and soda,’ I called after him as he headed for the bar, leaving me to make my way over to join Vivienne McKenzie, one of the most senior barristers at Burgess Court.
‘Happy birthday, Fran,’ said Viv, giving me an affectionate hug.
‘I think I’ve hit the age where I want to pretend this is just another day,’ I said, taking off my coat and hanging it over a chair.
‘Nonsense,’ said Viv briskly. ‘I’ve got two decades on you and I always relish the idea of new starts and fresh resolutions – a bit like New Year without the cliché and pressure of failing by Epiphany.
‘So. You know what day it is tomorrow?’ she continued, with a hint of complicity.
‘The day after my birthday?’
‘The Queen’s Counsel List is posted. Which means …’ she prompted.
‘The fulfilment of someone’s lifetime dream.’ I smiled.
‘It means that the application round for next year’s silk list begins,’ she replied in a theatrical whisper.
I knew what was coming next. Hoping to avoid the conversation, I let my eyes drift across the pub.
‘Are you thinking of applying?’ she pressed.
‘No,’ I said, with a finality that I had not been wanting to admit even to myself.
‘You’re not too young, you know that?’
I glanced up cynically.
‘Just what every woman wants to hear on their birthday.’
‘It was meant to be a compliment.’
Viv was studying me intently. I had seen this look many times before. Nostrils slightly flared, eyebrows raised a fraction, her grey eyes unblinking. She had the best court face in the business and deployed it to great effect. When she was my pupil master, I used to watch her in court and practise at home in front of the mirror.
‘You are one of the top juniors in the industry,’ she said with feeling. ‘Solicitors adore you. I can think of a dozen judges who would give you an excellent reference. You need to start believing in yourself.’
‘I’m just not sure it’s the right time to apply.’
‘Wine and soda for you,’ winked Paul, struggling with two goblets, a bottle of Pinot Grigio and a small can of Schweppes.
‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ I smiled, taking the glasses out of his hands.
‘I make it my business to know everything that goes on in Burgess Court.’
He poured the wine and looked up.
‘So. Silk. Are you up for it, Fran?’
‘Paul, not now,’ I said, trying to make light of the interrogation.
‘Why not now? Applications open tomorrow,’ he said, glancing at Vivienne.
The broad back in front of me twitched and then turned.
‘I think it’s time to join this conversation,’ said a smooth baritone.
‘Hello, Tom,’ I said, looking up at my contemporary in chambers. He was several inches taller than me, his rower physique toned on the Thames. ‘I thought Eton taught you the art of good manners,’ I chided.
‘It did, but I’m not above eavesdropping. Not when something sounds so interesting,’ he grinned, helping himself to a top-up.
‘Well?’ said Paul. ‘What are Burgess Court’s brightest juniors thinking? To apply or not to apply for silk …’
‘Well, I’m under starters orders. Aren’t you, Fran?’
‘It’s not a competition, Tom.’
‘Yes it is,’ he replied bluntly. ‘First day in pupillage, remember? What was it you said? Despite my “so-called superior education and astonishing self-confidence”, you wouldn’t just beat me to silk, you’d beat our whole year.’
‘I must have said it to annoy you,’ I said with mock terseness.
‘You were entirely serious.’
I looked at him, silently admitting my own surprise that Tom Briscoe was not yet a QC. His reputation was growing as the go-to barrister for trophy wives in unhappy relationships – and what wife wouldn’t want him representing them. Handsome, clever, single Tom Briscoe. He didn’t just give women legal advice, he gave them hope.
‘I think Charles is about to give a little speech,’ said Tom, nodding towards our head of chambers, who was tapping a spoon against his wine glass. ‘I’m going in for a ringside seat.’
Paul stepped outside to take a call and I was left alone with Viv.
‘You know what Tom’s problem is?’
‘Too much testosterone coursing through his bloodstream?’ I smiled, watching him flirt with one of the pupils.
‘You should at least think about it,’ said Viv more seriously.
‘All that time, the effort, the expense of applying for silk … And what for? Two thirds of us will get turned down.’
‘You’ve done your homework.’ Viv folded her arms in front of her and sipped her wine thoughtfully.
‘You know, Francine, I have a theory about the gender pay gap.’
‘What is it?’
‘Women simply don’t ask.’
I snorted.
‘I’m not joking. I’ve seen it time and time again. Men believe in their own brilliance – warranted or not.’
She paused for a few questioning moments.
‘What’s really putting you off?’
‘People like Tom.’
‘Don’t let him get to you,’ she said, rolling her eyes.
‘It’s not him. It’s the system,’ I said quietly, voicing the fear, the paranoia I had felt ever since being called to the Bar. ‘You can’t deny how snobby it is.’
‘Things are changing,’ said Viv in those crisp Cheltenham Ladies’ College vowels that reminded me she didn’t really understand.
‘How many state-school-educated QCs are there, Viv? How many women, Northerners, ethnic minorities … The very top end of our profession is still full of white, upper-middle Oxbridge men like Tom.’
‘I thought you’d see that as a challenge,’ she said as a more insistent sound of metal against glass rang around the pub. ‘You just
