Errm.
You’re pissing off the wrong girl here, Mr RudeTwat.
‘I worked seven nights a week, often days too. Working with live performance will serve me well in court because I am accustomed to dealing with situations when things go wrong. I can think on my feet and deal with things in a calm and collected manner… and I am used to wearing wigs now.’
Bit of humour, always a risk. Seems to work, though, as all the other panel members laugh. Mr Rude doesn’t even crack a smile. He just goes on. We’re still not done, it would seem.
‘But you must know you don’t conform to the stereotype of how a barrister looks. People will notice that and judge you on it. And I don’t mean clients; I mean your fellow barristers…’
Like you’re doing now, you mean?
‘How do you think you’d cope with it?’
He sounds annoyed.
‘Mr Dolus,’ I smile, now convinced he’s not so much the bad cop as just a monumental dick. ‘I’ve been judged my entire adult life on how I look. But isn’t that true for everyone? People are rarely a true reflection of how they present themselves externally. I have the qualifications to be here and it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I believe I have the potential to be a great barrister. I don’t really care what other people think of me. If they want to judge, that’s their problem, not mine.’
Wow, almost convinced myself, there.
Dolus doesn’t respond to this. He slings my CV down and leans back in his chair as I smile at him, sweetly.
I subtly, instinctively, reach for the hair bobble, but it isn’t there. I deliberately took it off before the interview, knowing that if I kept it on I’d just be playing with it the entire time.
At this point, the kind-looking man on the panel, who’s obviously had enough of Mr Rude’s dumb questions, takes over.
***
This interview is all I’ve thought about for weeks.
Athena Chambers is the most prestigious set of Chambers in Newcastle. Competition to even get a pupillage interview is fierce, so the fact I did sent me into a tailspin. I’ve been to university (great times, fabulous social life), went to law school (bloody hard times, no social life), and now it’s the difficult part: securing a twelve-month, practical, ‘on the job’ training pupillage in Chambers. These are as hard to come by as pink diamonds. So I really can’t fuck this interview up.
I barely slept last night, running through every conceivable question they could ask me in my head. By 5.45 a.m., I thought I might as well get up, despite my interview being at 10 a.m.
I dithered over my interview appearance. I don’t look like a ‘typical’ barrister. I look more like a brainless blonde bimbo who cares more about which shade of eyeshadow to wear than the latest Law Reports (both important, mind you). Massive debate with my housemate, Heidi, ensued over whether I ought to ‘tone it down for the interview’. Heidi’s exact words were ‘No. Your intellect and sparkling personality will shine through. Your look is an asset, not a flaw.’ I love her.
I compromised in the end by not wearing false eyelashes. My long blonde hair swept down my back, pinned up at either side. I did consider an ‘all-up ponytail’; far too brutal and exposing, though – I wouldn’t be able to think. I selected a well-fitting trouser suit and crisp white shirt, which complemented my hourglass figure and felt more professional than a skirt suit.
It was a beautiful June morning as I strolled down the Quayside. The Tyne Bridge made me feel small and insignificant, as always (although I could have done without that today). Athena Chambers is tucked away in a little courtyard just off the Quayside and, if you weren’t looking for it, you wouldn’t even know it was there; like a members’ only club.
As I faced the big, red, shiny door of Chambers, I immediately forgot the harsh pep talk I’d spent the last few hours giving myself. A quick glance at my watch revealed it was 9.51 a.m. Nine minutes early.
Once inside, I was faced with a bright, long corridor with rooms going off either side. As far as buildings go, it was posh. I am not posh. It was one of those crazy old not-sure-what-period-it-belongs-to buildings. Could be Georgian or Victorian, or any other ‘-ian’ – definitely old, anyway. It was very grand: high ceilings, huge coving and massive windows. A chandelier hung in the corridor, catching the light and reflecting it on to the pale yellow walls. The effect was a warm, golden glow, which made me feel slightly at ease. It felt important, respected, traditional and steeped in history. It was everything you imagined a barristers’ set of Chambers to be.
I couldn’t believe how weirdly quiet it was, much more so than I’d expected a Friday morning to be. The waiting area consisted of green-leather Chesterfield armchairs positioned around a dark-oak coffee table. A big reception desk hosted an enormous vase full of lilies.
‘Morning! Is it Amanda Bentley?’ a voice shrilled behind me.
‘Yes,’ I replied, trying not to look like I was about to drop dead with nerves.
‘I’m Jill, Chambers receptionist. Let me show you to the barristers’ lounge. The panel are interviewing and will be ready for you shortly.’
The ‘barristers’ lounge’ was a room at the end of the corridor filled with scruffy-looking sofas and raggedy old rugs, providing a stark contrast to the grandeur of the rest of the building.
Very shabby-chic.
I sat down and waited, feeling light-headed with nerves. I was also in agony with the onset of huge blisters forming on my ankles owing to cheap shoes slicing off my bare flesh. Buying pretty, but cheap, shoes is all fun and games until you have to actually walk in them.
Suddenly, I realised that my mind had gone blank. Completely blank. I couldn’t remember why I wanted to be a barrister, despite having rehearsed this answer for the past two days solid.
What did I think of the new provision of the Criminal Justice Act? NO BLINKING IDEA.
Jesus Christ.
Why did I want to practise criminal law? I literally could not remember.
Before I had time to run out crying, a strict-looking woman identifying herself as one of the interviewers came into the lounge. She was wearing a skirt suit, with shiny brown hair scraped back into a tight ponytail. Flat shoes were on her feet and she was wearing barely any make-up. She was everything I am not and told me the panel were ready for me. Suddenly, I felt like I was Barbie applying to marry Prince William. I cannot pull this off.
The interviews were being held in a meeting room on the first floor, with panoramic views of the River Tyne outside. 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