Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh

by Simon Brett

  ‘And fortunate that the new client’s solicitor was also Hamish McFee,’ Mrs Pargeter added.

  ‘One of the advantages of operating in a small town, I would imagine,’ observed Truffler. ‘Everyone uses the same professional people.’

  ‘And you can all meet up every week and scratch each other’s backs at the Rotary Club,’ Mrs Pargeter concluded.

  All sparks of resistance were now dead and cold. ‘What do you want from me?’ asked Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh, a deflated Billy Bunter caught stealing from someone else’s tuck-box.

  Truffler pointed to the Private Eye. ‘It’s back to this box number, Mr Wellstrop. Tell us what we want to know about that, and we’ll go away and you’ll never hear from us again.’

  ‘You mean that? You won’t expose me and Hamish? I mean, it’d be dreadful. We’d be asked to leave the Rotary Club, apart from—’

  ‘In my view,’ said Truffler with a benign smile, ‘your having to stay in the Rotary Club will be quite sufficient punishment for any crimes you may have committed.’

  ‘We’re not interested in your small-town fiddles,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘We just want to know about this ad. You were the one who put it in Private Eye . . . ?’

  The estate agent nodded.

  ‘And you got all the letters of application . . . ?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Of which I imagine there were quite a few. So you were used as the perfect front – and scapegoat in case things went wrong. And presumably, a lot of people would be keen to have five grand in these inflationary times.’

  ‘Yes. There were a lot.’

  ‘And did you have to sift them through to make a shortlist?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I passed them on. I was just a kind of contact point, I didn’t have to do anything.’

  ‘Oh, well, you’d had lots of practice in that,’ Mrs Pargeter couldn’t resist saying. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘I didn’t have much to do with it after the initial bit. The applicants were cut down drastically, a shortlist was made; then half a dozen people were interviewed and a couple were selected and offered contracts for the job . . .’

  ‘Which they accepted?’

  The estate agent was back to nods now.

  ‘And do you know if one of the successful candidates was a girl called Jenny Hargreaves?’

  There was a hesitation, while he weighed up the possible advantages of his situation. Quickly concluding there weren’t any, Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh nodded.

  ‘Do you know what the work she was contracted for involved?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Honest to God, I never asked and I haven’t a clue.’

  It sounded convincing. Mrs Pargeter and Truffler exchanged brief looks and nodded agreement.

  ‘So . . .’ she said, ‘only one major question remains . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ said Truffler.

  ‘Who was it? Who did you do this little job for?’

  The estate agent squirmed awkwardly. ‘Look, I only did it for the money. If there was anything wrong, I wasn’t aware of it.’

  ‘We asked you who it was,’ said Mrs Pargeter implacably.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Another fellow Rotarian, was it?’ asked Truffler.

  This received a further nod. Then came a hesitation, broken by Mrs Pargeter’s voice, suddenly steely. ‘Who?’

  ‘It was Percy Arkwright.’

  ‘The Percy Arkwright who runs Brotherton Hall?’

  Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh nodded.

  ‘I never knew his name was Percy.’

  Truffler Mason broke the heavy silence in Gary’s limousine as it drove them back to Greene’s Hotel.

  ‘No,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Nor did I.’

  But she sounded distracted. Truffler knew the reason. It always pained her to find out something bad about one of her late husband’s associates. The thought that Ankle-Deep Arkwright had been deceiving her hurt a lot. It brought back the ugly feelings that had followed Mr Pargeter’s betrayal by Julian Embridge.

  Truffler offered what he knew to be inadequate comfort. ‘Always going to be a few bad apples . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Mrs Pargeter shook her head in distress. ‘It’s difficult to readjust your thoughts . . . you know, suddenly to think of someone as bad when you’ve always liked them and . . .’

  ‘Hm.’

  She gathered herself together with an effort. ‘Still, it must be done. From now on I have to cast Ank in the role of villain . . .’

  “Fraid so.’

  ‘And whatever wickedness I can think of, realize that he’s capable of it.’

  ‘Yup.’

