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“My client has agreed to a reasonable division,” Nicola projected to the district judge. "I see no need to split the remaining assets further.”

She modulated her voice to carry reason and experience.

“All were acquired before the marriage, and he’s made substantial concessions elsewhere.”

The judge nodded sagely. New to the role, she'd blinked when Nicola entered the room. Neither attending barrister wore gowns or wigs in this court, and Nicola didn't rely on her KC silks for authority. But you didn’t get to be one of England’s top divorce barristers and not be known.

Nicola had entered the court with business-like respect today, even though it was a trivial case and nothing like the high-profile divorces that made her name. The approach worked. The judge, perhaps a decade younger than her, lapped up the respect and gave her ear to Nicola over others.

“We’ll reconvene on Monday,” the judge said.

And Nicola didn't miss the smile. Yes, she’d pitched it perfectly.

As for her chambers, the organisation that housed her office and managed her cases, she had a different approach in mind.

She strode up St Aldate’s, past ancient stone colleges, through the shops in the centre, and into the grand avenue of St Giles, with the pale limestone Ashmolean Museum on one side, and golden St John's college on the other. Invigorated by the walk, she barged through the front door of the Georgian building at the end.

“Neville.” Nicola threw her voice down the hall into chambers. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

Perfect. Her mezzo-soprano tones reached along the wood-panelled hallway, into every open door of barrister offices, and definitely to the ears of the man scurrying away into the depths of chambers.

The slight man paused, clutched a laptop tighter beneath his arm, and slowly turned with a pinched smile creasing his face.

“Nicola. What can I do for you?”

“Review the allocation of cases,” Nicola said, getting directly to the point.

The head clerk flinched, short grey curls bobbing with irritation like a flustered bird.

“If you schedule a meeting with the clerk’s office, I’m happy to discuss,” he said, nodding and turning to leave.

“Oh, I tried,” Nicola said, with shoulders relaxed and head tilted with accusatory curiosity. “The secretary said you were fully booked, even though you clearly have openings on your calendar.”

Neville twitched. “As I’m sure you’re aware, everyone needs time to work without disturbance.”

“Indeed. Then, perhaps we could discuss it now while we're both available?”

“Here?” Neville’s eyes flitted from side to side.

“I’m happy to.”

Their conversation drew the attention of passing barristers and clerks, but she was used to the pressures of the highest courtrooms.

“That wouldn’t be appropriate,” Neville said.

“Very well. Shall I lodge a formal complaint instead, if you’re unavailable for discussion?”

Nothing could be accomplished by barking that couldn't be handled more effectively with a reasonable request first. Always leave something in reserve and room to pivot. If you shrieked and flailed, your course was set, and climbing down was more fraught and accident prone. Her father had embedded the principle from earliest childhood. The words had been different, but the lesson had always been there.

“Nicola,” Neville’s voice tightened. “You’re new to these chambers, and we do things a little differently here. We have a process that has served us for decades. Perhaps you should familiarise yourself, before jumping in with accusations.”

“Yes, it’s clear you haven’t changed for decades, Neville. That’s precisely what I want to discuss.”

They had a larger audience now, with heads peeping out from shadowy rooms. The old stone building might be grand and traditional, but her trained voice carried in the space. A tall, familiar figure at the end of the hallway paused. And she smiled.

Always know your surroundings and allies, and the rules, inside out. Look like you adhered to them, so you could bend them, only so far they didn't break, but enough for your advantage.

And appearance. Never underestimate that. People made judgements with their eyes in the first seconds, and she had lots to say. Striding into a room, as if it was hers, covering the ground with long strides that ate up the distance while never looking hurried. Towering over most, with bands of grey in her hair, while the rest was dyed to her original colour. The combination said wisdom, but also vigour. Because people were shallow and presumptuous in Nicola’s experience. And her experience was vast.

Equally, judgement was sealed as soon as she opened her mouth. Her RP middle England tones were intentional, despite her heritage being more complicated, like many. Her father, with Italian parents, had insisted on sending her to elocution lessons in the seventies, and her Polish-Hungarian mother had rolled her eyes. And Nicki Ruggieri married young and became Nicola Albright in the eighties. But look back far enough on her ex-husband’s side with that name, and they were all German too.

