Good Bad Woman. Elizabeth Woodcraft

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      I slumped on to a chair.

      ‘Jenna’s just popped out to pick up some books from the High Court,’ Gavin said. Jenna was the newest recruit in the clerks’ room, our fourth junior clerk. ‘So you can sit there for a moment.’

      ‘Thank you,’ I said. There was a constant battle in the clerks’ room between the clerks trying to retain their territory and barristers wanting to flop down in the secure and busy atmosphere of the centre of chambers.

      ‘I think Simon wanted to speak to you, actually.’ Gavin picked up the phone. ‘Simon, Frankie’s in. Didn’t you say you wanted a word? She looks as if she needs lunch … He’s coming right down,’ he said to me.

      ‘Gavin!’

      My life was an open book to the clerks, but Gavin still persisted in trying to get me off with men.

      ‘I know you’re, you know, That Way,’ Gavin had said to me in the pub one evening, ‘but I also see you as a very open-minded person.’ He had been drunk. ‘Now Simon, he’s just the type of man you could do with.’

      ‘Does he dust? Does he clean? Would he have my dinner on the table when I got in?’

      Gavin blinked at me.

      ‘Well then, what’s the point?’ I said.

      ‘No no, he’s, he’s, well, you’re a bit of a thinker, aren’t you? And Simon isn’t. What, for you, could be more perfect? A lot of ladies do find him good looking, you know.’ Gavin had been looking at too many computer screens. ‘Plus, he’s loaded.’

      Thinking of the pots of money I knew Simon had inherited only recently after the death of a doting grandmother, his regular private income and his part share in a farm, when he walked into the clerks’ room, I said, ‘All right, Simon, you can take me out for lunch.’ I looked at his wide smile and his good teeth. He really was quite good looking in an old-fashioned way. If he paid more attention to his choice of tie, I thought, he’d be quite a catch for someone.

      We went to the Café Rouge in Fetter Lane. As soon as we sat down Simon ordered a bottle of Bourgueuil.

      ‘Is that just for you, or are we sharing it?’ I asked as the waitress walked away.

      ‘It’s for both of us,’ Simon said. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I should have asked you. You know about wine, don’t you?’

      ‘I’m not sure that’s the right answer, Simon. If I had been a man I assume, perhaps stupidly, that you would have asked me at least to agree to your choice.’

      ‘If you’d been a man like Marcus, who knows nothing about wine, I probably wouldn’t,’ he said irritatingly. ‘But I concede your point. I forgot about your knowledge of wine, because you are a woman.’

      ‘Well, thank you for that,’ I said.

      ‘Do you hate all men?’ Simon asked.

      ‘For God’s sake, Simon, what a stupid thing to say. I work with you, don’t I?’

      The waiter came to ask if we were ready to order and we both asked for steak and chips, rare.

      ‘But it’s an interesting thought, isn’t it? Lesbians …’ I didn’t like to think where this conversation might be going. ‘Have you ever thought of starting your own set?’ Simon poured wine into my glass. ‘You could be head of the first women-only set.’

      ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’ I asked.

      ‘Not at all. I like you being in chambers. It’s an idea, though, isn’t it?’

      ‘I’m not sure what the point would be. It couldn’t be all lesbians, there aren’t enough of us at the bar.’ I had thought before about the possibility of striking out into the strange territory of an all women’s set of chambers, with women clerks.

      ‘And so,’ Simon said carefully, ‘some of the barristers would have boyfriends or husbands, and they might have boy children.’

      ‘Exactly, you couldn’t keep men out.’ I tore a piece of bread in half, showering the table with flakes of crust. ‘You’d have male clients. Then there’d be the motorbike couriers, the postman, the window cleaner.’

      The waiter placed our orders in front of us.

      ‘And I know you’d be the last to say this, Simon, but women barristers are not necessarily any better, whatever that means, than men. They’re not intrinsically more politically right on. Margaret Thatcher was a barrister. They’re not kinder or gentler – but you don’t want that in a barrister anyway.’ I stuffed chips into my mouth.

      ‘They usually smell nicer.’

      ‘Simon,’ I said. ‘Barristers are barristers. Rich, posh, privileged.’

      ‘Are you?’ he asked.

      ‘I’m trying to make a political point. I’m not, as it happens, as you can tell perfectly well from my vowel sounds. And I’m not rich … well, not particularly. Certainly not at the moment, anyway.’

      ‘This lunch is on me,’ Simon said with concern.

      ‘Thank you,’ I said.

      We raised our glasses to each other. Simon said, ‘You don’t really think I’m trying to get rid of you, do you?’

      ‘No, Simon, I don’t.’

      ‘Because that would be absurd. Because, you know, I really like you.’ His cheeks began to glow. ‘And if there ever came a time when you thought you wanted to, you know, try … try again, try with a man … you could always turn to me.’

      ‘Thank you, but no.’

      ‘No strings attached, just to see, you know.’

      ‘Simon, give me a break.’

      ‘Just a bit of practice?’

      ‘Simon,’ I said, slowly swilling the contents of my glass, ‘if this were not expensive wine, I would pour it on your head now.’ I looked at his broad face and his eager blue eyes. ‘Just order two Armagnacs and we’ll forget you said that.’

      ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Sorry. This is rather good wine, isn’t it? I assume neither of us is in court this afternoon.’

      ‘I’m not,’ I said, still trying to assert a sense of annoyance.

      ‘But if the system is so awful,’ Simon said, as we sat with large glasses of rich amber Armagnac, ‘isn’t it going to corrupt you?’ He gazed at me.

      ‘It might, but not the way you want it to, Simon. Don’t start that again.’

      ‘Well, let me cheer you up and tell you about my morning in front of His Honour Judge Swiffham till you regain your sense of justice and love for all humankind.’

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