agreement.
'I mean,' Gary went on, 'in many ways he was too generous-spirited . . .'
'That's true.'
'Too ready to think the best of people . . . an innocent, really, in a wicked world . . .'
Mrs Pargeter wiped a little moisture from the corner of her eye as she nodded again. 'So what you're saying, Gary, is that Stan the Stapler was involved with Julian Embridge?'
The immaculately tailored shoulders in front of her shrugged. 'Can't go as far as saying that. All I can say is it seems odd. Up until Streatham Stan the Stapler done everything for your old man. After Streatham, even though Mr Pargeter offered him lots of jobs, Stan was somehow always unavailable. Well . . .' Another shrug. 'You have to draw your own conclusions, don't you?'
'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter, drawing hers.
The limousine drew up outside the Mind Over Fatty Matter headquarters. Sue Fisher had planted the centre of her empire in the area where she had grown up, the bungaloid sprawl between Newhaven and Beachy Head (offering, in the phrase with which Ellie Fenchurch would begin her Sue Fisher interview, two opposing solutions to weight worries – on the one hand, a ferry to the gastronomic delights of France and, on the other, suicide).
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 idea 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, Buddha, 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
'I mean,' Gary went on, 'in many ways he was too generous-spirited . . .'
'That's true.'
'Too ready to think the best of people . . . an innocent, really, in a wicked world . . .'
Mrs Pargeter wiped a little moisture from the corner of her eye as she nodded again. 'So what you're saying, Gary, is that Stan the Stapler was involved with Julian Embridge?'
The immaculately tailored shoulders in front of her shrugged. 'Can't go as far as saying that. All I can say is it seems odd. Up until Streatham Stan the Stapler done everything for your old man. After Streatham, even though Mr Pargeter offered him lots of jobs, Stan was somehow always unavailable. Well . . .' Another shrug. 'You have to draw your own conclusions, don't you?'
'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter, drawing hers.
The limousine drew up outside the Mind Over Fatty Matter headquarters. Sue Fisher had planted the centre of her empire in the area where she had grown up, the bungaloid sprawl between Newhaven and Beachy Head (offering, in the phrase with which Ellie Fenchurch would begin her Sue Fisher interview, two opposing solutions to weight worries – on the one hand, a ferry to the gastronomic delights of France and, on the other, suicide).
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 idea 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, Buddha, 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
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