  There was a silence. ‘Mind you . . .’ Mrs Pargeter said ruminatively.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘I still find it hard to think of him as a member of the Rotary Club.’

  Chapter Thirty

  ‘Just a little bit off the bum,’ Kim Thurrock pleaded. ‘You really can’t object to that, Melita.’

  ‘But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with your bum,’ Mrs Pargeter countered. ‘I’m not an expert on these matters, but I’d have thought your bum was exactly what the bum of a woman your age should be.’

  ‘Yes, that’s just it – “a woman of my age”. But I don’t want to be “a woman of my age”. I want to be the woman Thicko remembers from before I had the girls. I did have a good bum then, though I say it myself.’

  ‘But Thicko’s not expecting to see the woman he knew before you had the girls. He’s not stupid,’ said Mrs Pargeter (though the last point was arguable).

  ‘I just want him to see me at my best.’ Then, rather plaintively, Kim voiced her real anxiety. ‘I want him still to fancy me.’

  ‘Of course he’ll still fancy you, love. Just relax.’

  ‘I just feel, you know, if I can promise him that my bum is, sort of, in hand – that I am getting something done about it – then he won’t worry.’

  Mrs Pargeter shook her head, half in pity, half in exasperation. ‘He won’t worry anyway. Look, Kim, I want you to promise me you won’t do anything about this plastic surgery business without talking to Thicko first.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Promise me.’

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  Having made that concession, Kim seemed to relax.

  She looked out through the crawling traffic of the Euston Road and consulted her fake Rolex. ‘Hope we won’t be late.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Mrs Pargeter reassured her. ‘Incidentally, is your mother still staying with you?’

  ‘No, thank God. It was hopeless trying to keep on any kind of diet with her around. She kept force-feeding me cream cakes. Honestly, her generation have just got things so wrong about eating.’

  Mrs Pargeter, who was closer to Mrs Moore’s generation than her daughter’s, smiled comfortably. ‘She looks pretty good on it.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’ A light of fanaticism came into Kim’s eye. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to backslide. I put on a pound or two while Mum was staying, but I’ve hardly eaten anything since . . .’

  ‘Kim, you must look after yourself.’

  ‘Of course I do. My body is a shrine, a temple.’

  ‘It’s not a temple you seem very relaxed in.’

  ‘That’s because I haven’t got it perfect yet. But don’t worry, I will. I’ll do it. On my own. “No one can make me better than I can make myself.” You know, Sue Fisher is an inspiration to women all over the world.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter drily.

  Mr Littlejohn’s house in Harley Street was as unlike a consulting-room as it was possible to be. Anything that might have carried overtones of clinic or hospital had been studiously avoided. The ground-floor rooms were full of dark antique furniture. The windows, discreetly protected by diamond-patterned grilles, were framed by musty bottle-green velvet curtains, which took more of the light than they should have done. On the wall
s hung Venetian vistas in the style of Canaletto and still lifes featuring gracefully dead birds. On mahogany shelves leather-bound books slouched against each other behind dusty glass.

  The whole impression was just slightly tatty, but it was the tattiness of impeccable taste. These are the rooms, everything seemed to say, in which an upper-class English gentleman actually lives. And people coming into these rooms were made to feel, not like clients or patients, but like guests.

  The image was reinforced by the lady who greeted Kim and Mrs Pargeter. She was a solid English Rose with blonde hair swept back behind a velvet band. She wore a navy blue cashmere jumper and a skirt which, without actually being a kilt, gave the impression of a kilt. Navy tights and flat navy shoes with a discreet garnish of brass completed the ensemble. When she went out of doors, she would undoubtedly have sported a Barbour.

  To have called her a ‘receptionist’ or ‘secretary’ would have demeaned her. She came across as a family friend of Mr Littlejohn, possibly a remote relation, second cousin or something of the sort.

  She greeted the new arrivals politely, in a voice which showed she had gone to the same kind of schools as Chloe, Candida, and Chris. ‘And you must be Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘Yes. I came along to give Kim moral support.’

