The Pupil Read online

  ‘Sure.’

  She nodded. He poured fresh coffee into the machine and asked, ‘So, what d’you reckon to Natasha? She’s favourite for the tenancy.’

  ‘I don’t like to predict these things.’

  Fifty applicants had been whittled down to three. The two others were a confident, elegant black woman and a brilliant young man who was also a wheelchair user and wanted to build up his Civil practice.

  Georgie switched on the coffee and said, ‘Come on, you know her better than any of us, you must have a view.’

  ‘I try to be open-minded,’ said Mel.

  ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It’s not always been easy.’

  ‘Everyone else likes her.’ Georgie was looking at her hard as he spoke. He knew Mel didn’t like Natasha, but he had never accepted her suspicions. Mel didn’t want this to come between them.

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘Why so cagey? She’s a known quantity. Bloody good advocate. Solicitors eating out of her hand. The clerks all love her. Clients love her.’

  The thought of clients loving Natasha made her want to puke. It was even worse than the thought of Paul swanning round Central Park with his wife. But she wouldn’t argue with Georgie now. He would only challenge her, ask for evidence of Natasha’s supposed wrongdoing and she would save that for the meeting. So much of it was hunch and instinct and lawyers weren’t interested in hunch and instinct. She threw out a stupid comment, ‘She’s white.’

  ‘Oh, for Chrissake, you don’t go along with that quota crap.’

  ‘Just kidding. No, it’s just… I have reservations.’

  ‘Such as?’ asked Georgie.

  ‘She interrupts in conferences.’

  ‘All the time?’

  ‘Once or twice. Until I told her not to.’

  ‘Pupillage’s a learning curve. A steep one. Anyway, the bright ones all do that. Hardly a reason for a veto. So, what is it?’

  ‘I’ll tell the meeting, Georgie. OK?’

  She took her coffee and went to her room. There was work she needed to get on with, but she couldn’t stop thinking about Natasha and what she, Mel, would tell the meeting later. There were things she would mention and things she wouldn’t, like her irritation when she heard Natasha on the phone, chatting up that new solicitor and landing a lucrative care case as a result. Like the way she worked the room at the chambers’ party. Ambition was fine. Some people were just too blatant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Mel

  Mel scanned the familiar faces ranged around the polished table. She had known them all for years, battled against them in court, taken on their returns, read their garbled attendance notes. She knew their domestic arrangements, their sexual orientations, their family backgrounds. Yet, apart from Georgie, it seemed to her that none of them knew her. She loved the world of the Bar, the individual responsibility, the freelance life, but as she sat there waiting for the meeting to start, she found herself wishing for a more collaborative existence.

  Jess was chairing the meeting. She had insisted that Mel, as Natasha’s pupil supervisor, should attend. Jeremy, head of chambers, had sent his apologies and said that he would happily abide by any decision they made. And now Jess explained that the second woman candidate had been snapped up by another set of chambers. ‘So, the choice is Nigel or Natasha. Marcus, what do you think?’

  As chief clerk, Marcus had no vote. But his opinion was critical. ‘I say we take them both. How often do we get two candidates of this quality? Nigel will bring in the money on the Civil side. But we need to expand our Family base. Natasha’s committed to that. She can take on criminal cases too if necessary. She’s good news.’

  ‘Georgie?’ asked Jess. ‘You’ve been in court with her. What do you think?’

  ‘Most of you already know my view,’ said Georgie. ‘Natasha is just what chambers needs. We co-defended last week. You’d think she’d been in the business for years. The judge was impressed. She floored the prosecution witness, gave a brilliant closing speech. There’s no argument, as far as I can see. What’s not to like?’

  ‘Must you use that dreadful expression?’ interjected Julian.

  Julian Goodhart, QC, was the oldest member of chambers, well into his seventies but showing no sign of retiring. Mel had co-defended with him and had been amazed at how judges let him pursue the most outlandish submissions of no case to answer, or abuse of process. His knowledge of law was encyclopaedic, his manner theatrical, his vocabulary both entertaining and baroque. In his time, he had defended alleged IRA terrorists, radical Islamists, rapists and paedophiles, all with elaborate old-world courtesy. He had an extraordinary record with juries. Mel looked at him fondly. He was of a dying breed.

