by Simon Brett
‘Buy your own PhiliPussy to take home with you,’ the woman offered in a wheedling tone.
‘Oh, aren’t they sweet?’ cooed Jasmine Angold.
Mrs Pargeter kept her views to herself. She had long ago adopted the principle that if you haven’t got anything nice to say, then don’t say anything.
‘How much are they?’ Jasmine cooed on.
‘As much as you want to give,’ the woman replied. Her voice was irritatingly coy and other-worldly. ‘Though we do suggest a twenty-pound minimum donation.’
Jasmine Angold was immediately rooting around in her handbag. The woman smiled winsomely at Mrs Pargeter. ‘Now what colour would you like?’
‘I don’t think they’re really for me,’ came the graceful apology. ‘None of the colours would go with what I’m wearing.’
She was right. Another colour could only diminish the effect of the splendid purple silk creation she was flaunting.
‘What about black or white?’ the old woman wheedled. ‘They go with everything.’
‘Maybe, but I don’t want one,’ said Mrs Pargeter firmly.
‘They are handmade. By me,’ their creator insisted. ‘I crochet them while I travel back and forth from Greece in the minivan.’
‘Oh, do you?’ asked Jasmine, more charmed by the woman – and her crochet work – than Mrs Pargeter was. ‘Is that when you bring the cats back?’
‘Yes, I’m Doreen Grange. I’m in charge of all their repatriation.’
‘How lovely,’ said Jasmine, once more back into cooing mode. ‘Anyway, I’ll have a pink one, please.’
‘Of course.’
Two twenty-pound notes were proffered. This slightly annoyed Mrs Pargeter. She thought the artefacts were overpriced at twenty. She also suspected that Jasmine Angold didn’t have that much money to flash around in this way. But again she didn’t say anything.
Having pinned the pink crocheted cat on to Jasmine’s front (where it looked rather strange against the gold and silver), Doreen Grange turned back to Mrs Pargeter. ‘Sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘Absolutely certain, thanks.’
With a look almost of pity, Doreen Grange withdrew to accost further new arrivals with the offer of her crocheted PhiliPussies.
To separate the paying guests from even more of their money, the evening was of course to feature an auction. Mrs Pargeter and Jasmine Angold crossed to the table where the available lots were displayed on tiers of small shelves.
There was some very high-end stuff there. Jasmine looked at it rather wistfully. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to bid for anything,’ she said.
Having just witnessed her friend spending forty pounds on a crocheted cat, Mrs Pargeter made a mental note to set up discreet enquiries into the state of Jasmine’s finances. Though her late husband had been the most generous of employers and made pension provisions for most of those who worked for him, a few did occasionally escape the net of his largesse. And his widow regarded it as a point of honour to help out any of his former associates who found themselves with money worries.
She herself, of course, had none. She had benefited hugely from the magnanimous provisions of her husband’s will. In fact, Mrs Pargeter could have bid for everything in the auction and bought the lot, however high the price went, but she was more concerned as to whether there was anything there she might want to bid for. And because, perhaps inevitably, a lot of the objects on show were cat-themed, she doubted whether she’d find anything she’d want to give houseroom to.
The only lots with no feline connections were dinners-for-two at various expensive local restaurants, where Mrs Pargeter was quite capable of booking herself in. Nor did the idea of week-long holidays-for-two in rich people’s Mediterranean villas appeal much. She knew that such magnanimous gifts never included airline flights and always involved horse-trading over dates, as the best ones had been taken by the donor’s family members. She also knew the aim of all charity auctions was to get people to bid much more than the value of the lots on offer. And that didn’t appeal to her. Though the most generous of women, Mrs Pargeter always liked to get her money’s worth.
Still, she was there for her friend Jasmine, not for herself, so she must enter into the spirit of the occasion. She took a closer look at the lots to see if there was anything she could make a bid for that wouldn’t compromise her standards too much.