“Cases,” she projected, using every facet of her presentation to the full, “seem to be assigned haphazardly at best, discriminately at worst. What should I believe?”

Neville’s stiffened.

“Because as a Silk, I do not appreciate being thrown a two-day divorce case, as if wet behind the ears.”

The head clerk narrowed his eyes. “Even our senior barristers have to roll up their sleeves sometimes with ordinary cases.”

“Of course,” Nicola replied, as if cordial. “Except several junior barristers are short of case work. Several women and a non-binary barrister,” Nicola added. “Strange don’t you think?”

The implication was as clear as the anomaly.

“If there is indeed such a shortage,” Neville ventured, “then I will look into it.”

“Thank you ever so much.” Nicola smiled.

Neville scowled, as he should, because her smile was intended to wither. The head clerk scurried off, and heads poked back into rooms.

“Enjoying yourself, Nicki?” said the tall figure approaching down the hallway.

“Always,” she purred, turning to find the man she expected. “Good morning, Philip.” She smiled, playful this time.

“I wouldn't expect anything less.”

Perfect-teeth, groomed grey hair, bespoke pin-stripe suit, and blue eyes that twinkled from a white face with a slight tan. This contemporary also understood the importance of first impressions.

“Walk with me?” she said, and her old college friend fell into step. “I’m due at Bentley, but I’m grabbing a late lunch beforehand.”

They matched stride for stride, down the central hallway of the Georgian building, and turned into Nicola’s office at the back. Not the biggest of rooms, but a multi-paned window overlooked a garden, and the oak-panelled decor exuded history and seniority, which clients expected to see. Those clients could be anyone from other barristers to politicians and lawmakers.

She dropped into a leather chair behind her partner's desk.

“The clerking here is a shambles,” she said.

Philip sat opposite and crossed his legs. “It requires improvement,” he replied, ever tactful.

“And Bernard is a dinosaur. He’s been head of chambers for too long and this place needs a shake up.”

“He’s not much older than we are.”

“Age is not an excuse to stay stuck in the past,” Nicola retorted.

Philip nodded. “You’re right. We haven’t modernised. He and Neville are committed to a traditional model of running chambers.”

She considered her friend, one of her oldest in fact. Had she made a mistake moving here from her prestigious London chambers? Coming back to her beloved Oxford of university days, sensing a need to establish her base again after divorce, grasping at family and unfinished business.

She shook her head. “I’m inundated with trivial cases that juniors can handle.”

And that’s not how she made her name. For decades she’d represented highest-value divorce clients and complex family issues, sometimes advising on rare supreme court cases.

“I hear,” Philip clasped his hands on his thigh in relaxed consideration, “that today’s client had an entrenched attitude.”

“The client was an idiot. The worst sort, thinking himself more clever than the judge and his barrister.” She’d seen many over the years.

A knowing smile brightened Philip’s face. “And did you find a strategy with him?”

“Of course I did.”

This was Nicola’s strength. In court, when handling colleagues and situations, she pivoted as necessary. When a new issue arose, she quickly evaluated and chose a fresh course of action. She was good at it. Like her father, a strategy man in the army, and her mother, a pragmatic and no-nonsense tactician at home.

She also learned from her mother, whose powerful voice carried in an accent foreign to many, that walking into a room with unshakeable confidence could perform miracles, even when others frowned.

If the law, or case, or situation changed, you adapted with assurance. And so on. This was life. Any new problem, she quickly sorted it.

“But now,” she said, opening a box of sushi, “I have a meeting at Bentley and the pleasure of Blake on the opposing team.” She stressed the name with distaste.

A soft knock on the door that she’d left ajar interrupted them, and one of the junior barristers stepped inside.

“Thank you for this, Nicola,” the woman said, holding out a book with one hand, and tucking long hair behind an ear with the other.

“Did it clarify the ruling with the Adams case?”

“It was exactly what I was looking for. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Kirsty. Do you want to drop it here?”

