live in a tiny maisonette next to the Metro station, which shakes every time a train goes past (every twelve minutes), but we have a delightful row of restaurants, bars AND a Starbucks at the end of our road.

WE HAVE MADE IT.

By 10.30 p.m., we are drunk so, naturally, we sit down to have a deep and meaningful chat (only allowed or desired after massive alcohol consumption). I discuss my worries over whether I’ll get pupillage, Heidi tells me her period is late (again), and we hold a mini referendum on whether we’d shag Richard Madeley (yes).

Some old blokes come over and try their luck. They’re literally old enough to be our dads and aren’t attractive in the slightest. This is when it’s handy to have Heidi around, as she deals with the situation swiftly and effortlessly.

‘Eugh. Why would you be that arrogant and unattractive?’ I slur, taking a sip of my mojito.

‘It never stopped Martin Gregg, did it?’ Heidi teases.

‘Nooooo! Don’t EVER mention him in my presence again! Good riddance to him!’ I squeal.

Just the very mention of this guy’s name makes my flesh crawl. A creep at law school who had a weird infatuation with me. Yuk. The less said about him, the better.

Before we know it, it’s 1.30 a.m. and we stagger home. I crawl up to my bedroom and collapse on the bed. No water is consumed and I know that regret will kidnap me during the night, hold me ransom in the morning, and make me pay for such a foolish decision. The rest is hazy, but I just know I am about to fall asleep fully clothed, with eyelash adhesive super-gluing my eyes together.

***

I am awake ludicrously early on Monday morning. A million cups of tea are consumed and I put the news on, waiting for the post to arrive. After yesterday’s epic hangover, I’m grateful to just feel human again.

By 9.15 a.m., it still hasn’t come and I consider phoning the Post Office to ask what the delay is. In reality, our post doesn’t usually arrive until after 10.30 a.m., but, quite frankly, that is not the point.

Finally, at 11.07 a.m., I hear the letterbox rattle.

This is it.

All that hard work, all those hours studying, all those tears. Please let it be me. I take the letter into my room and sit on my bed. I frantically rip it open, take a deep breath and unfold the paper.

The next few minutes are a blur because I am hyperventilating so much.

‘Following your recent interview with us, we are delighted to offer you a twelve-month pupillage commencing in September…’

I burst into Heidi’s room, only to find her in a somewhat compromising position with a man who looks utterly mortified.

As an aside, I have no idea when she sneaked him in.

I quickly shut the door, screaming, ‘I’ve got it!’ Next thing, Heidi runs out with her dressing gown on, makes lots of high-pitched, dolphin-type noises, hugs me tightly and tells ‘Jason’ he’d better get going.

‘I’m SO proud of you, sweetie!’ she squeals.

Within five minutes, a bottle of Prosecco has been opened and I’m reading the letter over and over.

‘Hang on. It says here they’re taking on two pupils but only one tenancy is available after twelve months…’

‘So?’ Heidi replies, totally unperturbed, handing me a glass of fizz. ‘You’re better than anyone you’ll be up against.’

‘You don’t know that. What if it’s someone amazing? They said they’d only take two pupils if they were both outstanding.’

Heidi looks at me, waiting for me to comprehend my own words.

‘Yes, okay. They obviously think I’m outstanding… but they also think this other person is too. Could be either of us.’

‘Bloody hell, Mandy!’ Heidi yelps. ‘You’ve just beaten two hundred people to get pupillage! It’s now down to you and someone else for tenancy. You’ve got a pretty good chance, I’d say! This is the final hurdle. You can do this.’

‘It’s okay for you to say. You don’t have to fight anyone for your place at your firm.’

‘No, I don’t. But if I did, I wouldn’t think about it. I’d concentrate on being so bloody good, it wouldn’t be an issue. So just go there and be brilliant.’

Heidi has this never-ending confidence. I wish I had that. And she’s right, obviously… annoyingly.

But there’s something else I’ve also been ignoring, hoping it would go away.

‘What if they find out, Heidi?’ I ask, with genuine dread in my voice.

‘Stop. They won’t,’ she says firmly, giving me the look she knows means business.

‘But…’

‘Stop it. We’re not going there. It’ll be fine,’ she reassures me, giving my hand a little squeeze.

I nod. She’s right. Absolutely no point in coming all this way and stumbling now. I need to get on with this.

‘So’, I continue, both of us pretending the last thirty seconds of conversation never happened, ‘it’s basically a curse if you complete pupillage but don’t get tenancy because it’s like you become known as the person who was given a chance but you “just weren’t good enough”. You’re “damaged goods”. Nobody takes you on after that. I have to get tenancy. This is not an option,’ I say, defiantly.

‘That’s my girl!’ Heidi coos, like a proud mother. ‘Now, let’s celebrate…’

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.

CHAPTER 4

Four Months Ago, Law School, Last Night of Term

‘You’re a fucking bitch, Amanda Bentley!’

Martin Gregg is glaring at me with so much fury in his eyes, it’s quite unsettling.

This is the unpleasant climax of a situation which has been simmering for the past nine months, since we both started law school.

There we all were, newbies on our first day of term, excited and ready to become the baby-est of barristers. New files, pens and a whole load of optimism filled the space-age teaching room.

Twenty minutes into the first seminar, Martin Gregg swaggered in without so much as an apology. By the end of the morning he’d boasted to everyone in our group that his father was a judge, he’d attended ‘the best’ boarding school in the UK and could walk into any pupillage in the north-east because of his ‘family connections’. Not exactly the best way to make friends.

He was quite short for a man, but what he lacked in height he made up for in attitude. He was one of those people who’d say they ‘played rugby’ and that’s why they were big, but really, they just carried too much weight. As a result, he couldn’t pull off the (designer) clothes he wore and looked ridiculous (the T-shirts were always too tight, collars were always up, ‘natch). Oh, and his hair; basically a great big sculpted chunk of black Lego hair, almost as if he removed it each night and clipped it back on every morning. A big mass of dense awfulness. Yuk. But it seemed money could buy anything in Martin Gregg’s world… everything except me.

‘You’re so different to all the other girls I’ve known…’ he’d say.

Thank God for that.

‘You’re so… spiky, Amanda,’ he’d say in a way that suggested he got turned on by the very nature of my ‘spikiness’ (whatever that was).

At the beginning, I just took him for an arrogant fool, boring everyone with his bragging anecdotes of polo days and spending weekends with Lord Someone-or-Other.

Then, after a few months, he started slithering up to me asking if I wanted to ‘go for a drink’. I very firmly, but politely, told him ‘no’ on several occasions. Each time, he’d smirk at me, like I obviously just didn’t get how wonderful he was but would in time. It seemed to be the case that on every occasion I rejected him, the more he wanted me. I became a challenge to him. Maybe I was just the ultimate bit of rough he wanted to take home and parade in front of his parents; a rite of passage for all posh boys, bringing home the pretty girl from the council estate just to enrage Father, bang her a few times just to say you’ve done it.

Whatever it was, he set his sights on me and was getting a piece of it one way or another. It was like a creepy infatuation.