  ‘Thanks, Julian, a reminder we must all keep our language up to scratch. Do you have anything to say about Natasha?’ asked Jess.

  ‘She seems a very nice young lady.’

  Paula Hatfield, a leading member of the Bridge Court feminist caucus, narrowed her eyes but made no comment. Julian’s performances in court for almost half a century absolved him from criticism.

  She spoke. ‘In my view Natasha would be a huge asset. I’ve not been in court with her, but I’ve done one of her returns. The client was deeply disappointed not to see her. Plus, she’s got the right background, worked her way through uni.’

  ‘Working class,’ said Georgie.

  ‘As long as she’s not Oxbridge,’ muttered Mel staring at the table.

  ‘Oxbridge is not the point,’ he countered. ‘She was brought up in care. It shows strength of character.’

  Georgie’s determination to support Natasha felt painful and disloyal. Mel said nothing. Brought up in care was a slight exaggeration given that Natasha was adopted at twelve. But she let her colleagues wallow in her pupil’s social background. How they loved to talk.

  ‘I’m going to stop you all there,’ said Jess at last. ‘The meeting seems generally in favour. Mel, you’re her pupil supervisor. May we hear from you?’

  Mel, who had been trained never to put forward a submission without supporting evidence, felt the silent scrutiny of the meeting. She recognised the rush of cold air, the beating heart of excitement that comes at the start of a difficult cross-examination. This time she was in the witness box.

  ‘I don’t think we should take her,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Jess.

  ‘She’s not right for us. Oh, she’s a good lawyer and from what I’m told, an excellent advocate. But we need someone we can rely on, a team player. Bridge Court is more than just a bunch of talented people.’

  ‘That’s a bit vague. What have you got against her?’

  ‘OK Jess, I don’t want to make allegations that can’t be substantiated,’ began Mel, conscious that starting with a negative was unhelpful. Her speech was prepared, but the sharp eyes of her fellow lawyers unsettled her as she continued. ‘She’s been a difficult pupil. Of course, we look for confidence in our applicants, but Natasha’s a little too confident. And I’m not 100 per cent convinced of her professional ethics.’

  ‘Wow, that’s serious,’ said Paula.

  ‘Your evidence for that?’ queried Jess.

  Mel had suspicions, but there was only one thing she could rely on. The Attendance Note. She reminded them of the mugging, the afternoon she had been advised to go home and take time off. She explained how she had forgotten to log off, how she had asked Natasha to save her work, print off and hand in the Attendance Note.

  ‘Only she never handed it in. I’m pretty sure she deleted it.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Why would she do that?’ asked Paula.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t explain why. All I can say is that the Attendance Note was not there when I next logged on. I asked her to hand it in, but she failed to do so. Of course, I can’t prove she deleted it. I can only say what happened.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Mel, you weren’t well that day. You’d suffered a
trauma. At best you were distracted. Could you have deleted the note yourself, inadvertently? We all do it. No big deal,’ Jess said.

  Mel felt her body stiffen. Everyone was watching her, waiting for her reaction. Her throat was dry and she reached for one of the bottles set out along the table and poured herself a glass of mineral water. After taking a sip, and allowing herself a long slow breath, she began to speak. But despite vowing to stay calm she could hear her voice rising in pitch and volume.

  ‘Are you saying I deleted my own Attendance Note?’

  It was Paula who replied.

  ‘You have just accused Natasha of doing it. Isn’t it far more likely you did it yourself?’

  Jess had said much the same thing, but her comment had arisen out of concern for Mel’s wellbeing. Paula’s question felt like gloating and there was no way Mel could respond other than with words she would regret. ‘By accident of course,’ added Paula with a sickening smile. Mel had heard enough.

  ‘Are you suggesting I’m losing my mind?’ she snapped.

