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Foxy Lady
Star
- Joined
- Jan 30, 2014
- Location
- United Kingdom
At first, I thought that I had solved the mystery. This was my lover’s wife extracting her revenge by playing games with me. All I needed to do was take a photograph of her and confirm with my cleaner that she was the Amy who had wanted access to my mail. I knew she and her husband were going to a dinner in two days’ time, so I followed him from work and waited across the street. As soon as they came out, I knew that I was wrong. There was no need to take a photograph. His wife was older than me, in her late 40s I’d guess, tall, slim, a real stunner. She looked nothing like the description my cleaner had given me. She wasn’t Amy.
But I did notice something else. I always call him Mart, but his real name is Martin and he lived in Warden Drive. Martin Warden, now wasn’t that the anagram for Andrew Antrim?
Which made me think about the other name. My former lover was called Warren. I wondered where he lived. It was easy to check and it meant nothing. But then I remembered where he worked, it was called Elgin and Sons.
So I now knew that the three people involved – or the three I knew about so far – were using anagrams of the names of my two lovers and my current lover’s wife. But how was all this information helping me? Had she - whoever she was, and it had to be a she, I felt sure of that - had she arranged for those guys to give me hints so that I would eventually understand the game she was playing? Or had they actually been sent to confuse the issue? By leading me down one path, were they really diverting me from the real truth? And wasn’t the truth that, far from being simple, the explanation for what was going on was far more complicated?
But hold on. If Amy wasn’t May, whoever she was knew enough about Amy, sorry about May, to know what underwear she wore in bed for her husband. Surely there were only two people who knew that. I felt sure it wasn’t my lover, Mart, who was behind this; he had seemed genuinely surprised when I presented myself to him in the same underwear as his wife had. No, I was confident that I could rule him out. Which meant that she had to involved somehow.
Another thought. There were three people who attacked me and I’ve come across three since. Were they the same three? And there has to be something personal in all this. The name I’d been given. The kick to my crotch.
I needed some more advice, but I wasn’t going to trust to supposedly chance encounters in Starbucks. No, what I needed was a chance meeting with someone who couldn’t be involved. And I knew how to manage that. The following week, I was flying to a conference. I’d consult the person sitting next to me on the plane. No way could that be organised.
So I boarded the plane eager to see who would sit next to me. She was already there. A grey haired woman in her late 50s was already occupying the window seat and flicking aimlessly through the inflight magazine. I smiled to establish a connection and waited until we were airborne. Then I popped the question.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but would you mind if I asked you for some advice.’
She pushed the magazine into the seat pocket and swivelled towards me.
‘Not at all,’ she smiled. ‘I’d welcome the distraction. I’m Patsy.’
Mentally, I tried to work out if that was an anagram, but I couldn’t think of one. Nor could I find one for Patricia, which was probably her real name. So she was safe.
For the next hour she listened while I told her my story and my thoughts on what was happening. When I had finished, she turned and stared out of the window, lost in thought. Finally, she turned back and spoke.
‘I’m sure you’re right that there is a woman behind this. It just feels that way to me. It is all so personal, more personal – and more subtle - than a man would bother with. But I don’t agree with you about there being at least three people involved.’
‘Why not,’ I asked, ‘surely these other people have to be involved somehow.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘It’s easy enough to hire a couple of thugs to beat up a woman and there are plenty of out of work actors who’ll play a part in Starbucks.’
I nodded. What she said was true enough.
‘But,’ I insisted, ‘May has to be involved somehow.’
She shook her head.
‘Again, not necessarily. It’s easy enough to find out about other people, as you know for yourself now. So why couldn’t someone have found out about May’s underwear. That had to be deliberate, of course you’re right to that extent, it would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. But she had to buy them somewhere, there’d be a receipt lying around. Did she buy them herself or did Mart buy them for her? Someone might have seen him. Or he might have got someone to buy them for him. There are lots of possibilities.’
‘Yes,’ I said as I took in what she was saying, ‘but what would you suggest I do to get to the bottom of this?’
She stared out of the window again for a while, as the plane descended to our destination.
