As I look at the display I realise that I must have accidentally knocked it onto silent last night as I have five missed calls from Serena, two from Robert and three from a number I don't recognise. Helpfully, no-one has left me a voicemail. Oh well, if it's important, they'll call back.

I text as I walk, reminding Cassie that we all went through twelve months of torture before being made permanent fixtures in Chambers and inviting her to call me if she ever needs a chat, or bitch, about anything.

She's a decent girl, although often undervalued given her blonde hair, blue eyes and ample cleavage. Her pupillage ends in late October and I expect I'll be summonsed to the usual meeting to decide her fate in due course. She's allowed to conduct her own cases in now and appear in court in her own right. As you'd expect, she's understandably nervous.

So far I've heard mixed reviews of her progress from people who have asked her for help with research and seen her in court, although I can trace the negative comments back to male barristers she's turned down or female barristers who are jealous of her youth and beauty. She's by no means the complete package yet, but in time I'm sure she'll be able to hold her own.

I clearly remember being a pupil barrister, being thrust into a glamourous new world full of ambitious people working on the front line of the justice system. Believe it or not, I never really drank alcohol before starting my foray into the world of law; my father always disapproved of anything that could impact on my studies. That changed though when I started the Bar course and then spent the first six months following my 'pupil supervisor' around the courts and pubs of the Midlands, drinking until closing time each night, with Friday always being the finale to the week. During the second six months, I was allocated briefs of my own and trekked to various Magistrates Courts making an idiot of myself, misinterpreting evidence and points of law. Those twelve months were stressful and high impact. I was seen as 'fresh meat' for the old perverts and a 'challenge' for the young bloods.

The day I was told that I was to be taken on as a tenant, a permanent member of Chambers, was quite possibly the happiest day of my life, firstly as it meant I had officially made it and secondly as I could tell all of the unwanted suitors to sod off. Don't get me wrong, I'm no Kelly Brook, but in this environment, I might as well be.

Ah, home. As I turn the familiar left hand bend I see my family house in front of me I'm struck by an unexpected pang of nostalgia. I walk to the front door and let myself in. I'm immediately assailed by Siddy, our family Shih Tzu. What he lacks in size he more than makes up for in spirit and within a matter of seconds I find myself liberally coated in black and white hair. I bend over to rub his ears and he leans in to me, obviously enjoying the fuss. My mother walks into the hall from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel that she's carrying.

"Darling! How are you? Gosh you're looking thin, are you eating properly?" She comes over and envelopes me in a hug. I breathe in her familiar perfume, happy to be back in her company.

"Don't be daft mum, I eat more than you and dad put together!"

We part and walk through to the kitchen, Siddy at my heels, where I can see a host of Waitrose bags on the counter.

"Just been shopping?" I walk up to the stash and have a good rummage, stopping when I find a particularly delicious looking packet of flapjacks.

"Help yourself," she laughs, putting the kettle on behind me. "Yes, though we'd give the new store a go, seeing as it's only down the road. Your father is addicted to their shortbread." She pauses and looks up at me in horror, "Oops! Darling, don't tell him I told you that, you know it's frighteningly bad for business!"

Dad is a GP who spends his days lecturing people about what they can and can't eat. Given the sugar and butter content, I can't see that shortbread counts as one of his five-a-day. I don't have a death wish, so mum can rest assured I won't use his treats that as a topic of conversation.

"So, I understand you've been intercepting my post?" I tease.

"Hardly dear, but I thought you might have set up another secret credit card and sent the bill here again."

"Mum! That was like, one time!" I say indignantly. It's pretty hard to be indignant when you have a mouth full of flapjack, but I think I do a relatively good job.

My mother doesn't bat an eyelid.

"So why does the statement still come here?"

Good point. "Well, what Sebastian doesn't know can't hurt him" I say, laughing. The reality is, whilst I can pay the bill, Sebastian would have a heart attack if he saw in black and white exactly where my money goes. Whilst most girls (and indeed some men) would appreciate the need to buy the odd pair of fabulous Louboutins or a killer corset from Agent Provocateur, I'm not sure Sebastian would see the value for money in respect of such items. Hence, the need for a teensy bit of deception. Plus, it's technically the bank's money, not mine...

My mum strolls off to collect whatever mystery post has arrived for me this time. An attractive woman in her late fifties she has honey blonde hair perfectly coiffed into its usual above shoulder style and is dressed as always in a fitted patterned blouse and tailored trousers. Shorter than me at five feet four, she still struggles to comprehend how her daughter could have grown taller than her; a point which she continually refuses to acknowledge.

Walking over to her, I intend to give her a customary pat on the head, designed to provoke our usual debate as to who is the taller Chase female, but stop when I see the item in her hand.

