Peacock Chambers’ annual drinks party is almost upon us.

“Do we have to go?” Jane grumbles.  “Can’t we just go out and enjoy ourselves without hordes of irritating barristers about?”

“Not if we want to do it for free,” Liz points out.

“With pink champagne,” Alex adds.

She shoots him a despairing look. “Free champagne is not worth an evening of enforced socialising with lawyers, especially the barristerial kind.”

“You don’t have to speak to them,” he reasons.

“Of course we do, that’s the whole point: they labour under the mistaken belief that the best way to get work is to bore us with lies about great court victories, when, in fact, the best way to do it is to simply bribe us.”

“Bribe us?”

“Yes: slip us some readies; pay us off; tip us the wink; you know what I mean.”

“You can’t say that!” Liz gasps.

“Why not?  That’s how we keep our clients happy.”

“We do not!”

“What do you think the day-trips to Ascot and lunches at Quaglinos are?”

“Not bribes. That’s implies some sort of seedy, unpleasant dealing.”

“I rest my case!”

Jane thinks client entertaining at CWS is one step away from prostitution.  In fact, in some firms, it’s not even that far removed. 

“You should read the particulars of my employment dispute,” I tell her.  “If, what Amelia says is true, you should be grateful it’s only lunch and small-talk we’re expected to provide.”

“Really?”

“Yes.  On one occasion Amelia was asked on a business trip to Washington but when she arrived at the airport she discovered it was Washington via Amsterdam; an obvious route!  Her Boss said it was to save money on the flights but when they go there they checked into a hotel next to The Red Light District.   She only found this out when she was asked to accompany them for a stroll; they walked around the corner straight into windows full of naked breasts and nipple tassels.”

“Blimey!  What did she do?”

“She was too embarrassed to do anything so she kept walking whilst they chose which “service” they wanted to use.   When they had decided they asked if she would join in.”

“No!”

“Yes.  And when she refused they put her on the first flight back to London.”

“Poor Amelia.”

“I know.  But that wasn’t the only event.   On another occasion she was told to attend a charity “Heroes and Villains” party.  When she arrived, she found her costume was a Wonder Woman outfit, complete with hot pants and high heeled boots.”

“No!”

“Yes.  She had to spend all evening with people ogling her bum and asking if she was, ‘wearing satin tights and fighting for her rights’.”

“And was she?” Alex giggles. 

“No.”

“Why not?  I would have been!”

We ignore him.

“That’s appalling,” Liz shakes her head.

“I know, but her Boss didn’t think so.  When she complained he said he was disappointed it wasn’t a Cat Woman suit.”

“Dirty old perv.”

“What was he dressed as?” Alex asks.

“A gangster.   He didn’t even need to get changed; just added a cigar and a violin case and he was indistinguishable from the real thing.”

“In more ways than one.”

“And, after all that, she was still made redundant?” Liz is still taking it all in.

“Because of all that.   She was the only woman brave enough to take a stand against it.  The others went along with it to further their careers.”

“Further their careers?!”  This provides Jane with a chance to get on her soap box.  “By flattering an ugly old partner?!  They may be able to do that now, when they’re young and perky, but fast forward twenty years and things will be very different!”

“Yeah, they will be partners,” Alex mutters.

“No they won’t!” she waggles her finger at him. ”They will be working mothers, overlooked for partnership and forced to slave for school fees, whilst their old Bosses fawn and fondle the latest round of willing assistants!  Perhaps then they will rue their lack of foresight and self-respect.”

“Like Miranda does, you mean?”

She hasn’t thought of this.  It stops her.  But only for a moment.

“Miranda is an exception, not a rule!” she declares.

“But she’s proof that brains and principles count for nothing when it comes to promotion.”

“You should be all right then,” Alex laughs. 

“You know what I mean!” she fumes.

“Not really.  It’s not the people with principles who get on in life it’s the people without them.  Perhaps Amelia is the fool for not sleeping with her boss.”

“ARE YOU MAD/INSANE/CRAZY?!!!” we all erupt at the same time.

“Er, well,” he looks up at three the black-suited furies bearing down upon him, “when you put it like that…. perhaps not……”

We sit down.

“Although Miranda is doing very nicely for herself,” he adds.

Three pairs of eyes bore into him.

“Ok, ok, only because she’s a shameless strumpet.”

And, the sad fact is: if we were shameless strumpets too, so might we……

We don’t have time to dwell on this because the bus arrives and we all clamber aboard the “Peacocks Express”.  

We arrive at the venue to find a small snaky-line of lawyers slithering down the street. 

“What’s the hold up?” Jane demands.

“Security checks,” one explains. “They’ve got metal detectors.”

“What on earth for?”

“One of the barristers was involved in some big terrorist case or other.   Now they think the drinks do may be targeted by extremists.”

“Extremists?”

“Yeah,” he nods.  “Peacock’s Summer Party is top of Bin Laden’s hit list;  right up there with The White House and The Pentagon.”

“If he wiped this lot out he would do the world a service!” 

Having established that there is absolutely no threat to our safety whatsoever, we pass through the metal detectors and for full body scans.

Suddenly, there is a commotion behind us.  The Boss has arrived and is marching to the front of the queue. 

“What is the cause of the hold up?” he demands.

“Security checks,” shrugs the bloke.

