SCOOPS: NOW A MAJOR MOVIE ON NETFLIX

Introduction

Relentless. I’ve heard this word a lot. It’s a moniker of admiration, confusion, and sometimes of abuse or ridicule. And it perfectly sums up who I am and what I do.

I’m not sure when or how it started but I live to ‘get the story’, to beat the world’s media, to go first and, preferably, exclusively. News takes many forms and I don’t discriminate – I’ve tracked down world leaders for their first interviews on the job, those on the brink of reputational ruin, and people who have everything, maybe even their life, to lose. Over the years, the desire to win has only grown. It has crept into every dinner, every party, every new acquaintance, every relationship, every business meeting. Every single encounter would allow me to build a crucial network – to get myself into a position where I, someone who arrived in journalism with no connections, no credentials and, dare I say, no credibility, could access virtually anyone in the world.

My path to news addiction wasn’t a traditional one. News and politics weren’t a feature of my childhood. In fact, they barely figured at all. We lived an itinerant life. My dad, who had made some money selling mobile homes, left the UK in the 1970s, moving my mum and me from tax haven to tax haven. Not the glamorous kind, like Monaco or the British Virgin Islands. Instead, he relocated us from the outskirts of London to Guernsey (so small I often felt I might fall off) and then to the Isle of Man (a cruel fate for any teen) and, finally, a short sojourn in Andorra (a flat perched in the mountains of a ski resort for three people who had never skied). These places shared something else in common – they didn’t see themselves as part of their parent countries.

Each small island or municipality had a certain autonomy over several aspects of its political, fiscal and social affairs – and so you would have a feeling of belonging to something quite separate, figuratively and literally, from the larger powers just a few miles away. Usually, and quite understandably, the locals would, at best, tolerate or, at worst, actively detest the tax tourists who populated their small slice of the planet, filling their natural beauty with oversized cars and fragile egos. Of course, I knew I was British, but my concerns were with small island life. People were much more likely to be discussing matters that affected them close to home – the cost of living, local services, neighbourhood gossip – than the kind of big social and political issues that came to fill my later years. I knew there was a bigger world out there, but it felt entirely irrelevant to my existence. We left our cars and houses unlocked, children could amble to school alone, no one had ever been murdered, no one had ever been raped, there were no burglaries. Shoplifting and traffic infractions were about as thrilling as it got. Occasionally a sheep might mosey into the garden looking for excitement or, more likely, some fresh grass. Days merged into years easily and without incident. It was a time without pandemics, without terror attacks, without war. I rode my bike, climbed rocks, swam and revelled in the pleasures that island life can bring.

There was no pressure to ‘achieve’ in the traditional way that so many middle-class kids seem to feel. My parents only expected me home on time and to be well mannered. My mum, a charismatic and beautiful woman, full of backbone and charm, had to leave school to earn some money. Her childhood was spent in the basement of what could only be described as a slum, a council flat in Stoke Newington, living hand to mouth with her brother, parents and a family of mice. Her childhood was Second World War London – rationing, bomb attacks, nights spent in the underground, evacuation, a joyous return, and then more poverty and hard work than any child should have to endure. But nothing could stop my mum. The only thing she would tell me was that money comes and goes, so make sure you have the character to face the world. She told me that I should mix with princes and paupers, and treat them both the same. A lesson I carried with me all the way to Buckingham Palace.

She met my dad, who’d left school to build and sell rabbit hutches, then caravans, during the Six-Day War in 1967. He stumbled upon her at the reception of a London hotel they were both staying in, as she was loudly berating the manager who had just refused to let two gay men check in. He instantly decided that this woman was for him. They soon moved in together, she started selling caravans too, and they settled into their pattern of seven-day work weeks, no rest, no holidays, no respite. Both my parents loved to work. And so my genes were firmly entrepreneur and sales based, as they sold caravan after caravan, and moved from slums to flats to houses, from market stalls and small towns to running businesses and holidays in Monte Carlo, from council flats to houses with a swimming pool. They were social mobility personified.

And so I entered the mix of fun and hard work, whereupon my folks decided to pack it all in and move from Surrey to Guernsey. I can’t even imagine what a culture shock it was for my poor mum who went from glamour, independence and full-time employment – to island life, surrounded by women who didn’t work, many of whom disliked her confidence. And for my dad, who went from workaholic to full-time retiree, at the age of fifty-one. What seemed like an amazing opportunity to retire young and enjoy life quickly descended into a mundane existence, a man who was no longer king of his domain, and instead at the behest of a new life, a new baby, and a community without the dynamism he had once enjoyed. He was also a manic depressive. Back before anyone really knew what to call it. And so, my mum was stuck on a new island, with a new baby, no friends, no family, no job, and with a partner who spiralled between elation and depression.

