Court Out (5 page)

“How about you bring me breakfast in bed?”

Sebastian looks at me incredulously. “Up. Now. Come on lazybones. If you’re nice to me I’ll put the kettle on.”

In a small voice I manage to speak. “No eggs?”

He scoops me up and deposits me unceremoniously on the bedroom floor “I can’t afford to shell out,” he puns.

“Ha ha, you crack me up,” I retort in a poor attempt to be witty.

He kneels to join me on the hardwood floor and kisses me softly on the lips. “You’re poaching all my best yolks,” he whispers.

I groan, “Enough, enough! I’ll make my own!”

Although, now he’s this close to me I’m not sure I’m hungry or sleepy anymore. As he moves towards me, one of his strong arms snaking around my waist, the other pulling the discarded duvet over us I fight the temptation to get take the last word. That’s all yolks.

Showered and dressed in a Breton stripy top and a pair of navy skinny jeans I leave the house and start the twenty minute walk to my parents’ house. I normally wouldn’t hesitate in jumping into my little Audi, but I wouldn’t stake my driving licence on the fact that I’m under the legal limit given the escapades of last night.

In hindsight, maybe I should have worn trainers. I look down to my feet, currently shod in an amazing pair of purple Carvella platforms, currently stuck in a crack in the pavement. I yank the left shoe out of the hole, and tear the leather covering the heel in the process. I wince, not good.

I swear, I spend more money in the cobblers than in Karen Millen. Not an easy feat you may think, but I manage it. It’s not like I’m Victoria Beckham or Cheryl Cole and wear ridiculously high heels at all times because I’m a slave to fashion, it’s because whilst my legs look perfectly acceptable from the knee down, if you were to look up ‘thunder thighs’ in the dictionary then there is probably a picture of me. Put me in flat shoes and I feel like a circus freak.

I could probably solve this problem by exercising more or wearing more forgiving clothes but life is far too short for either. Anyway, I’m sure I read that walking in heels burns more calories than walking in trainers.

Factor into this equation my inability to maintain a vertical position when sober and you’ll understand why people give me a wide berth when we walk together. A few weeks ago I was walking to the train station with one of my favourite instructing solicitors when, outside a rival set of Chambers, I went down. Face first. Luckily for me, the said solicitor is well used to such impromptu displays of acrobatics and helped me up without too much drama.

You would be forgiven for thinking that this was caused by my heels, but I’m even worse in my Uggs.

I push the button to activate the pelican crossing and wait. Cars whizz past, some with music blaring from their stereos, their motion blowing my hair into my face. It took me about forty minutes to straighten my mane this morning. I honestly don’t know what I did before the invention of GHD’s; I mean it’s not even as if I was blessed with curly hair, more like a frizzy mess that Ronald McDonald would be proud of. It’s a massive daily chore, but a necessary one.

Today is a warm, sunny day, even for July and I attempt to locate my sunglasses from within my bag. I grab randomly and fish out the 3D goggles that we had to buy when we went to the cinema last month. Will these work? I put them on and am instantly disorientated by the lenses. I’m attracting all sorts of weird looks. Again, I think that I really must sort out this bag; I dread to think what damage I’ve done to the interior.

A passing lorry beeps its horn at me. Lovely. I attempt a second search for my glasses and after some heavy-duty rummaging write it off as a bad job. I do however find my phone and remember that I should text Cassie to check that she isn’t planning to quit and run off to join the circus.

As I look at the display I realise that I must have accidentally knocked it onto silent last night as I have five missed calls from Serena, two from Robert and three from a number I don’t recognise. Helpfully, no-one has left me a voicemail. Oh well, if it’s important, they’ll call back.

I text as I walk, reminding Cassie that we all went through twelve months of torture before being made permanent fixtures in Chambers and inviting her to call me if she ever needs a chat, or bitch, about anything.

She’s a decent girl, although often undervalued given her blonde hair, blue eyes and ample cleavage. Her pupillage ends in late October and I expect I’ll be summonsed to the usual meeting to decide her fate in due course. She’s allowed to conduct her own cases in now and appear in court in her own right. As you’d expect, she’s understandably nervous.