In the meantime, all I could do was cringe, watching him scrape through law school, doing the bare minimum to survive. He was one of those smart-arses; the ones who would question the teacher’s ability and authority while the normal members of the group would sink back into their chairs and cringe. Nobody liked him so lord only knew where he got his arrogance from.

‘But have you considered this point, Mr Fletcher?’ he’d ask, cockily, leaning back in his chair.

Erm, yes, Martin. I’m pretty sure the lecturer – an experienced, practising barrister of seventeen years – knows more about this subject than you. In short, he was an advocate of the ‘if you can’t blind them with your knowledge, dazzle them with your bullshit’ school of thought.

It all came to a head on this night we’d come out to celebrate our last exam. We deserved it. It had been such a long year. Hours spent in seminars, long nights in the library, many tears shed over whether we’d pass our oral exams – would the nerves make us stutter in front of the examiners?

The whole class piled into the Union bar as soon as it finished.

We survived.

The bar was blaring out summer tunes, the sun shone in through the large windows, and that overwhelming feeling of exhaustion, which sets in immediately following exams, consumed us.

And then he came in.

He didn’t have any friends so he just kept attaching himself to small groups of people who were obviously desperate to get rid of him as he knocked back Jack Daniels and coke, buying shots for everyone in a desperate bid to be liked.

After a few hours, drunk, and even more vile than usual, he snared me at the bar as I was waiting to be served.

‘So, Amanda, you gonna miss me when I’m gone?’ he asked, leaning his elbow on the bar in a way he presumably thought was cool, sexy or both. There wasn’t a hint of irony in his voice.

‘Erm, nope,’ I replied, moving away from him, staring straight ahead at the bar.

‘Oh, come on, you know you will. We never really got to know each other, did we?’ he whispered into my ear, putting his hand on my arse over my denim shorts.

I turned to face him. ‘No, Martin, we didn’t,’ I growled, forcefully removing his hand. ‘But if you ever touch me like that again, I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand?’

He stood back, a few feet away, looking right at me. His entire repulsive face screwed up, his enormous black eyebrows chunked together like two dead slugs. He appeared shocked and pissed off, rather like the behaviour he’d just displayed was completely acceptable and I was overreacting.

‘Do you know what you are, Amanda?’ he spat at me. ‘You’re a tease…’

‘How exactly am I a tease?!’ I screeched in his face.

‘This little cat and mouse game you’ve been playing me all year…’

‘Woah! Martin Let’s be clear about this…’ I held my hands out in a ‘let’s just calm down’ way, aware I was raising my voice, but I was not having him accusing me of leading him on. ‘There’s been NO game. I’ve openly despised you. Are you that arrogant, you think all women want you? That you’re irresistible in some way?!’ I mean, I laughed in his face because it’s so ridiculous. He’s a joke.

‘Do you even understand who I am?!’ he said, like he thought he was actually a film star. ‘Look at you and look at me. You should be thrilled I even gave you the time of day! I usually wouldn’t even talk to someone like you. Only reason I did is because I fancied a bit of that ass, but that’s all you’ve got going for you. You’ll end up back on a council estate where you belong…’

I was actually embarrassed for him.

Unbeknown to both of us, people had gathered around, watching the spectacle unfold. There was only one person disgracing themselves, and it wasn’t me.

I started laughing because he really did think he was it. His whole life, he’d been told he could have anything he wanted, and now he couldn’t. He looked furious.

‘What?’ he yelled, nastily. ‘You find it funny you’re going nowhere? You think someone like you can actually make it at the Bar?! You’re wasting your time, babe…’

‘Martin,’ I said in the most patronising voice I could find. ‘I’ve consistently had the highest marks in our class all year. I’ve received two scholarships. I’ve earned – not bought – a pupillage interview at the best set of Chambers in the north-east. You’ll be lucky to pass this course. So do tell me how you think you’re superior to me…’

And that’s when he called me a ‘fucking bitch’.

‘It must be awful, not being able to buy your way out of something, Martin…’ I went on. I should probably have shut up but I’d had a drink and the guy needed to hear some home truths. ‘Good grades, the girl you fancy. Life’s a bitch, innit?’

Martin looked around the bar and was met with a wall of faces staring at him, saying more eloquently than a thousand words ever could: ‘you deserve this’.

‘You’ll regret this, Amanda. Nobody makes a fool out of a Gregg and gets away with it,’ he said, pushing past me and out the door.

I was just glad to see the back of him.

Everyone came up to ask if I was okay, and I felt fine. Just relieved I’d never have to see that nasty, toxic cretin again.

CHAPTER 5

Hideous. Just hideous.

I manage to get through the horrendous ‘introduction’ without divulging our ‘history’ (in other words, his being a nasty, awful sex pest). He, on the other hand, looks far too pleased with himself, going on to say, ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you in a professional context.’

He means it.

I make an excuse about having to leave so I can be back ‘bright and early’ in the morning and leave. Emergency drinks with Heidi are required.

‘Why don’t you just tell them all he’s a right smart-arse who nobody liked at law school?’ she asked, rather naively, swigging at her Chilean red in one of the super-chic bars overlooking the river on a warm, September evening.

‘I’ll look like a venomous bitch! You should have seen them, Heidi, they were all over him. He’s obviously fooled them already,’ I reply, sighing at the end of the sentence for effect. ‘I just can’t believe he has done this. This was supposed to be such an important day for me. Now it’s ruined.’

‘Always the drama queen, Mandy!’ Heidi proclaims (yeah, like she can talk). ‘Why don’t you just ignore him? His true colours will show through eventually. What are you worried about?’

I can’t really answer. If truth be told, I’m not sure why I am so bothered. Is it because he is stealing my thunder? Because I know how false he is?

‘Unless you’re worried that he’ll impress Chambers more and win the tenancy,’ Heidi throws out there.

‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m not,’ I reply, absolutely incredulous Heidi would even suggest such a thing. I don’t think that for a second.

That’s exactly what I’m worried about.

As if pupillage isn’t hard enough without this. He’s obviously bewitched them with magic in some way to get into Chambers. Or bribed them, or something.

Well, however he’s done it, I’ll just have to deal with it.

‘Keep calm and carry on. Martin is a bullshitter. They’ll see through him in a few weeks. There are far worse things that could have happened on a first day. Sounds to me like everything else was fine,’ Heidi (quite rightly) points out.

‘Yes, I know. But, Christ alive… Martin Gregg!’ I squeal, with utter disgust and amazement in my voice, screwing my face up as I do so. Heidi simultaneously picks up my glass of wine and thrusts it into my hand.

‘To pupillage, and beyond!’ she proclaims, holding her glass aloft.

‘Quite. May the best woman win!’ I smile, as we clink glasses and take a slug.

After the first glass of wine oils the pipes, we get a second in and move on to more pleasurable topics, like Sexy Sid. Once I reveal there’s a fit bloke involved, I have Heidi’s undivided attention. She sits in complete silence, her big brown eyes fixated on me, only interrupting to ask the really important questions, like ‘Did he look at you a few seconds longer than was necessary?’, ‘Was he wearing a wedding ring?’ and ‘Did he look like he’d be filthy in bed?’ – don’t know, nope, and YES.