The envelope is cream with my name and home address written in manuscript calligraphy on the front. I don't have to touch it to know that it is heavy in weight. As I take it from my mother I see a Neighsbury postmark.

"Can I get you a cup of tea darling? Earl Grey or PG Tips?"

"Earl Grey please mum, just a dash of milk"

As she walks back towards the kettle, I turn my attention back to the envelope and unceremoniously tear it open, greedily like a child at Christmas. I pull out a wad of folded paper in matching cream and open it, letting various pamphlets drop to the floor. I skim the contents of the document, registering that it comes from my old Bar Course provider, inviting me to a reunion in August. I bend to pick up the dropped leaflets from the floor. They all relate to the venue of the dinner and accommodation suggestions.

As I place the paperwork in my bag I feel a flush of excitement at the concept of seeing all of my old classmates again. Since we graduated there has never been a full reunion and I wonder what everyone is up to. Of course, I've added them all as friends on Facebook, but it's not quite the same as interrogating them in real life. With a smile, I approach my mother who has put my cup of tea alongside another flapjack and is looking expectantly at me.

"So, what is it then?" She asks.

"Wow, someone's being a bit nosey today!"

She playfully cuffs me around the ear.

"Just an invitation to a class reunion later in the year. It's being held in Neighsbury so I expect Serena and I will go together."

"How lovely, it'll be nice for you to catch up with all your old friends."

I look at a second flapjack and mentally calculate the number of calories in it. Sod it; I'd always rather be hung for a sheep than a lamb. I nod at my mum, teeth glued together by the oaty goodness. After I've managed to re-engage my jaws, I indicate to the office beneath the stairs.

"So where is dad?"

"At the course, of course!" She laughs at her joke, "He left pretty early this morning to meet a new doctor at the surgery."

Dad is a golf fanatic. He tried to make me play once, convinced it would increase my 'networking opportunities.' I did try to explain to him that most criminals don't play golf and most criminal solicitors don't have the time to, but he was adamant. We arrived at the driving range, bought a bucket of balls each and got set to see who could whack one the furthest. After dad had hit an impressive drive, it was my go. I'd tried to copy what he had done, stood side on to the ball and imagined I was back on the school hockey team. Dad had lent me one of his clubs that he promised would do the job due to some random American technology that had been employed to produce it. He was very proud of his kit and had spent God knows how much acquiring the perfect set of clubs; his driver was his baby.

As I closed my eyes and swung, expecting to feel the clink of metal on the ball I was sorely disappointed to connect with a wholly different surface. When I opened my eyes I saw my father looking at me with a mixture of amazement and fury. I looked down to see the ball still on its tee, the club still in my hands. I looked at my dad in confusion.

"What happened?"

"You happened!" he'd cried back at me.

"What? How?" I had picked up the club and inspected the base and immediately spotted a huge dent that definitely wasn't there to start with. My father was not impressed.

"Thank you Lauren. Do you have any idea how much that club cost? I'm pretty sure it wasn't designed for being smacked into the floor!"

Ah. Right. Maybe I should have had my eyes open then.

It seems no matter what I do, it's never quite good enough for my dad. You'd think that me being a 'high-flying' criminal barrister would be something he could brag about to his doctor friends, but no. He's never quite gotten over the fact that I never excelled during my science GCSE's, thus making me ineligible to follow in his medic shaped footsteps. I'm sure he wishes he has a son to work alongside, but I'm afraid he's stuck with little old me.

I finish the flapjack and wash it down with the rest of my tea. Sebastian refuses to have Earl Grey in the house on the basis that it "Tastes like washing up liquid."

"Right mum, I'd better make a move, I have to pop into Chambers to pick up my work for Monday."

She looks at me in horror.

"What, on a Saturday evening?"

"Mum, you know how it works!"

She's never quite got her head round the fact that my job isn't quite a nine to five. I'm used to it now, finishing in court at 5pm and then picking up my briefs for the day after. I've officially declared Saturday a day of rest; I absolutely refuse to even look at my work until Sunday. Sadly, that still means I have to collect my papers at some point between Friday afternoon and Sunday night.

Normally Friday is a write-off given my not unrealistic fear that I will leave the reams of confidential documents somewhere when I'm in a drunken stupor. It's happened to barristers before. All hell breaks loose when the clerks realise that their carefully crafted briefs have disappeared somewhere between a strip club and a late night Thai restaurant. It's really not worth the trouble.

Well make sure you're not working too hard. You are looking a little pale at the moment dear."

"No need to worry on that score mum. I'll just get another San Tropez."

To her credit, my mum nods knowledgeably.

"Fair enough. Make sure you call me in the week."

