Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh

Chapter Fifteen

‘Gary…’ said Mrs Pargeter thoughtfully, as the limousine sped through the outer suburbs, ‘if you discovered that your wife was doing a job-’

‘Which I never would,’ the uniformed chauffeur interrupted. ‘Old-fashioned it may be, but I believe a bloke should bring home enough for his missus and the nippers without her having to go out to work.’

Others might have been surprised to hear these reactionary sentiments from such a young man, but Mrs Pargeter had long been aware of Gary’s Victorian values.

‘No, but if you did…’ she persisted, ‘what kind of work would your wife most want to keep secret from you?’

‘What, like what kind of work would she least want me to find out about?’ queried Gary, who liked to be in possession of all the facts before committing himself to an opinion on anything.

‘That’s it, yes.’

‘Anything illegal,’ the chauffeur pronounced, without a moment’s hesitation.

Ah, the late Mr Pargeter had taught his protege well. It could have been her husband himself speaking, Mrs Pargeter reflected fondly, thinking back to the punctilious care with which he had kept her innocent almost of the fact that crime existed in this wicked world. ‘What you don’t know about, my dear,’ had been one of his regular sayings, ‘you’re in no position to tell anyone else about.’

Gary had clearly absorbed the same values. Mrs Pargeter could not help once again contemplating the wide influence her husband had exercised. All over the world were men and women, many of whom had taken a change of career direction in mid-life, who owed all their success to the training bestowed by the late Mr Pargeter.

Gary was a good example. Her husband had discovered the boy at the age of sixteen in a young offenders’ centre, where he had been committed for joy-riding. The late Mr Pargeter had taken the boy under his wing, gently showed him the pointlessness of random car-theft, and paid for him to have driving lessons. The boy had felt ready after one, but his mentor insisted on two full courses of lessons before Gary was allowed to take his test.

The result, Mrs Pargeter mused as the limousine slid through the Surrey countryside, was the safest driver she had ever encountered.

The late Mr Pargeter, philanthropic as ever, had also put the boy through Advanced Motorist’s instruction, and paid for him to take courses in speed and skid-control (even going to the lengths of having him trained to cope with the additional weight-hazard of an armoured car).

Then, when Gary was proficient, the late Mr Pargeter had been good enough to find work for him in his organization, work which tested the boy’s skill to the full. His boss’s confidence was never once shown to be misplaced. Gary’s speed and repertoire of evasive manoeuvres had frequently saved other of the late Mr Pargeter’s associates from the kind of accident that could have put them out of circulation for two or three years (or in some cases up to fifteen).

When his boss died, Gary, after an appropriate period of mourning, had set up a driving business of his own with a more public profile than had been accorded to his previous work. Mrs Pargeter, always a great supporter of new business enterprise, had backed the venture from the start, booking Gary on every occasion that she might possibly need a driver.

He had at first tried to refuse payment for his services, saying, ‘After all, when I think how much I owe your late husband, it’s the least I can do for his widow to-’

But Mrs Pargeter had interrupted him firmly, insisting she always would pay for everything. ‘Neither a lender nor a borrower be,’ she had said, quoting another of the late Mr Pargeter’s regular sayings (though he may perhaps have borrowed that one from someone else).

So it was that she had organized Gary to drive her from Brotherton Hall to King’s Cross, and to have the limousine on hand to return her after the meeting with Tom O’Brien.

Gary, who was used to ferrying Mrs Pargeter to more elegant venues than the greasy spoon, had been far too discreet to pass any comment.

‘No, but give me a bit more detail,’ Mrs Pargeter insisted. ‘What kind of job would your wife least like you to know she was doing?’

‘Not absolutely clear what you mean, Mrs Pargeter.’

‘Well, for instance, would the worst thing you could find out be that… that she was on the game, for example?’

‘I wouldn’t like that much,’ Gary conceded judiciously, ‘but that wouldn’t be the worst.’

‘What would then?’

‘The worst,’ he said, ‘the absolute worst — the thing that’d really make me divorce her on the spot and never see her again — would be if…’

‘Yes?’

‘If I found she’d gone and joined the police.’