The great thing about Heidi is that she knows me so well and always cheers me up when it comes to boy woes. I remember one time at university when I was unceremoniously dumped by a guy I was really into. She secretly pinched my iPod and created a playlist entitled ‘The Twat’, filling it with empowering songs by Beyonce, Pink and Whitney Houston. I was absolutely over the loser after listening to it on loop for a week. This woman is wasted in the law. She really ought to be some kind of life coach.

However, as I describe Sid to Heidi, I am very aware that I must sound like a schoolgirl. At the same time, I am more than aware that nothing could ever happen between us, for so many reasons – not least Skylar, who would literally kill me to actual death if I even so much as placed my lips on that gorgeous mouth of his. Having romantic relations with any work colleague is a bad idea at the best of times, let alone when the subject of one’s desire is effectively determining your future in what is basically a one-year interview process – no, sorry, election campaign-come-X-factor-talent-show.

Its been a really long day and our second glass of wine is our last. We chat on the way home about Heidi’s job. She has been there for a week now and has already put the fear of God into the other trainee solicitors. She is every inch the ruthless commercial solicitor and she loves it. She would rather sell her soul than deal with criminals every day; she likes her clients clean, sanitised and not stinking of urine, which is fair enough.

***

I wake up the next day feeling hopelessly optimistic and trot off to work in a positive mood. In fact, I don’t trot; I sashay. I am confident in my own abilities and I am a strong woman. If Martin Gregg wants a fight, then I’ll give him one. So what if my first day didn’t quite go as I had expected? Today is a new day and I am ready and focused on the task ahead.

There’s nobody else in Chambers when I arrive at 7.25 a.m. so I get into the library and start looking at the briefs Skylar has given me. Before I know it, it’s 8.45 a.m. and I realise I haven’t made everyone their coffee.

Shit!

I sprint to the kitchen, only to find Martin coming out, carrying a large tray with a load of mugs on it, steam arising from each one.

‘Oh babe, sorry, were you supposed to be doing this? I wouldn’t have done it but people were asking when they were getting their drinks so I took it upon myself…’

Oh dear God. I hate him.

‘No worries,’ I say with a very false grin. ‘But Martin, don’t call me “babe”.’

‘Yeah,’ he smirks, before passing me to deliver his hot beverages. I mean, what the hell is he supposed to be? Bloody perfect tea boy? I secretly berate myself for not getting in there sooner and make a mental note to do it tomorrow because I simply can’t be making errors like this on Day Two.

‘Oh, Amanda, just one more thing…’ he quips as I’m walking off.

I stop and turn around, prepared for anything this utter weasel has to say to me.

‘…I did warn you. Such a shame, you’ve worked so hard to get here and to fall at the final hurdle…’

‘That’s why you’re here? Just to ensure I can’t get tenancy? My God, how pathetic of you…’ I say to him.

‘Well, it makes no difference to me where I get tenancy. I’m not bothered. So, I figured if I can fuck you off in the process then it’s just an added bonus,’ he offers.

My God, the arrogance of the guy.

‘Martin, unless you’ve suddenly acquired a brain in the last four months, I’m not worried in the slightest. And I know you didn’t get into these Chambers through the normal route. Who owed your father a favour, I wonder?’ I ponder, sarcastically.

Martin grips the tray so hard, presumably through anger, that it starts shaking ever so slightly and his knuckles go pale, even though he tries to hide it in his face.

‘Everything okay?’ Skylar appears at the door in his hat and coat.

‘Yes, Richard, I’m ready to go,’ I say. I collect my bag and we head over to Crown Court.

As it turns out, one of the cases Skylar is prosecuting this morning is against Sid Ryder. I thought this would cause some kind of conflict of interest but apparently not; it happens all the time.

We go for a coffee in the advocates’ café and Skylar’s opponents come over to chat to him about the cases. I sit, trying to look clever and highly intelligent, saying nothing… wig still looks utterly ridiculous.

Sid strides over and parks himself next to Skylar, so I’m sitting opposite, trying not to look at him.

Don’t stare at his face. Or eyes.

Or mouth.

Oh, he just has an air about him. Like the kind of man who demands respect but simultaneously earns it. He is confident but not cocky. He is obviously popular but he isn’t arrogant about it. And as I watch him chatting to Skylar about sentencing guidelines, I want him to rip my knickers off. I realise, far too late into this high-school scene, that I am now staring at Ryder, which isn’t a good tactic, and so I drag my eyes somewhere else before he catches me drooling at him. He’s sporting stubble on his face today. Does he even know the effect this has on women? He must do.

‘How are you getting on?’ he asks me with a little smile that might as well say ‘I know you were staring at me’.

‘Oh, great, thanks!’ I reply, before putting my head down and writing complete gibberish in my blue notepad to make me look busy. Some wise soul told me that pupils should be seen and not heard, and I am fine with that. The less you speak, the less chance you have of pissing someone off. Martin, of course, appears to be immune from this convention. We have both been in Chambers for a matter of hours, but already I feel that he is getting on with people more than I am.

I caught him this morning, as I left Chambers, gurning away as his pupilmaster, the ever-hateful Dolus, was telling him about his completely dull yachting holiday last year. The crazy, wide-eyed, ‘I-desperately-want-to-please-you’ face appeared to be working. I have promised myself not to resort to such tactics. And that’s another thing: Martin appears to have reinvented himself as ‘Marty’ out of nowhere, like he’s trying to make himself cooler (not possible). It’s irritating.

Skylar is feeling charitable at lunchtime again so we head to the lovely little bistro next to Chambers for lunch.

‘So, which members of Chambers have you spoken to already?’ he asks, slurping his soup.

‘Well, not many, actually. I haven’t really had the chance…’

‘Well, you must make the time to do it. Don’t forget… election campaign. Very important that you don’t forget the social side of Chambers.’

I might have sodding time if you weren’t working me so bloody hard.

‘Sid seems nice,’ I say, oh-so-casually, before chomping into a ham and cheese panini.

‘Oh God,’ he groans, rolling his eyes. ‘Now, listen to me, Amanda, and listen very carefully.’ He’s serious now; he’s even put down his coffee for this bit. ‘You’re not the first woman to fall for Sid Ryder, and trust me when I say you won’t be the last.’

‘But…’ I intervene.

‘Yes, I know… the suave demeanour, the piercing eyes, that cheeky smile, not to mention his unique style of advocacy…’ he continues, as I look at him, absolutely embarrassed beyond belief, not to mention flummoxed by the possibility that Skylar has a far bigger crush on Sid than I do.

‘…But to start an intimate relationship with another member of Chambers, at this stage in your career, would be professional suicide.’ He glares at me for several seconds, just leaving this last bit hanging in the air, so as to emphasise the point dramatically.

‘Well, Richard, I can assure you that I do not harbour any feelings towards Sid, nor would I ever consider doing so throughout the currency of my pupillage,’ I state. ‘Besides,’ I ask, already knowing the answer, ‘I think he’s just got out of a relationship, hasn’t he?’.

‘With Clarinda, you mean? Yes. They were quite the glamorous couple at one point but it all went sour. I care for Sid, as an ex-pupil, but he has an eye for the women. He’ll no doubt make a play for you at some point, but I would advise you very much against it. You know the consequences…’

Yes, don’t I just.

