Simon Brett - Mrs. Pargeter's pound of flesh

The headquarters was purpose-built — a severely white structure whose award-winning architect appeared to have taken his inspiration from anaemic, elongated Lego bricks. As in the ideal Mind Over Fatty Matter body, curves were excluded in favour of angles. The building was a shrine to the goddess of self-denial.

This theme was echoed in the pervasive minimalist Mind Over Fatty Matter logo over the entrance, and in the stark black-on-white message on an adjacent board — ‘DO BETTER’.

That was typical Sue Fisher philosophy. All her slogans — and she had taken to slogans in rather a big way — contained comparatives. Nothing was allowed to be good in its own right; everything had to be less good than something else. Aspiration — and by definition unfulfilled aspiration — was the dynamo of Mind Over Fatty Matter ’s success.

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

‘Don’t you worry. I’ll wait in the car park.’

‘Well, if you’re sure…’

‘That is my job, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Gary. ‘I mean, someone as important as you, from an organization as important as the one you represent… well, they’re going to have a chauffeur what waits in the car park, aren’t they?’

She giggled. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’

‘Who is it you’re representing again?’

Mrs Pargeter curbed the giggles and replied demurely, ‘Sycamore.’

‘Sycamore?’

‘It’s an acronym.’

‘Oh,’ said Gary blankly.

‘From the letters SICMOR. The Society for the Investigation of Corporate Malpractice by Overselling Representation.’

‘Oh yeah?’ There was a pause. ‘What’s that mean then?’

‘I’ve no idea. But it sounds good.’

‘Yes. Oh yes,’ said Gary, with suitable respect.

Ellie Fenchurch was waiting in the white, cell-like Reception. Nothing so frivolous as a plant was allowed to break up its austerity. The only relief in the stark whiteness of the walls was provided by more black-lettered slogans.

‘SELF-IMPROVEMENT IS WITHIN YOURSELF.’

‘PRACTICE BRINGS YOU NEARER PERFECTION.’

‘GET FURTHER FROM WHAT YOU ARE — GET CLOSER TO WHAT YOU CAN BE.’

‘Who does this cow think she is?’ Ellie Fenchurch demanded as Mrs Pargeter greeted her. ‘Jesus Christ, Buddah and Allah all rolled into one?’

‘I don’t think you’re far off the mark.’

The journalist looked at Mrs Pargeter’s bright silk suit doubtfully. ‘You don’t think you should have tried to disguise yourself… glasses or something?’

‘No. Be fine.’

‘But if Sue Fisher saw you at Brotherton Hall…’

‘Sue Fisher didn’t see anyone at Brotherton Hall. She doesn’t see other people unless they can be of use to her.’

‘Hm. But if your suspicions about her are correct, then she’s going to know who you are.’

‘If my suspicions are correct, I’ll be delighted that she knows I’m on to her.’

Ellie Fenchurch nodded. Then she rubbed her thin hands together. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’ She flashed a bleak smile at the perfect body behind the barren reception desk. ‘We’re both here now. Could you see if Ms Fisher is ready for us?’

The girl buzzed through on her switchboard and found out that yes, Ms Fisher was ready for them.

Ellie Fenchurch rose to her full bony height and smoothed down the jacket of her latest designer frippery. ‘OK, off we go.’ She grinned a vulpine grin. ‘Sue Fisher is about to find out what it feels like to be the ingredients of a kebab.’

Sue Fisher’s office was as expensively austere as the rest of her headquarters, resembling nothing so much as an operating theatre, an impression which was reinforced by the steel furniture and severely focused spotlights. In place of notices exhorting surgeons to wash their hands, the walls bore further maxims of Mind Over Fatty Matter philosophy.

KEEP GOING, BECAUSE FULFILMENT IS JUST AROUND THE NEXT CORNER. THE HORIZON OF PERFECTION IS GETTING CLOSER. NO ONE CAN MAKE ME BETTER THAN I CAN MAKE MYSELF.

(It was not without irony that this last statement should be displayed at the centre of an empire devoted to marketing products which would make people better.)

Somehow even the chrome-framed photographs of Sue Fisher with various heads of state and celebrities presenting her with awards took on the air of X-rays in this clinical environment.

The medical parallel was completed by the surgical green tunic-suit Sue Fisher was wearing. It was one of the latest range of the company’s designs; Mind Over Fatty Matter fashions were now diversifying beyond leisurewear. The suit, in common with all Mind Over Fatty Matter garments, looked much better on Sue Fisher than it would on any member of the public brainwashed into buying one.

The medical analogy could also have been maintained that morning by saying that the knives were out. Sue Fisher knew full well the kind of journalistic carve-up that was going to be attempted, and she relished the prospect. The light of battle gleamed in her eyes.

It gleamed in Ellie Fenchurch’s eyes too. These were two tough women, squaring up to each other. Neither would offer any mercy, or expect any.

Mrs Pargeter relished the confrontation, almost regretting that she could not just sit back to enjoy it as a spectator. She had to remember that she was there to further her investigation.

‘Coffee?’ asked Sue Fisher, once functional introductions had been completed.

Both her guests said yes, that would be very nice.

‘We only serve one kind of coffee here. It’s decaffeinated and made of beans from more than one country, all of whose regimes respect human and animal rights. It’s made with water containing an amalgam of natural salts and minerals. It’s the only one we serve because all other coffees are actually harmful.’

This was a typically uncompromising Sue Fisher sales pitch.

‘This coffee wouldn’t by any chance be a Mind Over Fatty Matter product, would it?’ asked Ellie Fenchurch.

‘Yes.’

‘And the water — is that one of your products too?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.

‘Yes.’

Now that really was marketing — to sell not only the coffee, but also the water to make it with.

‘And I suppose it should only be drunk out of Mind Over Fatty Matter mugs…?’

Sue Fisher was either deliberately or genuinely unaware of any irony in Ellie’s tone. ‘It does taste better out of them, yes. The mugs are made from a particular kind of clay I came across when I was on a fact-finding mission in the Gambia.’

‘Fancy,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

‘And they’re fired by a slow method which approximates very closely to sun-drying.’

‘Well, well,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

Sue Fisher turned to a device whose chromium frame, bulbous glass and interwoven tubing continued the medical image, and threw a switch. ‘I had this specially designed in Italy. It’s based on a model I saw out there, but adapted to work on less electricity… you know, for the environment,’ she added piously. ‘It’s the best — and most environment-friendly — coffee machine currently on the market.’

‘And that wouldn’t by any chance be another Mind Over Fatty Matter product, would it?’

‘Yes, Ellie. As a general rule, if something’s the best on the market, then it is a Mind Over Fatty Matter product.’

There was something very unEnglish about Sue Fisher’s certitude, Mrs Pargeter reflected. No diffidence, none of that fatal English mock-modesty. Nor, of course, any leavening of English humour.

Sue Fisher continued. She was evidently prepared to maintain a monologue on the virtues of herself and her company until interrupted. ‘The coffee machine also saves staff time. Everyone here at headquarters has one in their office, whatever their level in the company. Not only is that a convenience, it also avoids all kinds of problems over hierarchy. You’d be surprised how much resentment builds up in the workplace over the simple issue of who is delegated to make the coffee.’