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 soigne. 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.’
‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? After they’ve spent all that money, they’re not going to admit it was a stupid idea, are they?’
He bowed his head in gracious acceptance. ‘That is certainly a point of view, Mrs Pargeter.’
She knew this discussion of medical ethics was simply playing for time, putting off the moment when Mr Littlejohn revealed what he really wanted from her, so she briskly shifted the subject. ‘Well, you know you’re never going to enlist me as a client…’
‘I am well aware of that, certainly. You are one of those rare women I have met who — as I believe a French proverb puts it — “fits her skin”.’
‘I’ve certainly never felt uncomfortable in it.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t.’
But this square dance of pleasantries had to come to an end. ‘What do you want, Mr Littlejohn?’ she asked bluntly.
Accepting the change of direction, the surgeon packed away his polite smile and assumed a darker expression. ‘Mrs Pargeter, the fact is that, although we have never met before, we have many mutual acquaintances.’
‘Oh?’
‘In particular, we both knew your husband very well.’
‘Ah.’
‘The late Mr Pargeter was extremely generous to me when I started in my chosen profession. At the time I qualified, I was unfortunately involved in… well, let us say a business relationship which made my practising in the traditional way rather difficult…’
‘What did you do?’ she asked with characteristic directness.
He coloured. ‘I don’t think the specific details are relevant to our current conversation. Suffice it to say that I ended up as a fully qualified plastic surgeon to whom nobody would give a conventional job.’
‘And my husband helped you out?’
‘Precisely. He was good enough to supply me with premises, with the necessary surgical equipment and — most important of all — with a steady supply of clients who required my services.’
‘So you’re “Jack the Knife”?’
‘Yes, Mrs Pargeter, yes. “Little John” equals “Jack”. I suppose there is a kind of neatness about it. I was given the soubriquet when I started working for your late husband, and it kind of stuck. Very happy years they were,’ he said nostalgically. ‘I got on very well with Mr Pargeter and he introduced me to a remarkable number of clients. Many of them spent a considerable time with me before taking new directions in their careers…’
