‘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