  ‘You were not yourself that afternoon,’ countered Paula. ‘We could all see it.’

  Mel couldn’t even remember Paula being in the room at the time. It was too much.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Paula!’

  Her hand was on her glass and she had a violent urge to chuck it at the irritating woman on the other side of the table, who seemed to be loving her moment of triumph. The room fell silent. The urge was controlled but Mel was conscious of eleven pairs of eyes awaiting her next move. She loosened her grip on the glass and took a deep breath.

  It could have been worse. She could have thrown the glass. But it had been bad enough. What was most damaging was that her outburst had been witnessed by Marcus. As chief clerk he was responsible for bringing the work in. He was the last person she needed to see her vulnerable and emotional. She spoke again. This time her voice was low and steady.

  ‘That’s what Natasha said.’

  ‘There you are then. Did she log off?’ Paula asked.

  ‘Someone did. I was off for a week. Listen, even if she didn’t delete it, she should have explained why it wasn’t handed in. She had my number. She should have called me.’

  ‘Why would she delete your Attendance Note? It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘That’s the unanswered question. She’s unpredictable, hard to read. We need people who are trustworthy, open,’ said Mel. Natasha was probably too busy chatting up the clerks and trying to steal other people’s work. She was a mischief maker. Mel knew she was right even if she didn’t have proof.

  ‘Well, if that’s all there is,’ said Jess.

  Julian looked up. ‘May I point out that this meeting was due to finish at 6:30 p.m. I wonder whether the matter could be put to the vote.’

  ‘I agree, Julian,’ said Georgie. ‘I must say it’s looking difficult. If Mel has a problem with the woman I don’t see how we can take her. We have always said that new tenants need to fit in socially as well as professionally. Other chambers have had splits and differences. Bridge Court has always had a collegiate feel and unlike others, we are still here, despite difficult times for the Bar. If there’s tension between a pupil and her supervisor there’s likely to be further tension if that pupil becomes a tenant. There’d always be an issue.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jess. ‘We’ll go for a decision. Unless anyone has anything more pressing to say?’

  The silence was heavy and long, broken by Paula. Her eyes were on Jess, but Mel felt it as a personal attack on herself.

  ‘I must say I am very uncomfortable about making a decision on unsupported allegations,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you, Paula,’ said Jess. ‘I am sure none of us are comfortable but that is the situation in which we find ourselves. May I remind you all that this is not a trial. It’s a decision about who will be best for chambers. There’s bound to be an element of subjectivity. As Marcus has already suggested we can afford to take both, we’ll vote on each of them separately. All those in favour of Nigel.’

  Thirteen hands were raised.

  ‘Against?’

  No hands were raised.

  ‘Natasha? All those in favour?’

  Paula and Jess and two others raised their hands.

  ‘Against?’

  Mel raised her hand and, to her surprise, saw Julian and Georgie raise theirs.

  ‘Abstentions?’

  There were six. Barristers were not natural abstainers. Mel realised she had created both a stir and a precedent.

  ‘That’s it, then,’ said Jess. ‘Nigel has it.’

  ‘I’ll ring him,’ said Georgie, adding, ‘who’s going to tell Natasha?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Mel.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Natasha

  Natasha pushed open the door to the flat. Leonard Cohen was crooning away as usual. As she tossed her bag and jacket onto the sofa, she could smell onions, garlic, meat, a casserole simmering in the slow cooker. Luke would be in the bedroom, typing up case-notes. She peeked round the door. There he was, staring into the screen, head bent forward, deep chestnut hair short enough to expose a tiny patch of pale neck, long enough for a hint of soft curl around the ears. She enjoyed watching him without being seen.

  He had a face to lead a medieval army, but he had chosen a profession with a different kind of heroism. As a social worker he would be gentle and self-effacing. Natasha had experience of that tribe and most of those she met had been kind but controlling. Luke wasn’t like that. She was sure he would listen to his clients, show his compassion, though she couldn’t help feeling he was wasted in the job, trudging around housing estates, advising the poor on how to improve their lives when what they needed was money and jobs.

