‘Good night, Linda,’ said Christine, through gritted teeth, and then could not get to sleep for hours.

When they did finally meet, on the dreaded Thursday, it was at a party at Linda’s chambers. The plan was to have one drink there, then go on for dinner, after which it would be acceptable to bail out without causing too much offence – although Linda would certainly want to go on. But when she arrived at chambers at six o’clock, it was clear that Linda had already been drinking for some time, possibly since lunch. Christine recognised the symptoms. Linda’s pupils were tiny pinpricks in their pale blue irises, the retinas a horrible greyish red. Her long, wiry hair, black with a good deal of grey, was hanging loose, parting at the back, dragging her head down with a weight that her neck could apparently not support. And yet she had a hectic kind of energy about her, an off-putting gaiety. She was holding forth to an embarrassed group of pupils and junior barristers when Christine walked in.

‘Chris, darling!’ Linda shouted, waving above her head, slopping her wine. ‘Over here! Everyone, this is Christine Fairbrother. Chris, this is . . . everyone!’ She threw back her head and laughed. People stepped back a little. The fumes could have knocked you over.

‘Christine Fairbrother,’ said one of the younger men, a reasonably attractive chap in a cheap suit – he was not yet earning enough to afford better. ‘I was just reading about your work in Macdonald v Macdonald. Absolutely amazing.’

‘Thank you very much,’ said Christine, flattered that her most recent success was already being studied at the lower end of the profession. ‘I think luck had a lot to do with it, but . . .’

‘Nonsense!’ said Linda, interposing herself between Christine and the attractive young man. ‘No such thing as luck in this game, that’s what I keep telling ’em. Now come on, Chris.’ She took Christine by the arm and dragged her away. ‘People-I-want-you-to-meet.’ She stumbled forward, and might have tottered had not Christine held her up.

‘No point in wasting our time with the small fry,’ said Linda, quite audibly. ‘Let’s talk to the big boys.’ She approached a group of tall men in well-cut suits, and blundered her way into their circle. ‘Hello, big boys.’ She hiccupped loudly, covered her mouth with an unsteady hand, said ‘Oops. Room for a couple of little ladies?’

The men shuffled apart, clearly embarrassed. Christine recognised a couple of Linda’s long-suffering colleagues, who were all too familiar with her drunken rampages. Both, she was sure, had put a semiconscious Linda into taxis home, fending off her drunken pawings and maudlin cries of ‘Lindy is lonely . . .’

‘Is thissa private party or can . . . hic! . . . anyone join in?’

‘Of course, Linda,’ said one of the colleagues, recoiling from the stench of wine.

‘Hello, Christine.’