“For what?  We are here to socialise with our colleagues,  not steal The Crown Jewels!”

He shrugs again. “Not my decision, mate.  I’m just here to enforce the instructions.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure you are, but you obviously don’t know who I am.  My name is Alistair King and I give this Chambers an enormous amount of work.”

He looks distinctly nonplussed. “You could be The Queen of Sheba for all I know.”

“Well, I’m not.  I’m a very important person so far as this Chambers is concerned and I will not tolerate this endless queuing to be strip searched.”

“Sorry to disappoint you sir,” the guard replies, “But there is no strip searching involved.  And we have to deal with one person at a time.”

“Did you not hear what I said?  I am this Chambers’ best and most profitable client!”

“I don’t care if you’re The Second Coming of Christ, I can’t let you in without a security check.  If you’ll kindly get in line, we might all get through this ordeal quicker.”

The gasket finally blows. “IF YOU DON’T LET ME IN IMMEDIATELY, I SHALL NEVER INSTRUCT THIS CHAMBERS AGAIN!  DO YOU HEAR ME?  NEVER!” 

“I’ll pass on the message Sir.”

With that, he flounces back down the street.  We shrink back into the crowd as he approaches and, unable to find us he finally turns tail and stalks off.

“We’ve lost him!” Alex whispers.  

“Hurrah!  No need to worry about behaving ourselves now.”

“We’re free to eat, drink and say what we like!”

The evening suddenly seems much more exciting.

But, given that most of the guests are still outside on the pavement, the party is less than swinging inside and, desperate for any marketing opportunities, the hosts swoop on us almost as soon as we get through the door.

“Welcome to our humble party,” says one, handing us glasses of champagne.  

“So nice to see so many new faces,” agrees another, his eyes sparkling with intent.

New faces: new sources of income.

“Yes,” we agree, as we are surrounded by black-suited barristers.

“What sort of work do you tend to do?” says  a third.

“A mixture.” 

“So, you’re generalists?”

“You could say that.”  

“Then you’re bound to need lots of expert assistance,” adds another.

Hearing this, they close in.

“Not often, actually,” we back away. “We have a very good library.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes.  With lots of excellent research facilities and text books.”

“Why agonise over text books when you can get the answer straight from the horse’s mouth?” says another.

“Text books are less likely to bite,” Jane observes.

They laugh in a collective predatory sort of manner.   I now know what Harry, Ron and Hermione feel like when facing The Death Eaters.  We look to one another, all thinking the same thing.  Jane looks set to perform the cruciatus curse when we are saved by the arrival of reinforcements.  Dan, Simon and Tarquin appear and divide their forces.  We are left with one QC and a couple of juniors, whom we quickly dispatch with a banishing hex and a tongue-tying charm.

We are free to enjoy the canapes without interruption.

“The credit crunch doesn’t appear to have affected Peacock Chambers,” Liz notes, as waiters swarm about with trays brimming with smoked salmon and caviar.

“Quite the opposite,” Alex agrees.  “They’ve had a bumper year.”

“RFS has done so well he’s even thinking of “retiring” to the judiciary,” I point out.

“Oh Lord, no!” Jane exclaims.  “Please let the economy pick up.  The world is not ready for RFS on the bench.”

“Imagine the havoc he would cause?” Liz agrees. “It would be like putting Dr No in a wig.”

As if reading our minds, suddenly, there is another commotion in the security area.  The Boss is back with our favourite QC, Roger Fortesque-Smythe.  

“There you are!” The Boss shouts.  “Would you please let me in?”

“Have you been barred?” RFS laughs at his old school friend who is standing on the other side of the barrier looking very red-faced. `

“No, I have not!” The Boss fumes.  “Your stupid Chambers is insisting we line up for security checks.  I am a partner in a City law firm for goodness sake!  I am not about to be frisked by some jumped-up nightclub bouncer.”

“Not without paying for the pleasure, at least?” he smirks. “Well, follow me; I think I can get you in without a full cavity search.  Move aside, move aside, this guest is with me!” he gestures to The Boss, to duck under the security cordon.   But he is stopped by the same bouncer he had his earlier fight with.

“Just a minute!” he grabs The Boss before RFS can reach him. 

“Un-hand me!” commands The Boss.

“Sorry mate, but you’re trespassing.”

“I am not!”

“Let him go,” RFS orders. “He is with me. ”

“He’s broken the security screening,” The bouncer explains.  “I’m under orders to eject him.”

Go on! Go on!  We are all willing him to do it.

But rather than support him, RFS gives the poor bouncer a dressing down and forces hism to apologise to The Boss, who stands, smugly, over him like a prefect.

“Sorry, Sir,” he shrugs, “But how was I to know who you were?  You could have been Carlos the Jackal or anyone. ”

“Do I look like Carlos the Jackal?” he demands.

“I don’t know.  That’s the point.  Just cos you have a posh accent and a flash suit,  it doesn’t make you any less of a threat, I’m afraid. ”

“On the contrary,” The Boss gives one of his condescending little laughs.  “I think you’ll find that most criminals cannot afford to shop on Saville Row. “ 

The bouncer guffaws.  “On the contrary, sir, I think you’ll find that the biggest crooks are also the wealthiest.”

And with a knowing wink, he lets him through.