There were expensive scarves with cat motifs. There were a couple of cartoonlike paintings of cats with winsomely over-large eyes. There were designer leather cat baskets and crystal brooches in the shape of kittens. Silver cat shapes dangled in the form of earrings.
And boldly dominating the display on the highest shelf, hanging from a plastic branch, was a golden necklace whose design showed two cats slinkily coiling around each other. Mrs Pargeter thought it was hideous.
A view not shared by her friend. Jasmine Angold let out a long sigh as she looked at the artefact. ‘Oh,’ she murmured, ‘isn’t that beautiful?’
‘Not really my style,’ was all Mrs Pargeter could say with any degree of honesty.
Jasmine reached forward and took the weight of the necklace in her hand. ‘That’s really valuable.’
‘Is it?’
‘Valuable for the gold content alone, even if it hadn’t been made into something so exquisite.’
‘Ah. Yes, of course you know about these things.’
‘I learned a lot from Silver,’ said Jasmine. ‘I mean, never nearly as much as he knew, but he did train my eye for jewellery.’
‘So how much would that be worth?’
‘New, that’d retail in the shops for … I don’t know. Got to be talking ten grand. Fifteen more likely …?’
Mrs Pargeter looked at the necklace again, amazed at the kind of things some people would spend their money on.
At that moment Mendy Farstairs swanned up to them. She greeted Jasmine with perfunctory kisses on both cheeks and shook hands when introduced to Mrs Pargeter.
‘Just admiring that,’ Jasmine said. ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’
‘The necklace? Oh yes, it was mine. Rufus bought it for me yonks ago. I came across it in a drawer a couple of weeks back, realized I never wore it and thought, Oh well, that can go into the PhiliPussies auction.’
Mrs Pargeter showed no outward reaction. But inside she was asking herself what kind of woman can forget that she owns a necklace worth fifteen thousand pounds.
Such speculation was interrupted by a new voice asking, ‘Are you Mrs Pargeter?’
FOUR
She turned to see a very well-maintained woman, probably in her early sixties, bearing down on her. Her hair dyed an unlikely red, and dressed in a smart black trouser suit with a lacy shirt, she looked strong and, for some reason Mrs Pargeter could not immediately fathom, oddly familiar.
She admitted her identity to the newcomer, who then posed the supplementary question, ‘Widow of the late Lionel Pargeter?’
So unused was she to hearing her husband’s first name spoken that she hesitated for a second before answering in the affirmative.
‘Ah. You don’t recognize me.’
‘Should I?’
‘We’ve never met in the flesh, but I thought you might have seen me in photographs that Lionel kept.’
‘I don’t recall him ever showing me any photographs from his past.’ It was true. The late Mr Pargeter had always been economical with how much he told her of his background, of his life before they met. That was the way he always played things. He issued information on a ‘need to know’ basis, and he had never reckoned that his wife needed to know anything about his former life.
Mrs Pargeter was steeling herself for the woman’s announcement that she had been a former girlfriend – possibly even a former wife – of the late Mr Pargeter. She felt strong enough to face any such revelation. Her marriage to Lionel Pargeter had been so perfect, she had felt so secure in it, that she felt equal to any revelation about his past.
But the relatio
nship the woman laid claim to was an unexpected one. Thrusting out a hand to be shaken, she said, ‘My name is Rochelle Brighouse. I am your late husband’s sister.’ Again Mrs Pargeter was too thrown to provide an immediate response. ‘He never mentioned me, I suppose?’ she went on, her dark brown eyes boring into the violet ones in front of her.
‘No, he didn’t, I’m afraid,’ Mrs Pargeter managed to say.
‘No surprise there.’
‘And do you have other siblings?’
‘No, it was just the two of us. Lionel and Rochelle. Obviously Brighouse is my married name. Don’t really know why I kept it. It’s survived a lot longer than the marriage did.’ She continued to appraise her previously unknown sister-in-law. ‘We were never that close, Lionel and I. Interesting to meet you, though. I saw your name on the guest list and I wondered whether there might be any connection.’
