NEWSFLASH: NEXT AA WILL BE MONDAY 9th JANUARY.  HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE.

It is a big week: the merger is being announced (it’s a big secret but everyone knows); the Christmas party is being taking place and I have decided to take matter into my own hands and demand a pay rise. In order to do so I am armed with several weapons: Peter’s formulation of loss; my appraisal from Margaret; a copy of the market salary survey and (best of all) the pay review spread sheet, which I have decided to keep in reserve.

And, against my better judgment I told Jane what’s been bothering me. She caught me in a moment of weakness; after a particularly bruising encounter with Miranda.

“I shouldn’t have to put up with this when I’m paid less than anyone in the department.”

“How do you know that?” she demanded.

“I just know.” I didn’t tell her about the spread sheet. She would have it photocopied and hanging off every notice board before I can say stop.

“Well,” she considered this, “I can see why they would do that.”

“What?!” I expected her to support me.

“Well,” she said airily, “you don’t have the gravitas of some of us and you don’t publicise yourself as well as others.”

Gravitas? I’ll give her gravitas.  “Being a good lawyer is not about gravitas or publicity. It’s about intelligence, hard work and experience.”

“Oh, I know that,” she agreed. “It’s just that being a good lawyer and being paid well are two entirely separate things. And that’s what you need to learn.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you have to learn the art of self-promotion. Margaret Thatcher did it and you can do it too.”

“You want me to have vocal coaching and an image overhaul?”

“If necessary, yes.”

She decided to make me one of her pet projects; like homeless people and communists.

“Ok, first, you need to lose the dark suits,” she tells me.

This is rich coming from someone who wears nothing but black suits; even at weekends and in the country.  “You are a fine one to talk,” I point out.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Black suits are my thing. But you wear any old dark coloured thing. That’s not a look, that’s a lack of effort.  And it’s not very memorable.”

“So, what do you suggest?” Gok Wan.

“A theme: a trademark colour; some jewellery and new shoes.”

“I don’t want to look like Jacqui Collins,” I warn.

She lets out a loud guffaw.  “You should be so lucky! That woman is worth a small fortune; if you could emulate her success you would be laughing.”

I can see it now: gold lame; red lipstick and big hair but I resolve to put my foot down at animal prints.

She decides to take me shopping at lunchtime; which is alien enough. And, we start on Cheapside; which is some irony because there is nothing cheap about anything for sale along there.

“Here, try this,” she hands me a purple jacket. “And this.” A scarlet scarf.  “And  this.” A cerise pink dress. “ And this. ”A turquoise belt.

I stumble out of the changing rooms wearing all four items at once.

She almost falls off her chair from laughing. “You look like Cyndi Lauper! Ha ha ha!”

To top it off she starts humming Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.

“There is nothing fun about this,” I snarl. “Besides, you chose all of this.”

“I didn’t intend you to wear it all at once!” she howls. “These are signature pieces.”

What the hell are they? And who made her a fashionista anyway?! It’s not like she’s ever read Vogue or shown an interest in design. Cursing her under my breath, I flounce back into the changing room and remove the offending items.

“I’m not enjoying this,” I shout. “It’s like shopping with Anna Wintour’s evil sister.”

“You’re not supposed to enjoy it; you’re supposed to appreciate it. It’s doing you good. We’ll take the scarf and the jacket,” she tells the assistant. “I’m not sure about the dress or the belt.”

She is (at least) half right; secretly, I thought the jacket was nice and the scarf was ok. Not that I tell her that; I slump out of the shop like a sulky teenager muttering about the outrageous cost. Ignoring me she proceeds to pick out two more jackets, three dresses, a pair of shoes, two more scarves and several sets of jewellery.

“Now, Christmas party outfit,” she declares. “What have you got?”

“Nothing.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls me into a shop selling shiny skimpy numbers.

“I’m not wearing any of those with Carlton around!”

Imagine?! He would literally think all his Christmases had come at once.

“No, you’re right, you’re not;” she points to a blue satin number “You’re wearing this with some nice pearls.”

