‘Our final and arguably most prestigious award is for the north of England’s junior barrister of the year.’ The master of ceremonies bestowed a supercilious grin on the audience, relishing his role, and at such a prestigious location – Manchester’s Midland Hotel. A symbol of the city’s great industrial history, built by the Midland Railway at the turn of the last century to service their northern terminus, the terracotta baroque building was a suitably grand venue to honour the region’s greatest lawyers.
The clinking of glasses and background chatter dipped as attention switched to the stage.
Circular tables crammed the banqueting hall. The occupants of each represented a set of barristers’ chambers. Only one chair remained empty.
‘Where the hell is Anderson?’ whispered Head of Chambers, Orlando West QC, not wishing to be heard beyond the confines of his party − colleagues from Spinningfields Chambers.
‘History tells us,’ the host continued, twisting a silver cuff link embedded in his pristine white dress shirt, ‘that the winner invariably goes on to take silk, followed by a career on the bench.’ A conspiratorial smile. ‘An indicator of great things to come.’
Gary, the senior clerk, held his phone below the table and banged furiously at the keys. ‘He’s not responding.’
‘He’ll be working in chambers,’ offered Sam Connor, Anderson’s contemporary at Spinningfields. ‘He doesn’t do social functions.’
‘Even if he’s up for a bloody award?’ laughed West, full of admiration for his former pupil.
Connor snatched at his wine glass and took a slurp. Anything to distract his mouth from saying something publicly about John Anderson that he might regret. He turned to the pretty young blond beside him and stole a glance at her breasts, erupting out of a shimmering black evening dress. At least he had the best-looking pupil in Manchester, and she seemed to worship him, despite his middle-aged spread. Thank goodness for Tilly. Anything to break the monotony of his crappy marriage. Tilly Henley-Smith was definitely worth the risk of being caught out by Connor’s bitch of a wife. Maybe this was the push he needed. He only stayed for the kids. Another ten years before they were off his hands. Sticking it out for that long was unthinkable. Virtually a life sentence.
‘The recipient of this award has enjoyed an extraordinary year, successfully prosecuting a series of complicated VAT frauds in the crown courts of both Manchester and Liverpool. A versatile performer, he is just as much at home prosecuting gang violence – fast becoming the scourge of the criminal gangs that so blight our inner cities.’
‘Evening all,’ said John Anderson, taking his seat.
‘Where’ve you been, sir?’ asked Gary, his clerk. ‘Been pulling my hair out.’
‘Working. Have I missed anything?’ His humourless persona seemed out of sync with the excitement of the evening. That was John Anderson. He kept it all inside, behind the armour. Emotion was weakness. He’d learnt that from his father.
‘The presenter of this award needs little introduction. A glittering career at the Bar, an eminent silk, and now a circuit judge in Preston. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome former winner of this award, His Honour, Judge Howard Anderson.’
Everyone at the table watched John Anderson for a reaction.
He was poker-faced.
‘Did you know your father was presenting it?’ Tilly asked, wide-eyed and smouldering.
‘No,’ Anderson replied, without further explanation.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Connor, almost in a sneer, the drink having loosened his tongue.
Orlando West gave his protégé a wink. ‘A good sign, I think, John.’
Anderson remained cool.
Howard Anderson was at the microphone. Sprightly and distinguished looking at sixty-three, further judicial elevation was still possible. No way would he settle for the lowly honour of being a crown court judge. Nothing less than the red dressing gown of a high court judge would do.
Howard Anderson opened the envelope. ‘And the winner is…’ He took a pair of glasses out of the top pocket of his dinner jacket to prolong his time in the spotlight, before flashing a broad grin for the audience. ‘John Anderson.’
His son.
Orlando West QC was the first to slap Anderson on the back, followed by hearty handshakes from other members of Spinningfields Chambers, all clamouring to rub shoulders with the man of the moment.
Anderson rose to his feet and set off towards the stage. Another step nearer his goal − Queen’s Counsel − a silk gown. He could almost feel it around his shoulders.
The applause pushed him up the steps and onto the stage where his father was waiting with the silver trinket.
Their eyes met, if only for a second.
John Anderson couldn’t read his father’s face, though he knew it so well. An unfamiliar expression. What was it? Not adoration or even love. Both emotions were alien to Howard Anderson. John reached out to take the prize, then it clicked: envy. His own father was jealous. Of his son’s success. Jealous that John had it all before him, and that he, Howard, was in the autumn of his career.
It pained John Anderson that his father should think like that. He shook it off.
‘Let’s hope this bodes well for your silk application,’ Howard whispered.
Nothing was ever enough. Howard Anderson was unable to just enjoy the achievement, bask in the reflected glory and be proud. Always a better view from the next hill. This had been the way of it ever since John could remember. Instilled in him from an early age – relentless ambition.
Quickly burying his unhappy thoughts and feelings deep below, John Anderson moved across to the microphone and began his acceptance speech.
‘Firstly I would like to thank my father, without whose guidance and support I would never…’
Whilst all eyes were on Anderson, Connor took the opportunity to pour the dregs of a bottle of Chardonnay into his glass. Not bothering to top up Tilly’s glass, or anyone else’s, he muttered: ‘Cold fish. Just like his dad.’
‘Quite good-looking though,’ Tilly replied with a mischievous smile.
Connor gave a nonchalant harrumph, though her words had cut like a knife.
‘And to my former pupil-master, Orlando West QC, I would like to…’ Anderson went on, thanking all the right people. An efficient speech, nothing flamboyant, just like his advocacy.
Anderson finished with a few words of praise for the judiciary before weaving his way back through the hall to his table. He was now the most celebrated junior barrister in the north of England. A shoo-in for Queen’s Counsel.
As Head of Chambers, Orlando West had already ordered champagne. A coup of this magnitude for Spinningfields had to be celebrated properly.
As Anderson retook his seat, a waiter opened the bottle and plonked it down before scurrying off to take more orders.
‘Shall I do the honours?’ asked Connor, without waiting for a reply. He splashed champagne into the empty flutes, eager to arrive at his own.
Just as he was about to pour, Anderson leaned across the table and whispered: ‘Better not have any more. You did agree to schedule the billing records for my cross tomorrow.’
‘What?’ Had Connor heard right? ‘You want me to go to chambers, now?’ he slurred. ‘To prepare a document for your cross-examination?’
‘It needs to be done, Connor. And you are my junior,’ Anderson replied, hoping to avoid a confrontation. Anderson didn’t want to embarrass his colleague but the case came first. ‘You know I’d rather do it myself, but—’
‘But he’s needed here, old chap,’ said West, having overheard some of the conversation.
An uncomfortable silence descended over the table.
Connor’s eyes bored into Anderson. It was the humiliation of being led by someone of the same call. He needed every last ounce of strength to stop himself exploding, from letting rip at his chambers rival. But he couldn’t afford to make an enemy of West’s protégé. Connor’s career was already in the doldrums.
Reluctantly, he got to his feet and, without another word, staggered towards the exit.
Sam Connor wasn’t going to forget this in a hurry.
‘A toast,’ declared Orlando West.
They all raised a glass.
‘To John Anderson.’
‘John Anderson.’