My parents were delighted that I showed academic promise and supported me in every conceivable way – but my childhood was the Daily Mail, the Express, Coronation Street and Jackie Collins. It was a very different upbringing to that of so many of my colleagues in later life. I was tabloid to their broadsheet, panto to their opera, Jilly Cooper (what a legend) to their Jane Austen. I didn’t live in a world in which intellect, status and worth were measured by your understanding of politics, or history, or whether you could speak Latin.

By the time I was doing my A-levels, it was clear that I was going to university. This was a huge deal for my parents who had never had that chance. We had no idea how to apply or what you do. We were oblivious to the rivalries between certain places, that you can’t apply for this one if you apply for that one, or even the massive impact that me deciding that Oxford and Cambridge were ‘too snooty’ could have on my future success. And so, my mum and I packed up and decided to visit all the places I liked the look of. We had baked potatoes in Norwich, a tour of the sights in York, and a very persuasive coach trip from the airport in Edinburgh. I don’t know how most people decide where to go, but I can confirm that sharing an airport bus full of rugby players from Edinburgh Uni was pretty much 99% of my motivation for choosing to go there. It was a good starter city for someone who had always lived in the relative calm of island life. The culture shock was less stark than it would have been if I’d gone to LSE (not that I knew that at the time).

Of course, university didn’t turn out to be all I had imagined. I’d expected lots of clever kids, hungry for debate and full of intellectual curiosity, grateful for this amazing educational opportunity, and instead I felt like I had stumbled into a group of largely uninterested teenagers, who took it for granted, and who were much keener on getting drunk than they were on discussing divine command theory or second wave feminism. I didn’t drink, and so I ended up making a group of friends mostly outside university, and whiling away my days in cinemas and my nights dancing in the local clubs, bottle of water stuffed down my knee-high boots. The hiking, sailing, skiing, flat shoes and dinner parties beloved by my peers passed me by.

My first foray into news and current affairs issues – and the realisation that I knew very little – came when I joined the debating society. I loved it. I was one of two women (the other became Scotland’s youngest ever female QC) and we absolutely revelled in our uniqueness. The more people made snide remarks about my sex, my clothes, my appearance, my arguments, the more I thrived. Their disdain inspired me.

We’d be given a topic ten minutes before we had to face the other teams, and a real Russian roulette of topics it was for someone like me. I can still feel the trepidation as I’d wait to see what the topic was. I’d be all set if it was something fairly current and general – animal testing, the death penalty, abortion or the environment – but, if it was something requiring specific political or historical knowledge, I was screwed. The cold dread of seeing ‘Israel’ or ‘European Union’ would send my heart racing. I remember a particularly awful one, in St Andrews, where ‘This House believes that the situation in Northern Ireland is intractable’ had me and my nascent QC pal stumped, as our combined knowledge of the topic could have filled the back of a postage stamp, and the local students laughed as we made one error after another. To protect myself from further derision, I began to learn just about enough to evade issues, but my knowledge base was clearly about 1% of many of the people I was competing against. If you’d told them that, a decade later, I’d be briefing Jeremy Paxman on everything from Irish politics to economics, they wouldn’t have believed you.

Despite several years of university and debating, I had absolutely no idea what I wanted to do. Many of my peers seemed to have known since they were born. I was still struggling. Luckily, one of the lads in my class helped me out. He was a confident and rambunctious rugby player called Kerry. And he was very clear what he wanted to do. He’d decided he was going to do a law conversion course – three years crammed into one – and become a barrister because, in his own words, he ‘wanted to be paid for arguing’. This struck a chord. It sounded ideal. I enquired further, and he told me how hard it was to get a place, how arduous the course would be, how few people succeeded and how elite the group who did were. This didn’t deter me – I researched the courses, spent hours and hours on my application, and sent it off to the same place – City University – that Kerry had applied to. I’d never really considered it before – my only knowledge was from Ally McBeal and Prime Suspect, but it seemed like a good fit. A few weeks later the results came back. I was in! I couldn’t believe it! Kerry? Sadly, he didn’t make it.

To be honest, I’d never even met a lawyer before I became one, and, with the benefit of hindsight, perhaps that wasn’t my best move. The first day at law school was unforgettable. They listed the nine subjects we’d be studying across the year – effectively a three-year degree in nine months – and I was pretty sure I didn’t know what most of them were. Equity and trusts, land law, EU law, contract, jurisprudence, tort. . . the list sounded like something from a bygone era. I told myself that it was good that I was a blank slate, and that I would pick things up. In truth, this was the most thrilling time of my academic life. I was lost for months – literally and figuratively – in a sea of new concepts, case law and seminars, guided by amazing lecturers, all of whom seemed to have written the textbook on their respective subjects. I immersed myself in the experience, started reading cases as if they were tales by Jackie Collins, and started teaching my brain to take in this new way of thinking. The work was relentless, and many students dropped out. I don’t blame them – res ipsa loquitor! Caveat emptor! Promissory estoppel! Bonkers terms filled my mind with so many new ideas, and an intellectual discipline that has never left me. It was an incredible opportunity for someone like me, and I grabbed it with both hands.

