Roxie Cooper - The Law of Attraction - the perfect laugh-out-loud read for autumn 2018

The whole table erupts into laughter as ‘Billster’ holds his hands up in a ‘Not Me, Gov’ type way.

Lovely.

Skylar shoots them all a look of fury before adding, ‘Wasting your time. She’s got standards, this one. Don’t underestimate her.’

That shuts them up. Skylar might be a little odd but he obviously has influence. The Chambers throng get back to their yakking and I continue my small talk with Skylar.

Once we move on to coffees, shit gets serious. Skylar folds his arms, resting them on the table. He leans towards me, lowering the tone of his voice so that nobody else can hear.

‘Amanda, look around you. All this. These people…’

I do as he says.

‘These people are your judge and jury. They will judge you – fairly and unfairly – over the next twelve months. You need to get over seventy-five per cent of Chambers to vote for you over the other pupil if you’re to win the tenancy. These are the people you need to impress.’

And there it is. Stripped bare.

‘So it’s basically a year-long interview?’

‘Oh, it’s worse than that,’ Skylar laughs. ‘You’re being assessed on your academic ability in an interview. Pupillage is a popularity contest. You need to get on with everybody to win this. Think of it as an election campaign.’

‘But surely, if you work hard, that’s all that matters?’ I put to him, naively.

‘Not at the Bar, Barbie.’

Oh.

‘You want to win this? Get on with everyone – men and women. Make friends but don’t be too friendly. Know your enemies. Be smart. Don’t be bitchy. Be willing to help anyone and work hard. And, for God’s sake, do NOT get involved in any drama, scandal, or have sexual relations with anyone at the Bar.’

And there we have it. So much to take in.

I finish my coffee, my mind whirling with what Skylar has just told me. Reality has truly bitten. Skylar spies me salivating at a huge wedge of carrot cake, which he buys for me on account of it being my first day, but says I’m not to expect every day because ‘contrary to popular belief, barristers are not made of money’.

Shortly after, we head back to Chambers because Skylar needs me to look at some paperwork before I go home. I already feel like a pro at this barrister-ing lark.

Kind Man Lawson from the pupillage interview comes in to ask how I am doing.

‘It’s been great, Peter. Really enjoyable and informative,’ I say enthusiastically.

‘Wonderful, so glad we haven’t put you off. I just wondered if you would like to meet the other pupil in the lounge? He’s just got back from court.’

‘Yes! I’ve been looking forward to meeting him,’ I say, honestly. Intrigued, more like. But taking Skylar’s advice on board, I really should make an effort with him. Perhaps we can start going for drinks and having weekly gossip about Chambers. Nothing wrong with healthy competition.

‘Well, Martin is great. He’s already had everyone laughing this afternoon. Seems like a lovely chap.’

Skylar reluctantly agrees that I can go meet Martin and then have an early finish (yesss!) but be back at 7.30 a.m. sharp in the morning.

As I walk to the lounge, I hear roars of laughter. Martin sounds like quite the entertainer. I walk in to find a throng of barristers all directing their attention on to the other pupil, who is sitting with his back to me.

‘Oh Greggsy, what a story, mate! You didn’t put that on your CV! Classic!’ one barrister says while applauding.

Hang on… Greggsy? Martin?

No. Please NO.

Peter gathers the room’s attention before saying, ‘Amanda, I’d like you to meet our other pupil, Martin Gregg.’

Upon this grand announcement, Martin Gregg stands up and turns around. Rather suspiciously, he doesn’t look surprised to see me at all. There he is, wearing a bright-red tie, top button unfastened, looking dishevelled.

Already settled in, I see.

His black hair is gelled in a way that suggests his mam has done it for his first day at school.

‘Mandy! What an amazing coincidence!’ he says in a way which suggests this is not a coincidence, by any stretch of the imagination.

‘You two know each other?’ some random barrister I can’t remember the name of asks.

‘Oh yes. Very well , actually,’ Martin offers with a much-dramatised wink.

I, on the other hand, am so horrified and speechless, I can’t even react to it.

This can’t be happening.

I do know one thing, though: this is going to be a very long twelve months.

CHAPTER 4

Four Months Ago, Law School, Last Night of Term

‘You’re a fucking bitch, Amanda Bentley!’

Martin Gregg is glaring at me with so much fury in his eyes, it’s quite unsettling.

This is the unpleasant climax of a situation which has been simmering for the past nine months, since we both started law school.

There we all were, newbies on our first day of term, excited and ready to become the baby-est of barristers. New files, pens and a whole load of optimism filled the space-age teaching room.

Twenty minutes into the first seminar, Martin Gregg swaggered in without so much as an apology. By the end of the morning he’d boasted to everyone in our group that his father was a judge, he’d attended ‘the best’ boarding school in the UK and could walk into any pupillage in the north-east because of his ‘family connections’. Not exactly the best way to make friends.

He was quite short for a man, but what he lacked in height he made up for in attitude. He was one of those people who’d say they ‘played rugby’ and that’s why they were big, but really, they just carried too much weight. As a result, he couldn’t pull off the (designer) clothes he wore and looked ridiculous (the T-shirts were always too tight, collars were always up, ‘natch). Oh, and his hair; basically a great big sculpted chunk of black Lego hair, almost as if he removed it each night and clipped it back on every morning. A big mass of dense awfulness. Yuk. But it seemed money could buy anything in Martin Gregg’s world… everything except me.

‘You’re so different to all the other girls I’ve known…’ he’d say.

Thank God for that.

‘You’re so… spiky , Amanda,’ he’d say in a way that suggested he got turned on by the very nature of my ‘spikiness’ (whatever that was).

At the beginning, I just took him for an arrogant fool, boring everyone with his bragging anecdotes of polo days and spending weekends with Lord Someone-or-Other.

Then, after a few months, he started slithering up to me asking if I wanted to ‘go for a drink’. I very firmly, but politely, told him ‘no’ on several occasions. Each time, he’d smirk at me, like I obviously just didn’t get how wonderful he was but would in time. It seemed to be the case that on every occasion I rejected him, the more he wanted me. I became a challenge to him. Maybe I was just the ultimate bit of rough he wanted to take home and parade in front of his parents; a rite of passage for all posh boys, bringing home the pretty girl from the council estate just to enrage Father, bang her a few times just to say you’ve done it.

Whatever it was, he set his sights on me and was getting a piece of it one way or another. It was like a creepy infatuation.

In the meantime, all I could do was cringe, watching him scrape through law school, doing the bare minimum to survive. He was one of those smart-arses; the ones who would question the teacher’s ability and authority while the normal members of the group would sink back into their chairs and cringe. Nobody liked him so lord only knew where he got his arrogance from.

‘But have you considered this point, Mr Fletcher?’ he’d ask, cockily, leaning back in his chair.