‘I don’t really know, dear. You could just wait to see how it plays out, although there is a risk that it could turn nastier. Otherwise all I can suggest is to think about that underwear. Try to find out who bought it for a start. That may lead somewhere. Failing that, I really don’t know what you can do, except wait.’
TO BE CONTINUED
But I did notice something else. I always call him Mart, but his real name is Martin and he lived in Warden Drive. Martin Warden, now wasn’t that the anagram for Andrew Antrim?
Which made me think about the other name. My former lover was called Warren. I wondered where he lived. It was easy to check and it meant nothing. But then I remembered where he worked, it was called Elgin and Sons.
So I now knew that the three people involved – or the three I knew about so far – were using anagrams of the names of my two lovers and my current lover’s wife. But how was all this information helping me? Had she - whoever she was, and it had to be a she, I felt sure of that - had she arranged for those guys to give me hints so that I would eventually understand the game she was playing? Or had they actually been sent to confuse the issue? By leading me down one path, were they really diverting me from the real truth? And wasn’t the truth that, far from being simple, the explanation for what was going on was far more complicated?
But hold on. If Amy wasn’t May, whoever she was knew enough about Amy, sorry about May, to know what underwear she wore in bed for her husband. Surely there were only two people who knew that. I felt sure it wasn’t my lover, Mart, who was behind this; he had seemed genuinely surprised when I presented myself to him in the same underwear as his wife had. No, I was confident that I could rule him out. Which meant that she had to involved somehow.
Another thought. There were three people who attacked me and I’ve come across three since. Were they the same three? And there has to be something personal in all this. The name I’d been given. The kick to my crotch.
I needed some more advice, but I wasn’t going to trust to supposedly chance encounters in Starbucks. No, what I needed was a chance meeting with someone who couldn’t be involved. And I knew how to manage that. The following week, I was flying to a conference. I’d consult the person sitting next to me on the plane. No way could that be organised.
So I boarded the plane eager to see who would sit next to me. She was already there. A grey haired woman in her late 50s was already occupying the window seat and flicking aimlessly through the inflight magazine. I smiled to establish a connection and waited until we were airborne. Then I popped the question.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but would you mind if I asked you for some advice.’
She pushed the magazine into the seat pocket and swivelled towards me.
‘Not at all,’ she smiled. ‘I’d welcome the distraction. I’m Patsy.’
Mentally, I tried to work out if that was an anagram, but I couldn’t think of one. Nor could I find one for Patricia, which was probably her real name. So she was safe.
For the next hour she listened while I told her my story and my thoughts on what was happening. When I had finished, she turned and stared out of the window, lost in thought. Finally, she turned back and spoke.
‘I’m sure you’re right that there is a woman behind this. It just feels that way to me. It is all so personal, more personal – and more subtle - than a man would bother with. But I don’t agree with you about there being at least three people involved.’
‘Why not,’ I asked, ‘surely these other people have to be involved somehow.’
‘Not necessarily,’ she replied. ‘It’s easy enough to hire a couple of thugs to beat up a woman and there are plenty of out of work actors who’ll play a part in Starbucks.’
I nodded. What she said was true enough.
‘But,’ I insisted, ‘May has to be involved somehow.’
She shook her head.
‘Again, not necessarily. It’s easy enough to find out about other people, as you know for yourself now. So why couldn’t someone have found out about May’s underwear. That had to be deliberate, of course you’re right to that extent, it would be too much of a coincidence otherwise. But she had to buy them somewhere, there’d be a receipt lying around. Did she buy them herself or did Mart buy them for her? Someone might have seen him. Or he might have got someone to buy them for him. There are lots of possibilities.’
‘Yes,’ I said as I took in what she was saying, ‘but what would you suggest I do to get to the bottom of this?’
She stared out of the window again for a while, as the plane descended to our destination.
‘I don’t really know, dear. You could just wait to see how it plays out, although there is a risk that it could turn nastier. Otherwise all I can suggest is to think about that underwear. Try to find out who bought it for a start. That may lead somewhere. Failing that, I really don’t know what you can do, except wait.’
TO BE CONTINUED