Nicola tapped the corner of her desk, and the woman stepped forward to leave the book. Kirsty hesitated as if she wanted to say more, peeked at Philip, then left with a slight blush on her cheeks.

Philip’s amused gaze followed the junior barrister out and, when the door closed, he turned back to Nicola with a smile.

She ignored it.

“Are you sore about Blake?” he asked, eventually.

“Course not. We only saw each other a few months. A year at most.”

“Hmm.” Philip nodded.

Nicola knew what he was thinking: that she should be more affected by a relationship that crashed and burned after that long. But she wasn’t, and saw no need to be. Pivoting again. Blake was furious when she wiped the floor with him in a high-profile divorce case, and when he’d tried to lay down some ground rules in their relationship, she’d shown him the door.

“I think it’s good you’re seeing people,” Philip said. “And if you're over Blake, then why not have a fling with one of your admirers?” His eyebrows danced with suggestion.

“Oh, I’m done with younger men. Blake was the last straw.” She pointed with her chopsticks, before popping a sushi roll into her mouth.

Philip watched her, his smile broadening.

“I didn’t mean men.”

And he stretched out to pat the book on the corner of the desk.

“You’re appreciated in other quarters too.”

She took her time finishing her mouthful, eyes never leaving his.

He chuckled and sat back. “Well, don’t women have a tendency to become more queer and broad-minded with age?”

“Not necessarily. And I don't agree with your observation about admirers.” She pointedly also patted the book in the corner.

Another knock on the door, and the junior barrister leant around again. “Sorry Nicola, I meant to ask: are you attending the Law Society function at Worcester?”

“Yes I am, Kirsty.”

“It’s just that I wanted to talk about the Adams case. Would it be alright to catch up then?”

“Of course,” Nicola replied, aware that Philip watched.

When Kirsty left, again, he sat back, smugness brightening his face. “I think the lady doth protest too much.”

Nicola shook her head.

“Oh, come on. Embrace your sapphic allure, Nicola. You are admired,” he said with gusto.

She rolled her eyes.

“And your attitude has relaxed since college.” He regarded her more soberly at this.

He teased, but perhaps he was sore too.

She remembered a younger Philip with swept-back blonde hair and casual stone-washed jeans, stumbling into Magdalen College JCR.

“I had sex, Nicki,” he had slurred with a euphoric grin. Too loud. The alcohol notched up the volume dangerously. “I had sex. And it was amazing.”

“Jesus Christ, Philip,” she'd spat. She’d grabbed him by the arm and dragged him outside into the cloisters.

“It was wonderful. I’m so happy,” he said, full of glee and blissful relief as he stumbled along the passageway.

She’d spun him around and pushed him onto a cloister window ledge. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she said, eyes burning as she glared at him.

“Come on, Nicki. Let me enjoy this.”

“How old was he?”

“I dunno.” Philip shrugged, his mannerisms loosened with drink.

“Was he a post-grad? A third year?” Please someone their age or older.

“He’s at Balliol. A second year maybe?”

“Then he’s underage, you idiot.”

“Nicki–”

“No. You cannot talk about this. Especially in the bloody JCR. They will bury you.” And she meant literally. With mid-eighties homophobic hysteria, he was a fool to talk that way. Why put his career in danger for a man ?

“But Nicki–”

“I don’t want to hear it. Why the hell would you risk a criminal record? You need to shut up. And you need to stop.”

She’d walked away, heart pounding, limbs shaking. It had been a rare moment of fury, swearing at him like that. But it had been urgent and necessary.

He smiled at her all these years later from across the desk.

“You can’t stop them idolising you. Why not have some fun?” He was enjoying this.

“That would be wildly inappropriate,” she dismissed.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“What the women? Or the junior colleague?”

“Still all of it.”

Philip licked his lips. “Of course.”

And he looked at her, like he saw her soul, as possibly the only person who believed she had one.

But she engaged unflinchingly to hide it, because her mind went straight to another. Not an associate. Not a barrister. But a woman wearing no makeup, outside a bungalow in Iffley Village early in the morning, looking sleepy and beautiful in soft plaid pyjamas, comfortable on her perfect curves.