  ‘How very thoughtful. No, I was expecting you actually, because I’ve just had a call from a Mr Mason, asking if you’d arrived yet.’

  ‘Oh, did he want me to call him?’

  ‘No, he said he was in transit, but he’d call through here again in half an hour or so.’

  ‘I hope that’s not a nuisance.’

  ‘No problem at all, Mrs Pargeter. Would you care for a seat?’ An elegant but comfortingly dented sofa was indicated. ‘And maybe I could get you both a cup of coffee? Mr Littlejohn will be ready to see you in just a moment, Mrs Thurrock.’

  They accepted the offer of coffee, and the ‘family friend’ went off to make the arrangements. Kim looked round rather nervously. ‘Bit posh, innit?’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Probably means Mr Littlejohn’s pretty expensive.’

  ‘I think cosmetic surgery is generally pretty expensive.’

  Mrs Pargeter’s hopes that this consideration might put her friend off the idea were quickly dashed, as Kim went on, ‘Still, Thicko and me’ve got a bit put away for something really important, so it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘But I thought you were down to your last penny. If you’d got some cash, why on earth didn’t you spend it to make the last few years a bit more comfortable?’

  ‘Well, er . . .’ Kim grinned nervously. ‘Thing is, we have got the cash, yes, but we can’t really get at it till Thicko comes out. He, like, has to go and get it.’

  ‘You mean it’s on deposit?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yeah.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Epping Forest.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Mrs Pargeter, understanding completely.

  There were some leather magazine folders lying on the table in front of them. Kim picked one up and fingered it nervously. ‘Wonder what this is?’

  ‘Probably “Before” and “After” photographs. And pictures of the range of tits and bums available.’

  Kim giggled and opened the folder. But Mrs Pargeter had been completely wrong. It contained a copy of Country Life. Mr Littlejohn was far too discreet to let his waiting-room give the impression that he was running any kind of commercial business.

  The ‘family friend’ returned with two bone china cups of coffee on a tray, complete with silver cream jug and sugared biscuits on a bone china plate.

  ‘Actually, Mrs Thurrock, Mr Littlejohn is free now. If you’d like to bring your coffee through . . . I’m sure you won’t mind waiting, Mrs Pargeter . . .’

  ‘Course not.’ Mrs Pargeter picked up a biscuit.

  Kim looked flustered. ‘Oh, I feel shy going in on my own.’ She looked hopefully at her friend.

  ‘I think you’ll be better off without me. If I was there, I might actually express an opinion about what you’re proposing to do to yourself.’

  ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘I think you should be on your own,’ said the ‘family friend’, a Head Girl firmly directing a junior non-swimmer into the pool. ‘It is your body that’s being discussed, after all.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  With one more look back for reassurance, Kim, the coffee cup rattling in her hand, followed her guide out of the room.

  Leaving Mrs Pargeter to that favourite pastime of Country Life readers, flicking through the mansions for sale in the front and fantasizing about buying one of them.

  The only difference was that, in Mrs Pargeter’s case, had she chosen to do so, she could have afforded to make her fantasy reality.

  Nearly three-quarters of an hour elapsed before the ‘family friend’ led Kim Thurrock back, and Mrs Pargeter could see the suppressed excitement in Kim’s face. She looked forward to taking her out for a nice leisurely lunch and hearing all about it.

  But that indulgence was deferred by the ‘family friend’ saying, ‘Mrs Pargeter, Mr Littlejohn wonders whether it would be possible for him to have a word with you . . . ?’

  A blink of surprise and then, ‘Well, yes, of course. But I must tell you that, having reached my age, if there’s anything wrong with my body . . . well, I’ve learnt to live with it.’

  ‘No, it’s not about that.’

  I see, thought Mrs Pargeter. It’s to find out how serious Kim really is about this plastic surgery business. Or, a cynical thought intruded, Mr Littlejohn wants to know whether I reckon she can pay for it.