I am forced to try it on and (although I hate to admit it) it is lovely and completely respectable (no unwanted cleavage on display and certainly no knicker skimming going on); like Grace Kelly.

“Wow!” says the sales girl as I exit the cubicle. “You look amazing.”

Jane nods. “You just need some matching shoes and you’re all set for world domination.”

We return to the office laden with bags; no one notices though, they’re all too busy discussing the impending merger.

“My friend worked there; she left after four months; she said it was a terrible place to work.”

“Why was that?” gasps Melinda.

“Because it was really political and back stabbing; and they made her work really hard.”

“What do you mean ‘political and back stabbing’?”

“Groups of secretaries would get together to gossip and make bitchy comments about each other.”

Wow; no wonder the partners think the two firms are a good match.

“Oh that sounds awful!” She fails to appreciate the symmetry. “How hard did they have to work?” but she is worried about having to earn her keep.

“Really hard. All day,” Lynnette explains. “With no biscuits.  And they only got overtime if they worked a whole extra hour.”

Really? It’s growing on me already.

But not them, obviously; they spend the rest of the day plotting and scheming about how they can bring the new girls into line with the CWS way of doing things.  But is it a merger or a takeover? No one is sure. So Alex decides to ask The Boss.

“It’s a takeover, of course!” he laughs. “We’re taking over them to save them from collapse.”

“That’s not what they are saying.”

“Well, of course, it isn’t. They wouldn’t admit to something like that. We are allowing them to retain their dignity.”

Pity they don’t extend that same generosity to their own members of staff.

But all this talk of change persuades me to seize the initiative and confront him about my pay review. But, first, I have to test out my authoritative new look. I cast off my dull dark suits and replace them drive, colour, energy. The new zingy, thrusting, no-nonsense Helen is born!

And no one notices.  Not even Melinda (usually able to spot a change in lipstick at fifty paces).

I try swishing my new scarf as I walk around.

Still nothing.

I jingle my new jewellery.

Nothing again.

I flick my heels in my new shoes.

Not a dickey bird.

“It’s a good thing,” Jane tells me. “It show’s it’s a subtle change.”

So subtle that it takes them five whole days to notice.

“You look like an air stewardess in that scarf,” Melinda says, absently, one morning.

“Yeah,” Danielle agrees, scrutinising me, “You just need one of those little hats and you could work for British Airways.”

“Maybe that’s what I should be doing,” I agree. I would certainly get better benefits and holidays (what a luxury!).

“What’s that?” asks The Boss as he stalks past.

“Working for British Airways,” I tell him.

“Oh yes?!” he snorts. “Thinking of a career change are you?”

Actually, yes.

“Not exactly,” although I am wondering if I shouldn’t adopt their enthusiasm for strikes.

“I should think not; you young solicitors don’t know you are born.  I didn’t earn half what you did at your age, I didn’t get a pension and I certainly never expected time off.”

Here we go again; poor old Bob Cratchitt….

“I didn’t have an office or a secretary, I was made to sit outside my boss’s room and do his filing. There were no computers back then; we had to fill in our time sheets by hand.”

And so it goes on; an endless list of self-pity; I decide it’s probably not the best time to raise the issue of my pay review.

I still haven’t said anything by the time the Christmas party arrives. By then it’s eating me up so much that I think I may do/say something I’ll regret.  But still I’m too scared to confront him. And I don’t want to go to the blasted party.

“Put your new dress on,” Jane commands, “And get out here.”

I stare at it hanging on the back of the door.

“Come on!”

With as much grace as a baby elephant I writhe and wriggle my way into it; fling on the pearls and fumble for my shoes.

And then something magical happens.  It’s not me staring back in the mirror; it’s some feisty, glamorous Amazonian goddess. And then, I realise; I’m finally ready to face him.

“Just a moment,” I tell Jane. “I have something I need to do.”

And with confident strides across the floor, I walk into his office, take out the spread sheet, highlight my name on it and leave it in the middle of his desk. Then I turn around, and head off to the party. Cinderella has finally found her ball(s).