Court Out - By Elle Wynne Page 0,8
hair, Serena vocalises my realisation.
“Oh my God, that’s Lucinda isn’t it? What the hell is she doing here?”
“Damned if I know, I didn’t realise they had broomstick parking outside”
“And isn’t that Holly too?” she asks, nodding towards a squat brunette in an unflattering beige linen suit and cream kitten heels.
I nod, temporarily lost for words.
When we were at Bar School, Lucinda Green was one of the twelve members of our small group sessions. Confident to the point of cocky she monopolised most of the discussions with her egocentrical interpretations of the rules of advocacy, and forced the rest of us to listen to her rambling opening speeches, right-wing charging ideas and frankly corrupt negotiation techniques.
Due to the nature of our close-knit group, we all spent a lot of time socialising, discussing our plans for the future, career paths thus far and revision techniques. Lucinda made it clear to everyone that because of her ‘connections’ (Her uncle was a barrister in a set of Chambers in Manchester) she considered herself above such concerns.
She found a willing sidekick in the form of Holly Rones, a short, plain girl who copied her every move, mimicked her mannerisms and also managed to alienate the entire class.
I always felt sorry for Holly, as had she been willing to complete the course on her own terms instead of Lucinda’s then I expect she would have been well liked. Lucinda on the other hand was a total lost cause.
The last time I had seen either girl was at Call Night, an antiquated tradition where successful students are officially ‘Called to the Bar’ by joining an Inn of Court. Lucinda had gotten incredibly drunk on the free champagne and had become very loud and obnoxious to anyone who had the misfortune of trying to make conversation with her.
This culminated with her telling the then Lord Chief Justice “not to be silly” when he asked her whether she was worried about the future of the Bar. It goes without saying that this went down like the proverbial lead balloon.
Following that inspired piece of networking, Lucinda had been quietly asked to leave. As you might have expected, at that point, she was in no mood for going quietly and after knocking a tray of canapés to the floor in anger, flounced out, dragging Holly with her. Rumour had it that her uncle’s head of Chambers got wind of her performance and renounced his offer that she could join them as a pupil. This was a truly devastating blow.
To become a pupil barrister it takes a lot of hard work, but even more luck. When I first applied over eight years ago there were at least three thousand applicants for six hundred places in Chambers across England and Wales. The number of criminal pupillages was a small percentage of that figure. Given the current state of the Criminal Bar (Don’t ask…) things have got much harder.
I still thank my lucky stars that I managed to fluke the process and get a place, followed two years later by Serena who had to play the Russian roulette of the applications process for a little longer.
I watch the group carefully.
“You’re right, how odd. Do you think it’s a coincidence they’ve just walked into a room full of lawyers or-”
My question becomes redundant, as having spotted our table, the two women approach our table purposefully; Lucinda leading the way with Holly as always, in her wake.
“Serena! Lauren!” she cries, “How amazing to see you both. You’re looking so, so well. It’s nice to see it is true that those working in the provinces can be more, well, comfortable with their appearances.”
Bitch.
She continues, “Gosh, I’m amazed to see you both together again after so long. Are you on a mini-pupillage with Lauren, Serena?”
This comment is directed at Serena with a sickly sweet smile and a voice that rings with insincerity. A mini-pupillage is the barrister equivalent of doing some unpaid, on the job work experience for a week or so within a set of Chambers.
Serena smiles and considering her words carefully, replies.
“Don’t be silly, Lucinda, you know that I’m a member of Chambers with Lauren now too. Just because you never got pupillage doesn’t mean that the rest of us can’t.”
If I didn’t know Lucinda, I’d have missed the look of sheer contempt that passes over her face.
“Pupillage?” She looks incredulous. “Oh I don’t need a pupillage anymore. Who wants to be self-employed anyway? Not me, not when I have Andrew.”
At this, she thrusts her left