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…’
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