  The consulting-room into which Mrs Pargeter was ushered maintained the upper-class domestic ambience of the outer rooms. It was all so shabbily elegant that the mere idea of discussing business in such surroundings would have been bad form.

  Mr Littlejohn matched his decor perfectly. Whether or not he had used his own skills or those of a fellow practitioner to arrange a little Do-It-Yourself was hard to know, but he did look wonderfully soigné. His pin-striped suit, though of exquisite cut, was comfortably crumpled, and the collar of his Turnbull and Asser shirt above regimental tie endearingly frayed. Wings of white in his black hair framed a tanned face from which twinkled two blue eyes, ready to encourage confidences about unsightly physical protuberances (and ready no doubt to ask with unblinking charm for the huge sums the removal of those protuberances would necessitate).

  ‘Hello, Mrs Pargeter, so good to see you. I do hope you don’t mind my asking you in.’

  The voice, too, had the easy assurance of frayed tweed and three centuries of inbred, unquestioning authority.

  ‘No. No problem at all. You want to talk about Kim.’

  ‘Well, not only about Mrs Thurrock. In fact, Mrs Pargeter—’ He was interrupted by the trill of one of the telephones on his desk. ‘I’m so sorry. If you’ll excuse me . . . ?’

  He picked up the receiver. ‘Littlejohn. What? Oh, yes. Yes, she is.’ With an ironical look, he proffered the phone. ‘You’re very much in demand, it seems, Mrs Pargeter. A Mr Mason on the line for you.’

  She took the receiver. ‘Thank you. Hello?’

  Truffler’s voice was urgently doom-laden. ‘Mrs Pargeter, I wanted to reach you before you got to Mr Littlejohn’s place. I tried Gary’s carphone.’

  ‘No, we came in a cab. I thought it would be easier.’

  ‘Well, listen, I’ve got something new. I’ve found a connection between Ankle-Deep Arkwright and the geezer you’re going to see.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This Littlejohn. He and Ank go back a long way. Back to Streatham.’

  The word struck its customary ugly reverberation in Mrs Pargeter’s mind. ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, back to all that Julian Embridge business. Now listen, Mrs Pargeter, just be careful because—’

  The line went dead. Mrs Pargeter looked up into
the blue eyes of the plastic surgeon.

  She could no longer see anything benign in their twinkle.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘I got cut off,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  Mr Littlejohn smiled archly. ‘How appropriate.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At a plastic surgeon’s. How appropriate that you should be cut off.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It was a small joke.’

  Very small, thought Mrs Pargeter. And if a joke’s function is to defuse an uncomfortable situation, this one had signally failed in its mission. It would have taken more than a feeble joke delivered in impeccable Old Etonian to make Mrs Pargerter feel relaxed at that particular moment.

  ‘Probably Cecilia cut you off inadvertently,’ he continued.

  The thought that the ‘family friend’ would be called Cecilia passed briefly through Mrs Pargeter’s mind, before she moved on to more pressing concerns. ‘Why did you ask me to come in here?’ she demanded. ‘Is it about Kim?’

  ‘No, Mrs Pargeter, it is not, as it happens. I will have no problem dealing with Mrs Thurrock, as I have dealt with many other women of her age who simply want to turn the clock back a little.’

  Mrs Pargeter couldn’t help asking whether he thought encouraging such aspirations was a strictly ethical practice.

  The plastic surgeon shrugged easily. ‘I’ve never lost any sleep over it. I don’t make any promises to my clients that I can’t fulfil. I tell them what services I can offer, and it’s up to them whether they choose to avail themselves of those services or not. They’re not under any pressure.’

  ‘Nonsense. They’re under pressure from every magazine they open, every model they see in a television commercial . . .’

  ‘Certainly. But they’re not under any pressure from me. It’s their choice.’

  ‘And is it a choice many of them regret?’

  ‘I can confidently answer that in the negative, Mrs Pargeter. I have a sheaf of letters from former clients, all saying how grateful they are to me for the improvements I have made to their bodies, and how much better and more confident they feel since their operations. They express a high level of satisfaction.’