  He was a genuinely good man. And however badly she behaved, he stuck by her. She might find it hard to love, but at least she was learning to be loved.

  She wished she had his capacity to feel. Sometimes it rose in her, an inkling of concern, but then it would vanish, a tiny seedling shrivelling in the sun for lack of water. Feelings might start in her, but they never grew. She would never have real friends as other people did. She had read several books on the subject. One piece of practical advice was that if you behaved tenderly to another person you would start to feel tenderness towards them. She was trying it out with Luke, tiptoeing forward and kissing the back of his neck.

  ‘Hey, buddy,’ he said, swinging round, beaming. His American slang made her laugh. ‘I heard you come in.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say?’ she asked.

  ‘I like to pretend. I like it that you come up behind me when you think I don’t know you’re there.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘I learnt it from you. So, how was it?’

  ‘Good. It was OK.’

  He clicked the mouse and started to shut down the computer.

  ‘Just OK?’

  ‘I need a shower first.’

  She undressed, removed her pump and stepped into the hot jet, letting the day wash away. The tenancy interview had gone well but she was unsure about Mel. She was angry with herself for deleting the Attendance Note in her first week. It was almost two months ago now but Mel had never believed her explanation and the relationship had not recovered. At least she hadn’t sent that email to Paul. It was still sitting in her Drafts folder.

  Natasha didn’t know why she behaved this way. She’d be on the crest of something good, a job, a friendship, an apology, when some force took over and she would sabotage whatever had been about to happen.

  Stepping out, reaching for a soft white towel, she began to rub herself dry. She was thinking about her adolescent years. How, instead of asking for more pocket money, she had stolen from Janet’s bag. How she had become the rude one, the naughty one. When her brothers teased her about her skinny arms and legs, her wild hair, she attacked them with fists and teeth. They were cowards, never fought back, only snitched on her to Ed. She was locked in her room for hours. Once,
but only once, Ed hit her, smacking her hard across the face. She had never forgotten, never forgiven. She threatened to ring Social Services, but her sister Eleanor had intervened.

  ‘Don’t do that. They’ll take you away and stick you in a care home. Anyway, Dad’s sorry. He said so.’

  She calculated. He wouldn’t dare do it again and she was better off where she was. She stopped fighting. But no one would stop her doing what she wanted. And now there was Luke, her constant protector.

  Poor doting Luke. From the start, she had tested him. She was living in a tiny bedsit and he had invited her to share his flat in Brixton soon after they met. Two days before she was due to move in, at a crowded party, she had met Elliot, a rangy American with floppy brown hair and long-lashed blue eyes. His gaze transfixed her. He wanted her, and she liked to be wanted. While Luke was drinking and chatting, Elliot had taken her hand, led her upstairs into a bedroom and placed a chair against the door. There she let him remove her clothes, standing naked in front of him as he removed his. He said nothing as she silently detached her pump and laid it on her clothes. There was no shame or anxiety, only the deep mutual understanding that this was something they must do. They had kissed at last, deep slow kisses, his tongue inside her mouth. Still without speaking they lay down, his smooth dark chest swaying over her, the silk of his cock against her thigh, lust in his brilliant eyes. There must have been forty people in the house, but she and Elliot were alone in the world. Their bodies fitted. As he nudged against her, pleasure rippled to her toes. Sex was good with Luke but there was an edge here, an excitement she had never known. Twenty minutes later he got up and dressed.

  ‘Wait a few minutes,’ he said. They were the only words he ever addressed to her. He removed the chair and went downstairs.

  She did as she was told. There was a mirror in the bedroom so after dressing she was able to tidy her hair and her clothes. She didn’t dare take a shower. Not here, not in someone else’s house. She barely knew her hosts; they were social workers, friends of Luke. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw Luke waiting for her. The look on his face told her that he knew what she’d been doing. Would he hit her? Tell her it was over? Instead he said, ‘Let’s go.’