Thankfully, I am saved from any more cringeworthy relationship chat by a young brunette woman coming over to talk to Skylar. She’s probably best described as ‘very curvy’ or voluptuous, and is wearing a very short skirt suit with huge heels (higher than mine!) and patterned tights so swirly it looks like her legs are being attacked by snakes. She’s caked her face in so much foundation you can see the line where it stops.

‘RICHARD! HOW ARE YOU? DID YOU GET A GOOD RESULT THIS MORNING?’ she bellows.

She has the most ridiculous voice I’ve ever heard. It’s so loud that diners actually turn to see who is making that godawful noise. Her accent is startling. She is trying to sound very posh and every word is overemphasised. Skylar gives me a subtle, raised-eyebrow look.

‘Angela, have you met our new pupil, Amanda?’ he enquires, seemingly ignoring her original questions. For a second, Angela looks really pissed off at this and her (very false) grin drops momentarily.

‘Richard! Ahahahaha! You are TOO funny! How many times have I told you about this?!’ she shrills, turning to me, offering her hand out to shake. ‘Hello, Amanda, my name is Ang-ella actually, like “Nigella”. Not An-gel-a. Angela Waites. Pleased to meet you.’

I shake her hand and (lie when I) say that I am pleased to meet her too.

‘Oh honestly, Richard, I’m having such a trying day. I got to court early to meet my client, only to find out…’ And she went on. And on. And on.

In fact, by the time she had finished, I had not only eaten my panini, but also finished my coffee and it was time to get back to Chambers.

‘…So, in the end it was adjourned and we have to come back tomorrow! Isn’t that the worst day?!’ she finally concludes.

‘Traumatising, Angela,’ Skylar replies sarcastically. He is still calling her Angela (hahaha!). Sensing she won’t be indulged here, Angela moves away and goes to join her ‘girls’, a gaggle of immaculately groomed women occupying the middle of the bistro.

‘So, what do you make of Angela?’ Skylar asks. I feel like asking him whether this is a trick question, given that the only true answer can be ‘false and highly irritating’.

‘She seems… enthusiastic,’ I reply.

‘Well, you can learn a lot from her. If I ever hear you speaking with a false accent like that, I will personally beat it out of you, understood?’

‘Yes,’ I giggle.

‘She’s also a member of the infamous Hot Bar Bitches Club, which you need to be aware of,’ he warns, glancing at the cackling gaggle without moving his head.

‘The what?’

‘It’s a club a group of women started years ago. They go out every Friday night. They have a name…’

Actually cringing to death.

‘But it’s a joke, though? It has to be a joke…’ I half-laugh.

Skylar screws his face up. ‘I think they’re actually quite proud of it. It defines them. Anyway, Angela is in it, as is Clarinda…’

I take a sly look over and, indeed, there she is; the ex of swoony Sid Ryder. Only this time, she isn’t being menacing in a calm and collected way, but obviously talking about something very animated because she’s using her hands and wild eyes to communicate everything. She looks quietly crazy.

‘There are about five or six of them,’ he goes on. ‘Influential, some would say very bitchy, women you don’t want to make enemies out of. Just be aware of them’

‘Right. Okay. Hot Bar Bitches, though? My God,’ I whisper.

‘Oh, I know, Amanda, I know…’

‘There isn’t a male version, is there?’ I ask, wincing at the thought.

‘What do you think? Of course there is…’ he laughs.

We can’t stay long for lunch. I’ve a feeling Skylar is the kind of person who will always find something for you to do, even when you’ve done everything.

We have to slide past the Hot Bar Bitches on the way out, who are all perched on tall stools, gossiping about some undeserving, poor soul, no doubt. They’re obviously the mean girl group that all schools have and look like they go to spas every weekend, drinking champagne as they sit in hot tubs, secretly plotting the downfall of people they don’t like.

As I’m walking ahead of Skylar, he says something to me and I whip my head round to ask what he said, only to catch my hair on something and do a very vocal ‘OUCH!’

Naturally, I’ve caught a large clump of my hair on Clarinda’s suit-cuff button. I mean, of course.

FUCKING HELL.

‘Babe! Are you okay?’ Clarinda says in the most patronising way imaginable. ‘What a terrible thing to happen! I haven’t ripped your extensions out, have I?!’ I hear her ‘bitches’ laugh as I’m bent over, desperately trying to untangle my hair. What a tragic scene.

I want to smack her in the face.

By the time I’ve messed around getting my hair free, I’m flustered and furious.

Be cool. You want to play the fake-nice game? Okay.

‘Ahh no, please don’t worry! And this is all my own hair, actually. No extensions here.’ Said with the sweetest smile ever.

Even Skylar can sense the female bitchslapping in the air because he’s saying, ‘Thank goodness that’s sorted. Let’s go, Amanda,’ as he physically tries to push me out of their firing line.

Clarinda looks at me for a few seconds before uttering, ‘It IS gorgeous! I could never pull it off. That colour would look so… tacky on me. On most people, actually. I think you have to be a really special kind of person to wear it so well… and as naturally as you do.’

Oh, the gloves have come off now. I can feel Skylar almost telepathically warning me not to get involved with this but she’s gone to far. He glares at me anxiously, like I’m a wild animal who needs to be tamed.

I laugh sarcastically. ‘Nah. I think anyone can wear blonde well naturally… but it takes a special kind of person to wear a peroxide blonde well. It’s such a strong look. Anyway, sorry for interrupting your lunch! Bye now!’ Then I powerwalk out, hoping Skylar is behind me.

As soon as we are outside, Skylar just looks at me as I wait for him to tell me to pack my stuff up and get the hell out of Chambers for being so aggressive. He stands opposite me, his eyes narrowed and head slightly tilted, like he’s trying to work me out. I have no idea what’s going to happen next, and so I can’t meet his eyes.

‘You’re not scared of people, are you?’ he asks, sounding mildly impressed.

‘Not of people like that, no,’ I reply in my best hoity-toity voice.

‘Not quite how I wanted your first run-in with them to be, but I have to say… smooth, very smooth,’ he replies, with a wry smile.

I smile back and, right there, I know that, no matter how hard he works me, Skylar is on my side.

Telling Heidi about the entire bitch-fest later that evening when I get home is great fun. She pulls all the outraged faces and keeps uttering ‘what absolute bitches!’ sporadically throughout the story.

‘You know, you really should get hair extensions, just to see the looks on their stuck-up faces then!’ Heidi suggests in all seriousness, and at one point I consider it. However, we both reach the conclusion that extensions, in addition to wearing the wig, might just be too much ‘stuff’ to wear on my head on a daily basis (in a weird TOWIE-meets-Rumpole kind of way).

By the end of the rant, she is furious on my behalf and I have to stop her seeking out Clarinda on social media and giving her a piece of her mind.

‘Mandy, it’s simply unacceptable that you must endure this kind of behaviour. They’re only jealous, you know,’ she says, filling my wine glass up.

‘It’s hard, though,’ I point out. ‘I can’t go into proper, full-on slaying mode because Skylar has warned me not to be bitchy, and he’s right. My career depends on this.’ I stretch out on the sofa, taking a large gulp.

‘Well, just do your best to avoid them. I can meet you every day for lunch if you want? Moral support? I hate to think of you alone in the middle of that bollocks,’ she kindly offers.

