The Law of Attraction

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.