At this point a tall man, probably in his thirties, with an exceptionally pale face, loomed over Rochelle Brighouse’s shoulder. ‘Ah, should introduce you,’ she said. ‘This is my son Haydon. Haydon, meet your Auntie Melita.’
Mrs Pargeter was almost as unused to hearing her own first name used as she was her late husband’s. And she certainly wasn’t used to being called ‘Auntie’. ‘Delighted to meet you, I’m sure,’ she said, shaking his hand. And then she introduced Jasmine Angold to mother and son.
‘Haydon’s a journalist,’ said Rochelle.
‘More of an author these days, Mum.’
‘Oh, what sort of stuff do you write, Haydon?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Non-fiction. True crime mostly.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘I’ve done a book about the Krays. And a new one about the Richardson gang is coming out in September.’
‘Good luck with it,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
‘Actually,’ said Haydon, ‘I wondered whether you might—’
Their conversation would perhaps have proceeded further, but for the sound of a glass being banged and various shushing noises which suggested someone was about to speak.
‘And I’m really so pleased to have thought up the name “PhiliPussies”,’ announced Mendy Farstairs some little way into her oration. ‘Not only is it a gesture of support to my Greek partner in the enterprise, Mr Costas Philippoussis, it is also a name of appropriately Grecian provenance. As I’m sure I don’t need to tell any of you, a word beginning with “phil-” or “philo-” derives from the Ancient Greek word for “love”. So “philosophy” means “love of learning”, “philanthropy” means “love of man” … and my new word, which I have created – “PhiliPussies” means “love of cats”.’
This was clearly a little routine Mendy had reeled out a good few times, and though many of her audience had heard the line before, they still granted it a chuckle of recognition and approval. Those present at the reception were mostly mature females, wearing the kind of dresses with enough fiddly details to qualify under the name of ‘designer’. Evidently money was not a problem for any of them. Nor, when it came to their clothes, did taste enter into the equation either.
‘First,’ Mendy Farstairs continued, ‘I’d like to thank you all for coming here tonight. Without your support, PhiliPussies would not exist at all. It is the practical help and financial assistance that you contribute that enables us to continue to do the good work that we do.’
Mrs Pargeter reserved her judgement. She had not as yet given any financial assistance to PhiliPussies, and she wanted to know a lot more about the charity before she reached for her chequebook. Though she had a great deal of money, she was always cautious about where she distributed her largesse.
‘There are a few people,’ Mendy went on, ‘I must single out for special thanks. First of all, Rochelle Brighouse …’ She gestured across to the woman. ‘Rochelle is a tower of strength. She handles all of the advertising for PhiliPussies and organizes events like this evening. She is our fundraiser, and it’s wonderful to have the skills of a professional PR person on board for a charity like ours. Apart from the busy day-to-day demands of the agency she runs, but from which she will surely be retiring soon—’
‘Never!’ Rochelle interrupted. ‘So long as I’m still good at what I do, so long as I enjoy doing it, who needs to retire?’
‘Well, be that as it may …’ Mendy Farstairs was slightly thrown by the vigour of the response, ‘… we still enormously appreciate the time that Rochelle finds in her busy schedule to work – completely unpaid, let me say – to help us out with PhiliPussies.’
A gracious smile of acknowledgement from Rochelle Brighouse was rewarded by a ripple of applause.
‘The other person to whom I must give special thanks is Doreen Grange, who – wonder of wonders – is actually here tonight. Now the reason I say “wonder of wonders” is that Doreen spends so much of her time in Greece that it is a rare honour to see her in this country. Welcome home, Doreen.’
Mendy gestured to the woman with the crocheted cats who had greeted Mrs Pargeter and Jasmine on arrival. She still had the appearance of a nurturing little old lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Mrs Pargeter regarded her with increasing suspicion. She had long since learned to distrust nurturing little old ladies who looked as though they wouldn’t hurt a fly.