I smile at Heidi. I know she’s trying to help, but I need to do this myself. And I can’t run away from it.

‘Thanks, sweets. But Skylar has my back, and it’ll take more than a few catty comments about my hair to drag me down,’ I laugh, hoping I’m right.

CHAPTER 6

The first month of pupillage whooshes past in a blur.

I’ve literally spent the last month being dragged around every Crown Court in the north of the land, doing advocacy exercises for Skylar and… not much else. Well, I’ve been trying really hard to gracefully integrate into Chambers as best I can, but seeing Marty in action truly is something else. I’ve had to watch him professionally seduce virtually all members of Chambers and I honestly don’t know how he does it. He seems to pick up on their weaknesses and exploit them to his own advantage. It’s excruciating. For example, last week, I heard ‘Livvy’, another barrister in Chambers, telling him how she failed to get tickets for her favourite ballet in town. Marty put on his best smug/sympathetic/I’m-about-to-make-all-your-dreams-come-true face, informed her that his mother was on the Arts Council of SomethingOrOther in London, and that not only could he get her tickets, but it would be his ‘absolute pleasure’ to do so.

What. A. Fucking. Creep.

Everyone at the Newcastle Bar is giddy on this particularly leafy day in October because it’s their turn, among other legal centres on the North-Eastern Circuit, to host ‘Mess’. Despite the fact he’d rather be just about anywhere else on the planet, Skylar is taking me; he’s decided I’m ‘ready’, whatever that means.

‘Mess’ is basically a really formal, traditional dinner full of barristers, with frightening judges in attendance. From what I can gather, it’s all terribly hilarious and much wine is consumed. Obviously, for a baby barrister like myself, it’s a rather daunting process, not least because I will be expected to drink wine and, as a result, my personal standards will slip. I do not want to relax so much that I attempt to debate the new storyline in Hollyoaks with a High Court judge.

As the new pupils in Chambers, Marty and I are expected to go with our pupilmasters. The dress code is ‘formal suitwear’ for women and ‘lounge suits’ for men. I mean, seriously, what the hell is a ‘lounge suit’ anyway? Does anyone even know? As per the unwritten rule, pupils don’t pay for it, but Skylar makes a fuss, as usual. When I ask him for the payment to give to the Mess secretary, he gets his cheque book out and mutters something under his breath; the only audible words I can decipher are ‘bloody traditions’. He rips the cheque out with unnecessary vigour and gives it to me.

I have been told members of Chambers are meeting in Nevo Bar at 6.30 p.m., but when I arrive at 6.20 p.m. it appears Marty and his admirers have got there much earlier and are all sitting together in a booth, Marty in the middle, looking like the cat who got the cream.

‘Heeeyyy Mandy! Think it’s about time you were let off Skylar’s leash for a night! Why don’t you tell us all about this dancing job you had in Ibiza?’ creeps a barrister named ‘Beaumont’, who is old enough to be my biological grandfather. He winks as he says it, so I don’t think he wants a technical lowdown of what my job actually involved, but rather a demonstration of what he thinks it was, that is a free lapdance where I shake my tits in his face while artistically waving glittery fans about. Or something. I actually dread to think.

‘Yes, Amanda! Come on! Give us a demo! Consider it a Chambers initiation!’ yells Percy SomethingOrOther, as the rest of the Bad Boy Bar Crew clap and holler.

Thankfully, Skylar walks in at this very moment and trundles me off to the bar to get a drink. By this point, I need one.

The Mess is being held at the Liberty Gentlemen’s Club. It has a fairly normal exterior but the interior is something else. Grand staircase upon entering, the whole place dripping in chandeliers and one of those hideous patterned carpets throughout, which looks like it’s been there since time began.

The meal itself is in a large dining room containing several large round tables. It doesn’t matter where you sit, but it DOES matter in which order you walk into the room.

Of course it does.

‘You have to enter the room in order of seniority,’ says Skylar, as if this is a perfectly normal thing to do.

People start forming a line. All the old folk who have been at the Bar hundreds of years (or so it appears) stand ceremoniously at the front, emanating a great sense of achievement. Then there’s me at the end and a whole load of middle-aged people in the middle.

Some random man I’ve never seen before comes to the front of the line with a kind of sceptre-stick thingy, stamps it on the floor three times and the general guffawing and chattering comes to an abrupt end. He declares that ‘Dinner shall be served!’ and everyone begins walking in.

As people spew into the dining room, they clamber around for the best seats. Obviously, Marty is beckoned over to the ‘old boys’ table consisting of his fan club from Chambers. Skylar really couldn’t have picked a worse table, but he’s been left with little option. It includes Angela and her Hot Bar Bitches Club (Flick, ‘Jazz’, Lottie and the passive-aggressive Clarinda) and a fella called Rupert, who is clearly tickled pink to be surrounded by women. I’m Enemy Number One to the ‘The Girls’ since HairGate and they just ignore me/giggle whenever I get anywhere near them (with the exception of Angela, because she’s in my Chambers so has to talk to me, but I know she’s only doing it to feed information back to the others, so I’m all over it). I’m sandwiched between Rupert and Skylar, so I don’t actually have to talk to them.

Angela is wired tonight. She’s joining Circuit, which basically means becoming a member of the Northern Barristers’ Organisation. That’s it. But, being the Bar, they can’t pass up the opportunity for a performance and so she has to participate in the most ridiculous tradition I’ve come across yet.

After dinner, she has to stand on a chair on one leg and recite her intention to be an honourable member of Circuit, then down her drink. As per the tradition, you invite all your friends to watch and they have to heckle you to try and put you off and, if they do, you have to start from the beginning again.

I’d managed to completely disgrace myself in week four of pupillage, one lunchtime in the Chambers lounge. Angela was wittering on about the ridiculous tradition and, naturally, being a normal person of this world, I assumed she was joking, so absurd did the whole thing sound. I started laughing, attempting to integrate myself into the conversation by saying, ‘Gosh, can you imagine if that was even a thing?! How pretentious!’ The entire lounge went deadly silent and everyone looked at me. Everyone except Skylar, who just took a deep breath, gazing at his homemade sandwich and doing a massive cringe face. I paused for a few seconds, frozen in mid-laugh, before saying, ‘That’s really a thing, isn’t it?’ Dolus scowled at me before uttering, ‘These kinds of traditions are taken very seriously in our world, Amanda. If you want to be part of it, I suggest you don’t mock them.’

‘Our’ World and ‘My’ World. Clearly, a million miles apart.

I’m in a bit of a quandary about what to drink as I’m scared of needing the loo in the next three hours because, as Rupert informs me, once the meal has started you’re not allowed to exit. ‘Why?’ I ask. ‘Tradition,’ he says, matter of factly.

Ah, of course.

‘But if you desperately need the toilet, you must request permission from the Circuit Junior to leave the room,’ Skylar goes on.

All tradition, apparently.

Conversation as we’re waiting for the meal to arrive truly is a universe away from my life. Rupert tells us all about his new baby (‘Maximilian, not Max’) and how he and his wife are currently searching for a new house.

