12.03 p.m.
Saturday 1st November, 2008
They say love and hate are flip sides of the same coin. People can hate those they love, and love those they hate – and everything in between.
Oh, I don’t know, emotions are complicated.
But I regret doing it the second it’s over.
It feels like I’ve been holding my breath for the past three minutes, but at the same time it’s like my rapid breathing is having a sprint with my heart rate to see which can get to the finish line first. The finish line, presumably, is where I spontaneously combust with shame, guilt and horror over what I’ve just done.
A fifteen-year-old girl should not be doing this.
Most girls my age, at this time on a Saturday afternoon, are mooching around town, giggling at boys they fancy, trying on inappropriate clothes and make-up. But then again, I have never been ‘most girls’, and that’s why I’ve ended up here, today… doing this.
A crowd has started to gather, desperately trying to see what all the fuss is about. I’m furiously twiddling the thin black hair bobble I always keep around my wrist – something I always do when I’m nervous.
Three police cars are parked at skewed angles on the road as a result of the speed at which they’ve approached the scene, screeching to a halt, just like in the movies.
It was an eerie approach; no sirens, just a mesmerising sea of bright-blue lights to frame that brief episode of violent activity, played out to a soundtrack of shouted commands and angry, desperate yelling.
And then relative calm.
I can’t move.
What have I done?
I wait for the feelings I had expected: relief, release, revenge – the dish best served cold, or so they say.
But I’m just cold, numb and utterly consumed by the enormity of the moment.
Until it comes, in a savage, irresistible torrent. Guilt strikes like a lightning bolt to my conscience. A tsunami of crushing shame and pure, unadulterated worthlessness, washing through me, sweeping me away to be broken on the rocks of my own self-loathing.
The worst thing about it all is that I should still hate him, but I don’t. I should feel a satisfying sense of revenge, but I don’t.
But that’s the thing about emotions, they’re complicated.
Fucking hell, Amanda Slayder… what have you done?
‘It’s all well and good saying you have all these scholarships, Miss Bentley, but they have to give them to people like you, don’t they?’
Not quite what I expected as an opening question.
I thought they might start with ‘Why do you want to be a barrister?’ or ‘Why do you want to work at these Chambers?’, but not that.
I pause for a few seconds, unsure how to react. If it was a normal person I’d verbally smack them round the earhole for being so rude, but I can’t do that, for two reasons. First, I would blow any chance I have of being offered a pupillage, a job as a junior barrister, here. Second, pupillage interviews are notorious for having a ‘bad cop’ on the panel and there’s a pretty good chance that he is mine. I need to handle this carefully, not blow up in the manner of an angry, hysterical, working-class hero.
Having said that, he’s looking at my long, blonde, peroxided-within-an-inch-of-its-life hair with such disdain, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was appalled, expecting I’d been invited to interview based entirely upon my background (and looks). Ten eyes burn into me, waiting for an answer.
‘People like me?’
‘Well, it’s fair to say your background isn’t conventional in terms of the average barrister…’ he points out.
‘Well, that depends on your definition of conventional and who wants to be average anyway?’
Oh hell. Too feisty.
The other four panel members smirk and scribble down notes. God only knows what.
Shut this down, Amanda.
‘I can assure you I worked hard to obtain those scholarships. I attended rigorous interviews with panels not unlike this one. There’s no doubt in my mind, I was selected upon merit as opposed to my “background”.’
‘Hmm, very well,’ Mr Rude says curtly, without looking up. It’s said in the kind of irritated tone that says he wishes he could really go to town on me, but time constraints won’t allow it.
I focus on breathing and not looking completely intimidated and/or terrified. The other four interviewers on the panel are watching everything I’m doing.
Observing.
Am I keeping cool under pressure? Do I look and act like a barrister?
Mr Rude picks up a copy of my CV and scans it with his posh eyes. I know what he’s going to pick up on, now that he’s assumed the bad-cop, awkward-arse role.
‘You spent your university summer vacations working in Ibiza...’
There it is.
‘Yes’
‘What did you do for work there?’ he asks, accusingly.
‘I danced.’
Everyone’s ears prick up waiting to see how I handle this.
‘Was any of it indecent?’
‘Indecent? Do you mean topless? Absolutely not,’ I say, confidently.
There’s frantic scribbling going on now. The only woman on the panel can’t keep up with this.