I smile and give her another hug. "Say hello to dad for me and make sure you look after Siddy."

On cue, the little bundle of fluff wanders over, sniffing for flapjack crumbs. I scoop him up in my arms and bury my face in his soft fur. He smells of freshly cut grass and dog biscuits. I gently place him back on the ground and give him another stroke. Mum opens the front door and smiles at me.

"Take care sweetheart and make sure you eat plenty of fruit and vegetables."

I consider this.

"As long as fermented grapes count then I'm sorted!"

We both laugh and I walk down the drive back to get my car from home. I turn and wave goodbye to mum who has picked up Siddy and is holding his paw up so he can wave me off too.

Chapter Four.

True to form, I spend Sunday working at home, setting up fort on the dining room table. I have an upcoming week of classic 'Lauren' cases: prosecuting a range of misfits accused of various misdemeanors and defending a similar motley crew.

As I sit and read through the case of a woman accused of benefit fraud my mobile rings. Unusually, it is sat on top of Archbold directly in front of me so I have no difficulty in locating it before it switches to answer phone. My ringtone is a source of great amusement within the legal community, whenever a member of Chambers calls me it bursts into a version of 'All Rise' by Blue. Sooo cheesy I know, but it always makes me smile.

I press the 'answer' button and am immediately connected to Serena. Had it not been for my caller display I would have had no idea my best friend was on the line given all I can hear is some heavy breathing interspersed with the odd squeak.

"Serena?"

"Murder!" she pants.

"What's up? Is everything ok?"

After a pause in which I can hear her take a large gulp of liquid which I hope isn't alcoholic, she finally manages to compose herself.

"Better than ok," she gushes. "I got a call this morning from Roger and he's given me a murder. A murder! Can you believe it?"

Roger is our senior clerk, best known for his unapproachable manner and unpredictable temper. For him to dish out lucrative briefs is pretty much unheard of.

"What!" I splutter as I struggle to process this information. Serena has only been in Chambers for four years so whilst possible, It would be quite unusual for her to pull off this coup at such an early stage in her career. Whilst I'm obviously pleased that she's been handed this opportunity on a plate, part of me is confused as to how on earth she's managed it.

"You've heard about the Ryan Hobbs trial right? Well given third times' a charm and all, he wants a noting junior in the event that they can appeal."

Ah, this makes a bit more sense now. Ryan Hobbs is a premiership footballer accused of the murder of his wife Marina. She was found floating in the swimming pool of their Cheshire mansion by their maid back in January two years ago. Black and blue, it was obvious that she'd taken quite a beating before she died.

The pair had married five years ago following a whirlwind courtship after they had met in Hobbs' local strip club. As I'm sure you can imagine, the media had a field day with the coverage of their wedding. Subsequently, the couple had always figured heavily in the press, becoming famous off as well as on the pitch for their willingness to attend the opening of an envelope.

Marina had modeled herself on the other footballers wives: permatanned skin, Rapunzel-esque hair extensions and a wardrobe that would make Barbie weep. Throughout their marriage they survived the frequent 'kiss and tell' stories that surfaced on a bi-annual basis; girls barely out of childhood stepping forward to sell the details of their illicit encounters with Hobbs. Every time the inevitable story was splashed across the tabloids, the public waited with baited breath to see if this would be the straw that broke the camel's back, but it never was. As the details of his many affaires became progressively more sordid it appeared that Marina would let Hobbs get away with pretty much anything.

On the day before her body was discovered, a fourteen year old girl had claimed that she was pregnant with Hobbs' child. The papers had a field day with this shock revelation; infidelity and underage relations. Add in that this fourteen year old was the daughter of a local bishop with the face of an angel and you had front page news. Hobbs' team was playing a league match that Saturday and whilst before, reports of his womanising enhanced his performance on the pitch, that day he couldn't do a thing right. He missed easy shots, made overly aggressive challenges and was eventually given a red card for punching the other sides goalkeeper after missing an easy shot. Sent off in disgrace and forced to watch the remainder of the match from the dressing room.

Rumour has it that he then went on something of a drinking spree with the members of his team that were still talking to him. He was seen later that evening making a scene in Ghost Bar in town, arguing with anyone who looked at him, clearly ten sheets to the wind.

What happened next is unclear. I remember from the reports that CCTV showed him leaving Ghost, but where he went to was unclear. Hobbs maintains that he went to the home of his team mate, Andre Plushenko where he crashed out until the next day. His official line is that when he was walking home the next morning to clear his head he saw the police outside his residence, panicked due to the underage sex scandal (presuming they were there because of that) and ran off. He didn't manage to run very far however; the police helicopter got sight of him and dispatched patrol cars to arrest him.