‘Well, the problem is, Amelie just hasn’t been happy with any of the places we’ve seen so far. And there’s no point in rushing these things so we’ve decided to rent until we find the perfect place.’

‘Oh, yeah. Absolutly, Rupes. Are you renting locally?’, Flick empathises.

‘Yes. Just a small farmhouse, only six bedrooms. Got a bit of land for Amelie’s horses. Nothing extravagant. Just until we find our “forever home”, I believe the saying is!’ he laughs.

They all chuckle, like this is the most normal thing to say as you’re waiting for your tea to arrive.

I have absolutely nothing in common with these people.

Given the current company, I’d much rather eat in silence, but Angela puts a stop to all that by loudly proclaiming her (fake) concern about getting the speech on the chair right.

‘Oh! Can you imagine how embarrassing it will be if I get it wrong and have to start from the very beginning again?!’

I’m sure you’re counting on it, I want to add. The Covern (as they shall be known from here on in) giggle and indulge her.

‘Gella, don’t worry, we’re you’re bezzies! We’re here for you!’ they chorus.

Just to ensure everyone knows how seriously she’s taking it, ‘Gella’ closes her eyes tightly, clenches her fists and recites the speech in a whispery, overexaggerated way, much to the amusement of Skylar, who looks on in disdain. Rupert laps it up and encourages the drama, presumably in an attempt to curry favour with The Covern.

Skylar and I eat in silence, ignoring the hullabaloo around us, unprepared to participate in it in any way whatsoever. I look at my watch and realise it’s only 8.37 p.m. – two more courses, speeches and eight barristers to join Circuit before I can go home. The things you have to suffer for your profession.

As the meal progresses, the wine flows and the room becomes louder with general yakking. Spontaneous loud roars of laughter keep erupting, filling the room with noise. The candles in the room, in conjunction with the number of bodies in it (along with the fact that the doors are locked owing to stupid tradition) means the temperature is rising.

Suit jackets start coming off, which is ideal for some of the women because it means they get to loosen their shirt buttons and show a bit of cleavage. The men lap it up. No wonder they’re in no rush to get home. Except Skylar, of course. He keeps looking at his watch, willing the next course to come so he can escape. I can’t blame him.

‘It’s something you just have to tolerate, Amanda,’ Skylar says. ‘Some people belong to this crowd and some people don’t. You have to make your peace with it, but learn to work with it.’

He has a point. If these are the people I have to work with – and who will decide my future – I’ll just have to get along with that. Doesn’t mean they won’t fuck me off, though.

For example, at one point, Angela, bored of the predominantly female company on our table, wanders over to the next one, which is occupied by the Bad Boy Bar Crew, and finds a ludicrously tenuous route to inform them (loudly) that the gap in her front teeth is a sign that she’s a ‘very sexual, sensual person’. So all of our lives are better for knowing that.

After approximately thirty years, the meal comes to an end and we move on to the next part of the event: speeches.

The Recorder of Newcastle (the most senior judge in the city) gives a long, boring spiel about what an honour it is to be part of Circuit. Blagh blagh blagh… important to feel a sense of belonging to your professional domain… blagh blagh.

Quite.

Then the visiting guest, Mr Justice Slyggenhyde (Oh, I know) delivers a really long speech about how wonderful the north-east is and how it’s been a pleasure sitting up here presiding over cases… blagh blagh. Everyone is flagging at this point. The wine has run out and it’s boiling hot. There is no air left in the room because the Recorder and High Court Judge WhatsHisFace have used it all up bleating on about advocacy in the provinces. Everyone is literally on the cusp of dropping dead due to lack of oxygen when thankfully the ‘staff’ fling the doors open (after two hours!) and everyone dashes out to breathe and go to the toilet.

I decide to wait, as the prospect of hovering in a queue with these women fills me with dread.

As I come back into the room, I see that more wine has arrived and everyone is gearing up to do their joining Circuit initiation.

The ‘Master of Revels’ stands up and starts talking about things which aren’t funny, but everyone finds it hilarious so I’m obviously missing all the jokes.

The joiners of Circuit are called out in alphabetical order. The first one is a guy from another Chambers and he gets an awful heckling, having to go back to the beginning of his shizzle about ten times before he finally finishes it.

‘Did you have to do this, Richard?’ I ask, amazed he would ever do such a thing.

‘I refused,’ he replies.

‘You can refuse? But you’re a member of Circuit,’ I ask, confused.

‘Rules are there to be broken, Amanda…’ he says with a wry smile and wink.

By the seventh candidate, everyone is getting a bit bored of the process and clearly wants to go home. They don’t realise the worst is yet to come.

‘The eighth and final candidate applying to join Circuit is Angela Waites,’ the Master bellows. A flash of annoyance crosses Angela’s face as she yells, ‘Oh, Master! It’s An-gella!’

Skylar and I just look at each other. No words, just a look.

She dramatically glugs the dregs of her wine and stands on the chair, hitching her (already short, tight) skirt up in doing so. She does a few fake deep breaths and then starts her stuff. Problem for her is that everyone has been through this seven times so they’re all a bit bored of it now. Sensing this, she feels the need to up the ante.

‘Ladies and gentlemen. There’s nothing I love better than a challenge. And so, as the final candidate to be admitted to Circuit, I am going to declare my intentions… in Spanish!’

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

And off she goes. Everyone cheers. The showstopper of the evening. Wow, those nerves disappeared quickly once she decided to switch to a language that wasn’t her own. She steps down and does a curtsey that wouldn’t look out of place on a Shakespearean stage.

‘Right, that’s me done,’ Skylar says, throwing his napkin down on the table. ‘Would you like a lift home, Amanda?’

‘Yes, please,’ I reply, a little too enthusiastically.

Skylar and I are the first ones out of the room and make a quick dash towards the exit. As I close the door, I feel the weight of it taken off me by someone behind, only to turn and see Sid, who smiles at me.

‘How was your first Mess, Amanda?’ he asks.

‘It was quite the experience.’

‘Well, that’s a good way of putting it,’ he smiles.

‘I don’t think I’ll be joining any time soon.’

‘And that’s another! Richard, do you remember the evening I joined Circuit?’ he yells ahead of me.

‘When you got so drunk you fell off the chair and broke your wrist? How could I forget?’ Skylar recounts.

‘I still finished my speech, though…’ Sid says proudly.

‘Yes… in the ambulance,’ Skylar recalls disapprovingly.

‘No way?!’ I squeal.

‘Oh yes. Sid caused me no end of trouble in pupillage. I almost got rid of him on countless occasions. Only reason I never went through with it is because he’s one of the best bloody barristers I’ve ever come across.’

Coming from Skylar, that’s quite the compliment. I’ve never seen him speak so highly of anyone before.

‘Oh, come on, Richard. I wasn’t that much trouble,’ Sid says, playfully.

Skylar gives Sid the look I’ve come to know as the Look of Death and Sid just smiles cheekily at him.

‘Yes, you were. I get ALL the troublesome pupils…’

‘Erm, what’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask, mock-offended.

‘You’re both “characters”,’ Skylar says with a worried look on his face.

Sid and I both glance at each other.

‘Anyway, come on, Amanda. We have an early start tomorrow.’ Skylar points out as he heads off towards the car.

