‘The family bar,’ she began, her voice well modulated, her hands at rest, ‘shows us human nature at its very worst.’ A ripple of laughter. ‘Affairs, infidelity, sexual perversion and mental cruelty – these are our bread and butter.’ More laughter, some of it uneasy. She had them where she wanted them. ‘And the lower our clients sink, the higher our professional standards must be. Those of you who have any serious ambition to practise at the family bar had better sow your wild oats now. Because the minute you start working, you’ll be under the most intense scrutiny you can imagine. The press will try to bribe you or blackmail you. People you thought were your friends will ply you with an extra glass of wine at dinner to get you to spill the beans. And woe betide you if you’re caught in flagrante with someone who is not your lawful wedded spouse.’ She paused, took a sip of water. ‘I hope I am painting for you a thoroughly depressing picture.’

The tension broke, and laughter rang around the double hammer-beam roof, just as it had, perhaps, over Feste’s clowning at Candlemas 1602.

She heard her voice droning on, and found her mind wandering to scenes from her recent liaison with Joel. They see me now, she thought, in my tailored suit, with my legal face on, and they would not believe that just a few weeks ago I was rolling around underneath, and frequently on top of, a muscular, sexually instatiable thirty-year-old fitness instructor. Would they think me a fit and proper person to practise at the bar if they knew about that? And what of the QC selection panel? How would they take it?

‘You were very good tonight,’ said John Ferguson, Christine’s dinner date – as he so frequently was these days – when the soup was being served.

‘I hope I impressed the right people.’

‘You don’t have to worry about impressing anyone,’ said John. ‘The job is done.’

‘You’re very gallant, my dear, but you know perfectly well what I mean. I want silk within the year. I’ve waited long enough.’

‘Slowly slowly, and all that jazz.’

‘If I go any more slowly slowly, I’ll be a King’s Counsel rather than a Queen’s Counsel by the time I finally take silk.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They drag their feet so. It’s a miracle that anything gets done at all.’

‘As an institution,’ said John, ‘the bar is not known for snap decisions.’

‘I’m impatient.’

‘You’re bored.’

John had never spoken so directly before; the elegant euphemism was much more his style. Perhaps his wife’s illness made him less inclined to beating about the bush.