So far I’ve heard mixed reviews of her progress from people who have asked her for help with research and seen her in court, although I can trace the negative comments back to male barristers she’s turned down or female barristers who are jealous of her youth and beauty. She’s by no means the complete package yet, but in time I’m sure she’ll be able to hold her own.

I clearly remember being a pupil barrister, being thrust into a glamourous new world full of ambitious people working on the front line of the justice system. Believe it or not, I never really drank alcohol before starting my foray into the world of law; my father always disapproved of anything that could impact on my studies. That changed though when I started the Bar course and then spent the first six months following my ‘pupil supervisor’ around the courts and pubs of the Midlands, drinking until closing time each night, with Friday always being the finale to the week. During the second six months, I was allocated briefs of my own and trekked to various Magistrates Courts making an idiot of myself, misinterpreting evidence and points of law. Those twelve months were stressful and high impact. I was seen as ‘fresh meat’ for the old perverts and a ‘challenge’ for the young bloods.

The day I was told that I was to be taken on as a tenant, a permanent member of Chambers, was quite possibly the happiest day of my life, firstly as it meant I had officially made it and secondly as I could tell all of the unwanted suitors to sod off. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Kelly Brook, but in this environment, I might as well be.

Ah, home. As I turn the familiar left hand bend I see my family house in front of me I’m struck by an unexpected pang of nostalgia. I walk to the front door and let myself in. I’m immediately assailed by Siddy, our family Shih Tzu. What he lacks in size he more than makes up for in spirit and within a matter of seconds I find myself liberally coated in black and white hair. I bend over to rub his ears and he leans in to me, obviously enjoying the fuss. My mother walks into the hall from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that she’s carrying.

“Darling! How are you? Gosh you’re looking thin, are you eating properly?” She comes over and envelopes me in a hug. I breathe in her familiar perfume, happy to be back in her company.

“Don’t be daft mum, I eat more than you and dad put together!”

We part and walk through to the kitchen, Siddy at my heels, where I can see a host of Waitrose bags on the counter.

“Just been shopping?” I walk up to the stash and have a good rummage, stopping when I find a particularly delicious looking packet of flapjacks.

“Help yourself,” she laughs, putting the kettle on behind me. “Yes, though we’d give the new store a go, seeing as it’s only down the road. Your father is addicted to their shortbread.” She pauses and looks up at me in horror, “Oops! Darling, don’t tell him I told you that, you know it’s frighteningly bad for business!”

Dad is a GP who spends his days lecturing people about what they can and can’t eat. Given the sugar and butter content, I can’t see that shortbread counts as one of his five-a-day. I don’t have a death wish, so mum can rest assured I won’t use his treats that as a topic of conversation.

“So, I understand you’ve been intercepting my post?” I tease.

“Hardly dear, but I thought you might have set up another secret credit card and sent the bill here again.”

“Mum! That was like, one time!” I say indignantly. It’s pretty hard to be indignant when you have a mouth full of flapjack, but I think I do a relatively good job.

My mother doesn’t bat an eyelid.

“So why does the statement still come here?”

Good point. “Well, what Sebastian doesn’t know can’t hurt him” I say, laughing. The reality is, whilst I can pay the bill, Sebastian would have a heart attack if he saw in black and white exactly where my money goes. Whilst most girls (and indeed some men) would appreciate the need to buy the odd pair of fabulous Louboutins or a killer corset from Agent Provocateur, I’m not sure Sebastian would see the value for money in respect of such items. Hence, the need for a teensy bit of deception. Plus, it’s technically the bank’s money, not mine…

My mum strolls off to collect whatever mystery post has arrived for me this time. An attractive woman in her late fifties she has honey blonde hair perfectly coiffed into its usual above shoulder style and is dressed as always in a fitted patterned blouse and tailored trousers. Shorter than me at five feet four, she still struggles to comprehend how her daughter could have grown taller than her; a point which she continually refuses to acknowledge.

Walking over to her, I intend to give her a customary pat on the head, designed to provoke our usual debate as to who is the taller Chase female, but stop when I see the item in her hand.

