Mine: The hot new thriller of 2018 - sinister, gripping and dark with a breathtaking twist. J.L. Butler
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 need a big case, Fran. A game-changer that will get you noticed.’
‘A case that will change my life,’ I said softly.
‘Something like that,’ Viv smiled approvingly, and we both turned to listen to Charles.
I only stayed for one drink at the Pen and Wig before drifting back to chambers. I decided to go the long way, through the maze of quiet back allies, so that I could have a cigarette. It wasn’t even two o’clock and already the day looked as if it was drawing in, the skeletons of the naked trees imprinted against the pewter sky like cave paintings, the dark clouds pressing down on the rooftops, lending the city a wintry gloom.
I got back to Burgess Court a few minutes past the hour, in time for a meeting that was scheduled for a quarter past. Ours is predominantly a family law set, with a little bit of criminal work thrown into the judicial mix. I like the word ‘set’ to describe the collection of barristers that room together in chambers. It makes me think of badgers, an image that pretty much sums up this division of the law: wise, industrious men with their long black gowns, white horsehair wigs and Caucasian complexions, although there is a little more diversity in our chambers, which is probably why they let me in – a Northerner with the scar of a nose-piercing and a comprehensive school education.
These days I have two areas of speciality. Matrimonial finance and children-related cases. I thought the latter would be satisfying, crusading work, but the reality is difficult and heart-breaking cases. So now I concentrate on high-net-worth divorces, for the entirely shallow reason that the work is generally less distressing and, regardless of how long proceedings go on, you know that they have the money to pay my fee. I don’t go home and think I have changed the world, but I know that I am good at what I do and it pays the mortgage on a maisonette with an N1 postcode.
David Gilbert, the instructing solicitor, was already waiting for me in reception. He was dressed for the cold in a heavy navy woollen coat although his head was bald and shiny like a Burford brown egg.
‘I just saw Vivienne,’ he said, standing up to kiss my cold cheek. ‘Apparently, you’ve had a chambers trip to the pub for someone’s birthday and you didn’t even tell me.’
‘Would you have come bearing gifts?’ I chided.
‘I’d have come to the office with champagne at the very least. Happy Birthday, anyway. How are you?’
‘Older. Wiser.’
‘Mr Joy will be with us in a moment.’
‘I’ve just got to pop upstairs. Do you want to go through?’ I said pointing towards the conference room. ‘Helen can bring Mr Joy in when he arrives.’
I climbed the stairs to my office, a small space beneath the eaves at the very top of the building. It was little more than a broom cupboard, but at least I didn’t have to share it with anyone.
I scooped up the case files, grabbed a pen from the pot and ran my tongue around my teeth, wishing that I still had a packet of Tic Tacs on my desk to get rid of the sour tang of alcohol and cigarette smoke on my breath. When I came back downstairs meeting room two had been prepared for clients in the usual way, with a tray of sandwiches and a small plate of Marks and Spencer’s biscuits in the middle of the conference table. The pump-action coffee pot I could never work sat ominously on a chest of drawers by the door, alongside miniature bottles of Evian.
David was on his mobile phone. He glanced up and indicated he would just be a minute.
‘Water?’ I asked, gesturing towards our catering.
‘Coffee,’ he whispered, and pointed at the biscuits.
I grabbed a cup, faced the coffee pot with determination and pushed the top hard. Nothing happened so I pushed it again, harder, spurting coffee over the back of my hand.
I winced in pain as the liquid seared my skin.
‘Are you OK?’
Someone handed me a tissue and I used it to wipe my stinging hand.
‘I hate these things,’ I muttered. ‘We should buy a Nespresso machine and be done with it.’
‘Or maybe just a kettle.’
I