‘Doreen, for those of you who don’t know – and I can’t think there are many – is our coordinator on Atmos. She arranges all the transport of cats from the island back to England – and I’d like to say a big thank-you to her and her many helpers who act as couriers in the PhiliPussies minivans to bring our furry friends to a better life in the UK.’
There was another polite ripple of applause; some of the older women didn’t join in but simply beamed. Those, Mrs Pargeter reckoned, must be the helpers to whom Mendy had referred.
‘And finally – well, almost finally – I would like to thank two men without whom the whole PhiliPussies operation would grind to a halt. The first is sadly not here because he’s back on Atmos, looking after the ever-growing number of cats we have in our sanctuary out there. I refer of course to the man whose name I have purloined for our organization – Costas Philippoussis.’
In absentia, he was offered a little round of applause.
‘And the other person who very definitely is here tonight is Bailey Dalrymple!’ She indicated a jovial-looking man in a jacket of predominantly green tweed and mustard-coloured corduroy trousers. ‘Bailey is of course our vet, whose love of cats and compassion for some of the pathetic strays who make the journey from Atmos back here is exemplary. At his clinic in Leigh-on-Sea, Bailey ensures the safety and health of the little darlings – as well as sorting out their microchipping – and he has been an enormous support to me from the moment I first had the idea for PhiliPussies.
‘For those of you who don’t know, Bailey Dalrymple and Costas Philippoussis are the only two professional employees of PhiliPussies and, given how much time they devote to the cause, it is absolutely right that they should be paid for their efforts, but all of the rest of the people who keep the charity growing and thriving are volunteers. And I’d like to conclude my few words this evening – before I introduce our very special auctioneer – by asking you all to raise a glass to – not just the volunteers who make PhiliPussies tick, but also the spirit of volunteering, which is so much part of our British culture and which distinguishes us from so many other different foreign countries. So …’ she raised her champagne flute ‘… to the spirit of volunteering and to PhiliPussies!’
The assembled throng also raised their glasses and produced a murmured echo of her words.
When that had died down, Mendy Farstairs moved on to her final introduction. ‘As you know we have very high standards here at PhiliPussies, and when it came to the choice of auctioneer, I went for the very best. I can’t tell you how delighted I was when the gentleman in question agreed to take on the role for us this evening. He will be known to you all from the many starring parts he h
as played on television, but is perhaps most recognizable to us as the crotchety but warm-hearted plastic surgeon Gerald Stickton in the ever-popular series, A Stitch in Time. So will you give a warm PhiliPussies welcome to the actor – and so much more besides – Tony Daniello!’
A tall man with suspiciously black hair, wearing a suit only just the right side of sharpness, eased himself out of a coterie of admiring women to take the proffered microphone.
‘It’s a great honour to be here tonight. I’ve often—’
But that was as far as he got. At that moment, all the lights in the hotel went out.
Within minutes members of the hotel staff appeared in the Balmoral Suite with torches. They were soon followed by a very apologetic and flustered-looking manager, who assured the assembled guests that everything possible was being done. In a few moments either mains power would be reconnected or the hotel’s emergency generator would be activated.
The few moments lasted some five minutes. Then, whether by reconnecting the mains or switching to the emergency generator nobody knew, the Balmoral Suite was once again flooded with light.
Instinctively Mrs Pargeter looked towards the table of auction lots.
The golden cats necklace was no longer part of the display.
FIVE
‘The people there were very British about the theft,’ Mrs Pargeter confided to Gary. They’d just dropped Jasmine off in Romford and she had moved into the front passenger seat for ease of conversation with him. Gary did not drive exclusively for Mrs Pargeter. He ran his own car-hire company but always made himself available when a summons came from her. And they had a constant battle of her insisting that he should invoice her properly for his work and him continually – and deliberately – forgetting to do so. After all the late Mr Pargeter had done for him, Gary kept saying, he would be honoured to drive his widow around for free. But Mrs Pargeter wasn’t having any of that. He was providing a service for her and she was very punctilious about paying for the services she required. Besides, she was very determined that Gary’s car-hire venture should succeed.