‘See you both tomorrow,’ Sid says, doing a kind of ‘see you later salute’. Probably the lighting and the fact we are standing in the darkness with the stars and whatever, but oh my goodness, Sid looks super-dreamy tonight. And he’s in his three-piece suit with his tie off. And his eyes really are so twinkly. I watch him walking away, ridiculous grin on my face.

Skylar interrupts and cuts it dead.

‘Don’t go there, Amanda.’

‘What?!’

‘I saw the way you were looking at him.’

‘I was doing no such thing.’

‘I’ve warned you about this,’ he says in his best dad tone.

‘Oh, Richard. Honestly. Stop it. I am not a lovesick teenager. I am a woman completely in control of my emotions and I do not form crushes on work colleagues.’

Even as I’m saying it, I make a mental note to file this quotation under ‘I Don’t Fancy Sid Ryder and Other Lies To Tell Your Pupilmaster’.

The conversation naturally ends with the revelation that Skylar has received a parking ticket, which sends him into a furious rage. Nothing upsets him more than having to fork out money, especially for something which is unavoidable. He witters about it all the way to my flat then barks at me that I need to be in Chambers ‘BY 7 a.m.’ because we have a big sentence.

It’s almost midnight by the time I crash into bed and I’m physically and mentally drained from the evening’s events. But one thing’s for sure: it’s given me a valuable insight into my colleagues, the people behind the wigs and robes, the ones I’ll be working with and who I’ll have to impress to win this tenancy, and that can’t be a bad thing.

CHAPTER 7

Before I know it, Halloween tat is starting to fill the shops and I’m glugging pumpkin-spiced lattes like nobody’s business. There’s that lovely late afternoon sun in the sky, the one which casts beautiful, bright, tangerine-orange light over everything at about 3 p.m. A little pop-up stall on the Quayside has appeared, selling jacket potatoes, chestnuts and other cold-weather fodder, and it shoots all kinds of delicious aromas around the area whenever I leave Chambers on an evening.

When did it suddenly become autumn?

One thing which has amazed me in recent weeks is the amount of hoop-jumping one must do as a pupil – it really is never-ending. In addition to going to court, all the work Skylar sets for me and remembering everyone’s names (still only mastered approximately eighty-seven per cent of Chambers, which is rather shameful), I also have to attend various pupil courses. Forensic accounting, advocacy, ethics… you name it, there’s a course for it. To make it worse, they’re usually held in a conference suite miles away and I’m exposed to other pupils all day, most of whom are only interested in bragging about who is the most intelligent/loudest/irritating (always Marty).

By the end of October I’ve been on three of these courses and I’m starting to wish I had a vice to turn to which was stronger than wine but not quite heroin. I’m sure there must be a happy medium somewhere on the vice spectrum… hmm… Absinthe, perhaps?

Ultimately, being governed by the Bar Council, Chambers must comply with various regulations if they want to take pupils on year after year. In practice, this means they have to assign senior members to various roles and responsibilities.

One rainy Monday morning, Skylar drags Marty and I into a conference room, sits us down and glares at us both from across the table. Seems he is the designated Chambers person to deal with procedure and complaints.

‘Pupils,’ he declares, with a fancy hand movement. It’s utterly impossible to ever know where he is going with these chats. Since the Mess, I’ve had to endure all kinds of nonsensical talks. He leans back in his chair, making his now signature ‘temple’ with his hands, resting underneath his chin.

‘Back in the olden days when I joined the Bar, things were a lot simpler than they are now. The Bar Standards Commission et al weren’t necessary. If someone in Chambers gave you the ‘glad eye’ you simply got on with it. You either shagged them or told them to “fuck off…”’

The way Skylar says ‘fuck off’ is exactly the same way my mam says ‘lesbians’ when she’s gossiping about the neighbours on her estate; an extremely overexaggerated mouthing of the word, barely even a whisper.

‘…But now you have all sorts of rights, apparently, and so I am here to tell you all about them.’

Crikey. Doesn’t sound like Skylar is perhaps the best person to be doing this chat but, as it’s obviously a box-ticking exercise, I don’t think Chambers are too bothered by it.

‘Okay,’ he sighs. ‘So discrimination on the basis of gender, race, religion or any other factor is NOT acceptable within this Chambers. It will not be tolerated either directly or indirectly,’ he goes on. ‘Understand?’

‘Yes,’ Marty and I say in unison.

‘Right, that’s that done. Next – harassment…’

God, this is painful.

‘Obviously, you must never harass anyone else in or out of Chambers – sexually or otherwise…’ he warns, looking directly at Marty. ‘But if you should find yourself the victim of such behaviour you must first inform your pupilmaster UNLESS they are the perpetrator of such unwarranted behaviour…’

Lord alive. I dare not even imagine.

‘…In which case, you must direct your complaint to the Head of Chambers. Okay?’

‘What if he’s the perpetrator?’ I ask, genuinely wanting to know.

‘What?’ Skylar hisses at me.

‘Well, what if it’s alleged he’s the one doing the sexual harassing? To whom does one complain then?’

‘Erm, well it’s all hypothetical anyway...’

‘But shouldn’t we know? Just in case?’ Surely Richard Skylar isn’t lost for an answer?

He looks momentarily puzzled. He clearly can’t be arsed with this.

‘Amanda, Mr de Souza is a very busy man,’ he clips. ‘He has better things to do than concern himself with chasing skirt around Chambers.’

‘Right, okay. I’m glad we cleared that up.’ I smile.

‘One more thing. Not so much guidelines…’ – he says ‘guidelines’ with contempt as he waves his hands about, almost as if he is wafting the word away like paper in a breeze – ‘…as sound advice…’

I am intrigued. There’s something about senior barristers giving pupils unscripted advice. The stuff that doesn’t come from a book at law school. Passed down through the profession, through generations, learned only through years of experience and hard work…

There’s a brief silence as we both lean in, and he looks at us both in quick succession.

‘Never, EVER shag your clerks. Ever.’

Holy hell. As if.

‘I have seen careers ruined because of this. Seriously…’ he says, raising his eyebrows, as if to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, his eyes magnified through his enormous black-rimmed glasses.

‘Yes, a pretty new girl or handsome new clerk starts working in Chambers, you start flirting, you have a fling, you might even get a bit of work from it and it’s all fun and games until one of you dumps the other and it all goes down the crapper.’

‘Richard, absolutely sound, sensible advice there. Sheer lunacy to compromise your position in Chambers,’ Marty pipes up as if from nowhere.

Skylar shoots him a look that might as well say ‘out of everyone in Chambers you’re the most likely person who would do this’ and ignores everything he’s just said.

‘I mean, all of this is extremely important, isn’t it, Richard?’ Marty goes on. ‘I’m all for it.’

‘What are you “all for”, exactly?’ Skylar probes.

‘You know, the rules set by the Bar Standards Commission. Guidelines, diversity…’ he says sarcastically, glancing at me.

‘Sorry, I’m not with you?’ Skylar announces.

‘I just think it’s really great they encourage quotas that allow applicants from poor backgrounds to have a crack at pupillage. They won’t get tenancy, but it’s nice they can have a go…’ Marty reels off without a hint of shame in his voice.

