What I began to do was pull my car over, get out my pad and pen, and write down the tailing car’s information. I would then call the Stetson man and read him the numbers. We had an inside connection that would look up the registration. If the car was confirmed to be registered to the FBI and the driver was idiotic enough to sit through this show, I would walk up to the window, tap on the glass, and ask him to roll it down. I would then ask if he would like my schedule—explaining that it would make it easier to follow me and much safer for the other traffic. Once, in a particularly smart-ass mood, I asked for directions to my destination. It was not long before the FBI stopped coming to my neighborhood.
Team Wife, however, was in for the duration. They had not let up with leaving the nasty messages on my voice mail. They continued to follow me, usually four or five of them in an SUV. I am sure they felt very important about being able to provide his wife with the details of my life. The Stetson man and I often took evening walks, with the SUV full of women following slowly behind us. We would hold hands, and every few steps I would be sure to lay a massive kiss on him.
One weekend when his wife was out of town, we spent the night at his mansion, in their bed. This wasn’t my first night in their home, but this weekend was different. On this particular occasion, I was my new empowered self. I wanted to be on the offense, and so I made myself at home in her extremely large bathroom. I placed a Victoria’s Secret red lip gloss on the floor next to the vanity stool, as if it had innocently fallen out of my purse. I never said a word; I just waited. My thought was that the lip gloss would let her know I had been in her house—and in her bed. I was playing hardball.
Months later, after she had removed her life from his mansion, the head housekeeper told me about the lip gloss fallout. His wife had lined up the entire staff, interrogating each one. She was on a mission to find out if any of them had broken the rules and used her facilities. When none of them confessed, she brought out the rogue lip gloss and informed the staff to be on guard for signs of the femme fatale. The housekeeper then showed me the lip gloss, which she had kept. The lip gloss she held before me was a cheap purple lip gloss. It looked like it had come from a ninety-nine cent store. Had his wife kept my Victoria’s Secret gloss? Had she used it? Did she attempt to seduce her husband with one of my props? I have always been fascinated with what happened to my Victoria’s Secret red lip gloss.