The prosecution take a different view of events: having left Ghost in what can only be described as a foul mood, Hobbs returned home and found his wife surrounded by suitcases, packed to leave him. Hobbs then hit the roof and after subjecting Marina to many punches and kicks, drowned her in their FA Cup shaped pool.

His defence seems to be that that burglars broke into the multi-million pound property expecting both occupants to be out at the usual post match celebrations. On discovering Marina, they attacked and killed her to prevent identification. The suitcases were there as she probably was leaving him; it was to be expected following his reported infidelity.

This will be the third time that his case will be listed for trial. At the first trial the prosecution medical expert collapsed in the witness box with a suspected heart attack. At the second, the jury were 'hung'; they couldn't reach either a unanimous or majority decision as to whether to find him guilty or not guilty. It's pretty much unheard of that the prosecution are allowed to attempt a third re-trial but given the nature of this case, they are trying him one last time.

"That's fantastic news," I reply. "A cushy role for you, privately paid I assume?" A noting junior has the job of sitting in court and literally taking a full written note of what is said in court.

"Naturally! They want a full transcript throughout the trial so in the event that an appeal point comes up, they'll have it straight away. I'm sooo excited! I'm making Ewan take me to PC World later to buy me a new laptop seeing as my old one is pretty nineties looking"

"But it still works right?" I look fondly at my MacBook Air, a present from Sebastian last Christmas. I've dropped it twice now, and the right hand side of the screen no longer works, but it still gets the job done. I really should take it into the Apple store to get it fixed, but never seem to find the time.

"Well yes, but I have to look the part!"

"Fair enough, but please don't bankrupt the man," I plead, knowing full well that the second Serena sees rows of shiny new laptops she'll be instantly attracted to the one with the highest spec.

"I can't wait to work alongside Peter Quinn QC. He's supposed to be amazing in court!"

"Yeah, and his reputation for his behaviour outside court precedes him too," I can't help adding, having heard the whispers about him focusing on his brief fee rather than the evidence against his Defendants. It is common knowledge that Quinn accepts huge retainers from clients wanting his expertise, only to send other members of his Chambers to all of the preliminary hearings, making others do the donkey work before swanning in at the last minute to take over.

"Oh come on Lauren, if you were paid privately to defend murders day in, day out, you'd be pretty financially orientated too," she replies defensively.

"I know, it just gets my goat sometimes that whilst most silks happily accept legal aid rates and realise the importance of continuity of counsel, he gets away with murder. Can you imagine being accused of something terrible and paying for someone you think is the best, only to be fobbed off until the last minute? Especially at the moment."

Ask any member of the public what they think of criminal barristers, then it's pretty much a certainty that the terms 'fat cat' 'rich' and 'greedy' will come up. It would be lovely if it were true, but sadly, it's a far cry from the reality. The Government is on a mission to cut fees as much as they can and the latest round of slashes has really hit us hard. The senior barristers have taken some terrible blows too; the fees for murder cases have been reduced beyond recognition.

"Whatever. It's not like he abandons them altogether," she huffs back at me. "It's not his fault he is so busy he has to compromise"

"Whoa, chill!" I quickly attempt to backtrack, knowing that if I induce one of Serena's legendary moods then I'll have to spend the next week trying to make peace. "So who's his junior?"

"I don't think I've met him, guy from London called Andrew Rivers. I've googled him, but there's no picture of him on his Chambers profile"

"No, the name doesn't ring a bell with me either. God, I hope people don't look us up via our website!"

Serena laughs. About six months ago we had a photographer come in to Chambers to take our mug shots for the website. We'd been out the night before, Serena drowning her sorrows after losing a trial that seemed bullet proof. The first round of cocktails had gone down way too quickly and as I was out of court the next day, I put up little resistance to the second. Or the third. Or the, well, you get the picture.

Serena had been unusually maudlin that evening, bemoaning her skills as an advocate and complaining that the Magistrates had convicted her Defendant on the basis of prejudice not evidence. The night ended rather messily with me trying to cheer her up. My attempts at sympathy were not received well as I'd just won a rather complicated fraud, leading to Serena thinking I was being patronising. I wasn't but when we parted I couldn't help but sense a note of resentment when she said goodbye. The combination of a killer hangover and a nagging feeling that I'd done something wrong did not make for a good photograph and I have been immortalised looking like a cross between a labradoodle and a post-conviction Lindsay Lohan. Not good. The worst thing is that our mini-pupils print out copies to find barristers at court, so I can never escape it. I've offered to pay to have a new one done, but my generous request has been refused on the grounds that my current picture cheers up the clerking team on Monday mornings.

"So when does the trial start?" I ask, staring at the offending photo on my laptop. Wow, it really is as bad as I remember.