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“Best way I can describe her,” the old woman explained, ushering in a long-legged, tanned and blonde girl who could set any man’s heart racing.
“I'm not a trollop, I'm a WAG,” this vision trilled, perching her pert bottom in its tight mini-skirt on the rest of my armchair
“Oh good,” I exclaimed, jumping up and glad of an excuse to forego my dinner, “I could do with a laugh.”
“What you on about?” the girl trilled.
“You say you're a wag, though you don't look much like Woody Allen, tell us a joke.”
“You’re a nutter. I'm Cynthia La Creme, a Wife And Girlfriend, a WAG.”
“Of course you are, my dear,” Holms said rising to his feet but much more slowly than I. “Please, be seated properly, I am Sherman Holms.”
Miss La Crème slipped into my armchair while Holms took his accustomed place opposite.
She immediately took a handkerchief from her handbag and began blubbing into it. “Oh, Mr Holms, you must help me, my boyfriend is missing.”
Holms immediately made the connection. “Ah, you are the paramour of Jimmy Henderson, perhaps?”
But this seemed to be beyond Miss La Crème’s ken. “No, I'm his bird.”
“Hold on,” I interjected, “We'd been led to believe that Jimmy was attracted to older women.”
“Yeah, he likes to call me Aunty Cynthia,” she answered mournfully.
But holms was all business. “We are already investigating his disappearance, Miss. Tell me, when did you first notice that Jimmy was missing?”
She wiggled herself delightfully into the comfort of my chair before beginning. “Well, it wasn't really Jimmy I missed, it was his credit card. I'd gone to buy a new handbag, you see, 'cause I need to buy a new handbag every week, and when I went to pay for it, I noticed that Jimmy and his credit card weren't there.”
“It must have come as a great shock,” Holms consoled.
“I'll say, there hasn't been a week in three years I haven't bought a new handbag.”
She let out a long heartfelt sob. “Maybe he's found a real older woman, Mr Holms. I'd do anything to get him back. I bet I could get varicose veins if I could find the right plastic surgeon.”
I instinctively moved toward her and tried to cradle her head to my chest.
“There, there, my dear, you mustn't worry your pretty little head.”
“Put her down, Wilson,” Holms advised, “you couldn't afford to keep her in paper bags, never mind handbags. Now, Miss La Creme, what made you suspect that Jimmy was considering leaving you for an older woman?”
“He wanted me to wear an apron round the house. I checked, and Dior doesn't do none. None of the big name designers does.”
She jumped up and pulled her miniskirt up to reveal a pair of matronly bloomers.
“And he made me throw out my thongs and g-strings and wear these.”
“Disgusting!” I exclaimed.