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.
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