The envelope is cream with my name and home address written in manuscript calligraphy on the front. I don’t have to touch it to know that it is heavy in weight. As I take it from my mother I see a Neighsbury postmark.

“Can I get you a cup of tea darling? Earl Grey or PG Tips?”

“Earl Grey please mum, just a dash of milk”

As she walks back towards the kettle, I turn my attention back to the envelope and unceremoniously tear it open, greedily like a child at Christmas. I pull out a wad of folded paper in matching cream and open it, letting various pamphlets drop to the floor. I skim the contents of the document, registering that it comes from my old Bar Course provider, inviting me to a reunion in August. I bend to pick up the dropped leaflets from the floor. They all relate to the venue of the dinner and accommodation suggestions.

As I place the paperwork in my bag I feel a flush of excitement at the concept of seeing all of my old classmates again. Since we graduated there has never been a full reunion and I wonder what everyone is up to. Of course, I’ve added them all as friends on Facebook, but it’s not quite the same as interrogating them in real life. With a smile, I approach my mother who has put my cup of tea alongside another flapjack and is looking expectantly at me.

“So, what is it then?” She asks.

“Wow, someone’s being a bit nosey today!”

She playfully cuffs me around the ear.

“Just an invitation to a class reunion later in the year. It’s being held in Neighsbury so I expect Serena and I will go together.”

“How lovely, it’ll be nice for you to catch up with all your old friends.”

I look at a second flapjack and mentally calculate the number of calories in it. Sod it; I’d always rather be hung for a sheep than a lamb. I nod at my mum, teeth glued together by the oaty goodness. After I’ve managed to re-engage my jaws, I indicate to the office beneath the stairs.

“So where is dad?”

“At the course, of course!” She laughs at her joke, “He left pretty early this morning to meet a new doctor at the surgery.”

Dad is a golf fanatic. He tried to make me play once, convinced it would increase my ‘networking opportunities.’ I did try to explain to him that most criminals don’t play golf and most criminal solicitors don’t have the time to, but he was adamant. We arrived at the driving range, bought a bucket of balls each and got set to see who could whack one the furthest. After dad had hit an impressive drive, it was my go. I‘d tried to copy what he had done, stood side on to the ball and imagined I was back on the school hockey team. Dad had lent me one of his clubs that he promised would do the job due to some random American technology that had been employed to produce it. He was very proud of his kit and had spent God knows how much acquiring the perfect set of clubs; his driver was his baby.

As I closed my eyes and swung, expecting to feel the clink of metal on the ball I was sorely disappointed to connect with a wholly different surface. When I opened my eyes I saw my father looking at me with a mixture of amazement and fury. I looked down to see the ball still on its tee, the club still in my hands. I looked at my dad in confusion.

“What happened?”

“You happened!” he’d cried back at me.

“What? How?” I had picked up the club and inspected the base and immediately spotted a huge dent that definitely wasn’t there to start with. My father was not impressed.

“Thank you Lauren. Do you have any idea how much that club cost? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t designed for being smacked into the floor!”

Ah. Right. Maybe I should have had my eyes open then.

It seems no matter what I do, it’s never quite good enough for my dad. You’d think that me being a ‘high-flying’ criminal barrister would be something he could brag about to his doctor friends, but no. He’s never quite gotten over the fact that I never excelled during my science GCSE’s, thus making me ineligible to follow in his medic shaped footsteps. I’m sure he wishes he has a son to work alongside, but I’m afraid he’s stuck with little old me.

I finish the flapjack and wash it down with the rest of my tea. Sebastian refuses to have Earl Grey in the house on the basis that it “Tastes like washing up liquid.”

“Right mum, I’d better make a move, I have to pop into Chambers to pick up my work for Monday.”

She looks at me in horror.

“What, on a Saturday evening?”

“Mum, you know how it works!”

She’s never quite got her head round the fact that my job isn’t quite a nine to five. I’m used to it now, finishing in court at 5pm and then picking up my briefs for the day after. I’ve officially declared Saturday a day of rest; I absolutely refuse to even look at my work until Sunday. Sadly, that still means I have to collect my papers at some point between Friday afternoon and Sunday night.