‘Ah. Yes. Well, of course.’

Somehow Mrs Pargeter didn’t think she was going to get much stimulus to her thinking about Jenny Hargreaves’ job from Gary.

On her return to Brotherton Hall, she bumped into an ecstatic Kim Thurrock — or it might be more accurate to say an ecstatic Kim Thurrock bumped into her. Kim was rushing from the gym, where she’d spent an hour increasing her weight-training circuits and repetitions, to the swimming-pool, where she still had thirty lengths to complete.

The cause of her ecstasy was quickly revealed. ‘I didn’t see you this morning. Do you know, Melita, at the Seven-Thirty Weigh-In, I’d lost another ounce and a half!’

Mrs Pargeter uttered suitable expressions of amazement.

‘I mean, I really do feel thinner. Don’t you reckon I look thinner?’

Kim stood sideways, holding her tummy in, for her friend’s appraisal.

Mrs Pargeter found it difficult to come up with an opinion. She’d never given much thought to Kim Thurrock’s figure — it had always seemed perfectly all right to her — so she had difficulty judging to what extent (if any) it had changed.

And Kim’s now-permanent uniform of Mind Over Fatty Matter leotard and leggings (oh yes, and presumably exercise bra) didn’t make assessment any easier. The patterns on the garments looked wonderful on Sue Fisher herself, and on her team of aerobic robots, but then presumably they had the kind of bodies that would look good in bin-liners. On ordinary bodies, like Kim Thurrock’s, however, the pattern seemed to have a different effect; almost at if it had been expressly designed to accentuate any minor bulges.

As she learned more about the Mind Over Fatty Matter approach to marketing, Mrs Pargeter found this conjecture increasingly plausible. It would be in character for Sue Fisher to promote garments which actually made people look fatter. They would preserve that all-important distance between the ideal and the reality, encourage her punters’ basic dislike of their own bodies, and ensure that they bought even more Mind Over Fatty Matter products to make up for their shortcomings.

‘You look very nice, Kim love,’ said Mrs Pargeter comfortingly.

‘ Nice?’ Kim Thurrock echoed. ‘But do I look thin?’

What did the truth matter under such circumstances? ‘Very thin, love,’ Mrs Pargeter reassured her.

‘Oh, good.’ But Kim still looked uncertain.

‘Really terrific. I bet you’re learning to love that body of yours now, aren’t you, love?’

‘Good heavens, no! I’m still such a mess. There’s still so much to do.’

So the Mind Over Fatty Matter programme of stimulating feelings of inadequacy was still doing its stuff.

‘But do you know the other wonderful thing that happened today?’ Kim asked.

‘No,’ said Mrs Pargeter, who didn’t.

‘I bought a prepublication copy of the Mind Over Fatty Matter Book of Warm Salads…’

‘Well, well…’

‘And do you know what?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Pargeter, who didn’t.

‘Sue Fisher actually signed it for me!’

‘I didn’t know she was still here.’

‘Well, she certainly was this morning. And she’s so generous. She signed books for practically everyone.’

After they’d paid for them, Mrs Pargeter thought cynically. Curious, she asked, ‘What did she write in yours?’

‘“Keep trying, Kim!”’ her friend replied proudly.

Clever. Never write ‘Well done’. Never imply the process is complete. Because, of course, a slimmer who’s achieved her goal is going to stop buying Mind Over Fatty Matter products, isn’t she?

‘Anyway, I must dash. I’ve still got these thirty lengths to do.’ Kim stopped, suddenly solicitous. ‘And how’s your programme going, Melita?’

‘Programme?’

‘Yes. Fitness, slimming, you know…’

‘Ah. Well, I’m doing as much as the allergy allows me to,’ she replied in a bravely martyred tone.

‘Oh, you do have rotten luck,’ Kim sympathized.

‘I know, but… well…’

‘C’est la vie,’ Kim supplied, drawing once again on her evening classes.

‘Exactly. Still, I live in hope,’ Mrs Pargeter continued with spirit. ‘Only ate half my portion at lunchtime today.’

‘Oh. Well done,’ said Kim Thurrock.