When the finals came, it was like legal Hunger Games. I saw formerly confident, academically gifted people crumble and fall away. Some left early, some left late. By the time the two weeks of finals came – a three-hour exam every two days – we were like the finalists in SAS: Who Dares Wins. More people went to pieces. By the last day, grown men were crying.

I’d worked out by now that my love of debating, combined with my obsession with human behaviour, meant that criminal law was the route for me. I imagined myself sitting in cells with (alleged) murderers, striding the hallways of courts seeking justice for my clients, and carrying off the horsehair wig with aplomb. Of course, the reality – likely a 5 a.m. start at Euston for a ten-minute hearing in Wolverhampton – was a little less glamorous, but I was yet to find that out. At Bar School, I was surrounded by classmates who strutted around as if they’d already made it. They all wore suits and smart outfits, while I remained in leather trousers. They were tweed to my leopard print, satchels to my Gucci knockoff.

The modules were a new set of unknowns – civil procedure, criminal procedure, advocacy and, most crucially, negotiation. I loved that class within moments. Mum’s family were market traders – the gift of the gab was something I really understood. Granted, other members of my family had been dealing in lamb shanks and rabbit hutches, sprats and caravans, but the skill set was identical. Added to that, most of my legal peers were way too traditional to really go for the kill in those classes. They all conformed to what was expected – a methodical analysis of the facts, and a rigorous following of the rules of the game. They would take in the situation, look for the weakness in the case, set up their argument and present it in a linear fashion. Me? I didn’t know about the rules, and I was their worst nightmare. I’d frustrate them over and over by finding some loophole, a side issue, a circuitous route they hadn’t thought of, a bombshell fact or some legal pun for laughs. I was in my absolute element. That love of negotiation put me at the top of my class – although my tutors seemed confused as to whether I was brilliant or just a pain in the arse – and I thrived on my newfound capability. I finally felt like I would be good at this, like it was all coming together, that I could actually make it, despite my background and lack of contacts. I applied for the barrister version of a training contract – a pupillage – and hoped for the best.

The interviews were genuinely hilarious, a cross between an interrogation and a horrendous first date. Sometimes I shone – with interviewers who appreciated someone ‘different’ – and sometimes I crashed and burned – with those who didn’t. A particularly bruising exchange was with an Alice-band clad barrister called Philippa who left before the interview finished. She had asked me if Myra Hindley should ever be released. I clearly misread the room, and replied that if she ever completed her sentence and was deemed suitable to be released, then I would have faith in the administration of the justice system. This was clearly not what Pippa wanted to hear. Her voice rose as she began to list the names of the five children whom Hindley and Brady had butchered. It was a masterclass in how to destroy someone’s argument with emotion. I never forgot that.

As luck would have it, I was offered a pupillage (somewhere else), became a ‘baby barrister’ and worked towards ‘getting on my feet’ (the phrase they used to describe the first time you stand up, palms sweating, heart pounding, in court). I had never felt prouder. Or more terrified.

My terror was not misplaced. Being a pupil barrister was mostly a living hell.

I can’t even explain how hard I found it. I spent my days in a frenzy of anxiety, feeling the burden of the task ahead of me; people’s fates would be in my hands. I did not bear the burden lightly. I felt constantly out of my depth. I’ve no clue if the other trainees were also in full panic mode, but they mostly appeared to carry their new responsibilities very lightly. They all seemed to be breezing through, working hard, drinking hard, laughing loudly. My life consisted of work only, no alcohol and definitely no fun. As time progressed, working six-day weeks, for about £500 a month, I realised more and more that this was not going to be the career for me.

The only time I felt happy was in the cells with the clients, or when I found out I didn’t have a brief – a case – that day. Clearly that was problematic. I wasn’t bad at the job – the solicitors liked me, and gave me plenty of work, and the clients mostly liked me too – but I was unhappy after a few months, despondent within a year, and fighting insomnia, hair loss and crippling anxiety before eighteen months were up. Two years in, I conceded defeat. I walked out of Chambers, and called my boss, my ‘pupil master’. I thanked him for all his support and then explained I was certain that this, sadly, wasn’t the job for me but that I was hopeful that the world would still be my oyster, in another profession.

Contempt dripped from his lips. ‘Do you really think so?’

I walked home to the comforts of