Skylar glares at him straight in the eye for a few seconds before adding, ‘I disagree, Martin. If it was up to me, I’d scrap quotas. They’re patronising. Places should be given upon merit. There are far too many stuck-up, privileged toffs at the Bar who get here because they think it’s their birthright. Most of them aren’t good enough to be here. True talent always shines, though, always…’

Marty looks furious. Why he thought he could take Skylar on, I don’t know. But that’s always his downfall; he thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. It’s going to get him into trouble one day (hopefully).

I love it when Skylar has my back, though. It makes me feel all warm and teary. Never has someone made me feel like that before.

‘Oh, by the way, Mandy, I didn’t see you at Rafferty’s fiftieth birthday bash on Saturday night. Busy, were you?’ Marty asks.

I’m genuinely confused. ‘Birthday party? I didn’t know…’ I trail off, glancing at Skylar, who is looking at Marty like he wants to murder him.

‘Ahh. Awkward. Well, I just assumed you’d been invited seeing as everyone from Chambers was there…’ Marty recounts with far too much smugness in his voice.

‘Rubbish!’ Skylar interrupts. ‘Half of Chambers was there and the rest were a load of Rafferty’s boring old friends from university. I stayed out of courtesy for a few hours and then left. You did well to stay away, Amanda. Watching paint dry would have been more fun.’

I attempt a smile, so grateful to Skylar for saving me in front of Marty. But I feel like I’ve been thumped in the stomach. To be excluded like this makes me feel horrible. I’m sure it was boring, but it would have been nice to be asked.

‘Well, there we have it,’ Skylar abruptly announces as he jumps up. ‘Amanda, we’ve got work to do, but not before you’ve made me a coffee. Come on, Barbie!’

***

Only a few days later, Sid comes into the library (suit-jacket-less) looking rather flustered, asking if I am busy.

Good grief.

Turns out he needs some urgent legal research doing for a huge case he’s defending with de Souza QC – a murder! – and it has to be done there and then. I ask Skylar if I can assist, to which he agrees, on the condition I don’t ‘go out drinking afterwards’ (i.e. didn’t sleep with anyone).

It feels proper barrister-y, sitting in the big conference room with the other senior lawyers, surrounded by books and files, rain slamming down outside. Like something out of a film. I have to nip to the library to grab some more resources, only to find Marty skulking around, desperate to know what I’m up to. I really have to concentrate on not laughing directly in his face because it appears that, in a desperate attempt to fit in with the men of Chambers, he’s started slicking his hair back with gel. The problem is, because he’s utterly useless with the application of such things (and most things in general, actually), he puts far too much on, so it just looks like he’s been gunged on one of those comedic game shows. I bet his wig is going to be disgusting once he starts wearing it. Anyway, I can’t take him seriously when I talk to him and it’s a real effort not to just fixate on his hair.

‘What are you doing in there with de Souza and Ryder?’ he blurts out, desperately trying to peek at the books I’m carrying.

This is going to be sweet.

‘Oh, they asked me to assist with some legal research for that murder they’re defending. I’ve been in there all afternoon. They probably didn’t want to bother you with it. It’s very complex stuff.’

‘Well, I’m sure they would have asked me, had I been here.’ Even he knows this isn’t true.

‘I think they wanted someone who would actually do the work, Martin. Not someone who would bullshit their way through the conference and tell jokes.’

‘Well, I’m sure if you undo a few buttons of your shirt you’ll leave a lasting impression, Mandy.’

‘No need, Martin. My work will do that.’

‘Well, it’s pretty obvious why Ryder wanted you in there. Sounds like there’s already discrimination in action here. Might go and have a little word with de Souza…’

‘Oh my God, are you serious? Do you have any idea how stupid you’ll look if you do that? Actually, with that in mind… go ahead, I’m all for it.’

‘You think you’ve got this tenancy in the bag, don’t you? Swishing around, leading all the guys on…’

‘I’ve never led anyone on, Martin’

‘Apart from me…’

I’m actually staggered by his arrogance.

‘If, by leading you on, you mean being forced to matriculate in the same room as you, then… yeeessss, I suppose I did. But that’s about it,’ I say, sarcastically. ‘Everything else outside the classroom was pure contempt for you. Hope that clarifies the situation.’

As usual, he has no witty comeback so I leave him fuming. Feels good to have one up on him for once.

The conference lasts until 5.45 p.m. when the other lawyers call it a day. De Souza, as predicted by Skylar, asks everyone if they’re going for a drink… including me.

Even though I have Skylar’s words ringing in my ears, and knowing I have to be back at Chambers at 7.30 a.m. tomorrow, I say I’ll go for one. I can’t let an opportunity like this slip – especially given how rubbish I felt after finding out I wasn’t even invited to Rafferty’s party. And my decision to go is in no way influenced by the fact it means it will give me an opportunity to speak to Sid outside of work.

No sireee.

It’s a Tuesday night so the pub we go to is practically empty. De Souza buys everyone’s drinks. I’m with five men so I don’t have to put on an act – bottled beer it is, and yes, I’m drinking it from the bottle.

Weirdly, despite the fact I’m with my Head of Chambers and some of the most senior lawyers in town, I don’t feel intimidated at all. We’re in a proper old pub, which is more like the surroundings I grew up in. They’re all very friendly, talking among themselves but being very polite and including me in the conversation where they can.

Sid comes to sit next to me and I smile, trying not to look like I’m about to have an orgasm.

We have general chit-chat about this and that, even touching upon the pupillage interview process. Sid volunteers that Marty’s dad is very close friends with the hateful Dolus, so I’m guessing nepotism is still very much a thing and that this was his way into Chambers.

It’s not long before Sid moves on to my incident with Clarinda.

‘So, I hear you’ve made quite the impression with the women of the Bar?’

I laugh, and don’t need to ask what he’s referring to.

‘Ah, yep. So you heard about the incident with your ex-girlfriend?’

‘Oh yes. She’s made sure everyone knows about it. Embellished it, of course. Well, she had to. Nobody outsmarts Clarinda O’Leary and comes out of it well,’ he laughs. When Sid laughs or smiles, his eyes crinkle up and you kind of want to drown in them.

‘She truly is… charming. I’m sure she must have had some redeeming qualities for you to go out with her,’ I offer, hoping he detects the sarcasm in my voice.

‘It was complicated,’ he laughs. ‘She held herself out to be something she wasn’t. Men are ultimately stupid and fall for these female tactics.’

‘Yes, why is that?’ I ask in an overexaggerated way.

‘We don’t think with our brains a lot of the time,’ he says, a bit too honestly.

‘Well, from what I’ve heard about you in particular, you definitely don’t.’

Oh, way to go, Amanda. Insult the guy you fancy – you truly are the Queen of Seduction.

‘Really? What have you heard about me?’ He’s suddenly gone serious.

‘That you’re a player, ladies man, womaniser… need I go on?’

‘Well, you really shouldn’t believe everything you hear. Rumours are used like weapons at the Bar. Don’t forget that. I’m actually a nice guy if you get to know me.’

‘Oh really? Well, that’s one I’ve never heard before.’

Sid looks at me for a few seconds. It’s like I can see the cogs cranking in his head, trying to work me out.

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