Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh by Simon Brett

had said when Mrs Pargeter had rung up and suggested meeting. 'I'm meant to be interviewing Warren Beatty over lunch, but I'm sure he'll be over here again in the next decade or so – don't you worry about it.'
    'Oh, but surely – ?' Mrs Pargeter had remonstrated. 'I mean, it doesn't have to be today it –'
    'Of course it has to be today,' Ellie snapped back. 'When I think of how much your late husband did for me . . .'
    'Well, if you're sure . . . I'll see at least you get a decent lunch out of it.'
    'Mrs Pargeter, I'd help you for a Quarterpounder and Small Fries,' said the woman who made it a point of honour always to send the wine back at the Connaught.
    Ellie Fenchurch knew Brotherton Hall well. She'd never availed herself of the health spa's services, but she could quote precisely which treatments various major celebrities had undergone there – along with their weight loss or gain to the last fraction of an ounce.
    In the same way she could enumerate the cosmetic operations of the famous – who'd had a hair transplant, who'd had a nose-job, who'd had liposuction, who'd had silicone implants, even (and this name surprised Mrs Pargeter) who'd had a penis-augmentation implant.
    Ellie's list of celebrity addictions, adulteries, and sexual perversions was equally comprehensive.
    It was for gleeful revelations such as these that every Sunday thousands of readers tossed aside the agglomeration of sections and supplements which surrounded it to home in first on her column.
    But no one would have believed that the steel-clawed termagant of the Sundays was the same woman who sat, docile in the 'Allergy Room' of Brotherton Hall, floating in a haze of Beaume-de-Venise-tinted nostalgia.
    'Oh, when I think how much he did for me . . . He really taught me everything I know about the press. And he was so gentle, such a wonderful teacher. No, if anyone ever asked for the definition of a good man, they'd have to look no further than your husband.'
    Mrs Pargeter indulged in a moment of moist-eyed agreement.
    'And he was such an innovator,' Ellie enthused on. 'I think he was probably the first person fully to realize the importance of public relations in his particular line of business. And he did it with such subtlety. I mean there have been imitators – of course, every mould-breaking pioneer's going to have imitators – but none of them had the finesse of your husband. The manipulation of the press by someone like . . . say, Robert Maxwell, just looks crude by comparison. No, the late Mr Pargeter was the guv'nor.'
    His widow, still moist-eyed, nodded.
    'And I was just so lucky to be the beneficiary of all that wisdom. He took me from nothing and he gave me everything. He showed me how to get the stories that mattered, the kind of exposure that counted. I mean, the things he managed to get in the gossip columns . . . some of the stuff was just breath-taking.'
    Another sentimental nod from Mrs Pargeter.
    'I think his triumph was the Princess of Wales. Oh, a real coup that was. I mean, to get William Hickey to print a story about a certain young man being seen dancing at Annabel's with "herself" – at the very time when the young man in question was . . . what shall we say . . . very differently occupied in Milton Keynes . . . Oh, and knowing that the Palace is never going to issue a denial or anything like that. That was just the best, the most public alibi I've ever come across. Brilliant.'
    'But you were the one who actually fed the story to William Hickey, weren't you?' said Mrs Pargeter, modestly spreading her late husband's glory.
    'Yes. But the concept was his. Magic. Wonderful. No, by my definition, that was sheer genius.'
    'Well, thank you very much.'
    There was a silence, a moment of respect for the late Mr Pargeter's departed genius.
    Ellie Fenchurch broke it. 'Anyway, Mrs Pargeter, what can I do for you? You name it – anything. You have only to say and it's done.'
    'Well . . .' Mrs Pargeter took another sip of the