Over the decades, she had become accustomed to dining in Middle Temple Hall, like those crusty old benchers who looked down her blouse. Dining, then as now, was a rite of passage through which all would-be barristers had to pass, and could be a useful way of meeting and impressing those who could smooth your passage in the turbulent early years of your career. It didn’t do any harm to be sexually attractive, and able to hold your liquor. Christine had worked it well, charming her way into chambers after chambers – and now she returned regularly as a guest of honour, addressing tomorrow’s legal hotshots on the ups and downs of family practice.

Tonight she was back, another year older, the gap between her and those depressingly fresh-faced students wider than ever. She was singing for her supper, giving them her standard routine before they were allowed to tuck into the first course. It was not difficult. Half an hour was all that was required, and she could do it with her eyes shut. A few words about some of her recent successes, naming no names, of course, but anyone who had done their homework would know to whom she referred, and then a bit about the absolute importance of the very highest standards of personal probity, bla bla bla, confidentiality in an age of increasingly intrusive media, the contract between advocate and client no matter who that client may be, drop a few hints and let them guess about the roster of the rich and famous that she had steered out of miserable matrimony into the happy-ever-after of fabulous settlements. The students would ask questions, she would demonstrate the verbal dexterity that served her so well in court, and then they would all get fed. She was astonished to see that oxtail soup was still on the menu.

Christine enjoyed dining. The food was comforting, the surroundings beautiful, the company occasionally distracting – but this year there was more reason than ever to do one’s bit. With an application for silk in the pipeline, one had to be seen to be giving something back. Extending a hand to the young – those few who would actually make it in the profession – looked good.

The Master introduced her, and she stood in her place at the High Table – that historic chunk of oak, cut down in Windsor Forest on the orders of Queen Elizabeth I, floated down the Thames and installed, all twenty-nine feet of it, before the building could be completed. There was some polite applause from the four long tables that ran down the length of the hall. Every seat was taken. She was a draw. Most of those students would kill for a chance to be taken on in her chambers, to bask in her reflected glory for their first six months’ pupillage. The chance of representing a major celebrity, even if it only ran to fetching the coffee and doing the photocopying, was irresistible.