[1904 Reference: Claude George Bowes-Lyon, 14th Earl of Strathmore and Kinghorne, succeeds his father to the earldom 16 February 1904.  Had issue, 10 children including a daughter, The Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, (1900-2002), future consort of King George VI, in later life known as the Queen Mother.]

Confused?  Click HERE for the last installment, or HERE for the Didier archive and backstory to what follows below:

        

"I'LL TELL YOUR MOTHER."

Yes, Dear Reader, as I said those words, as I clasped the phone in my sweaty palm with dialing finger poised, as I stared into the cold and calculating eyes of a potential defenestrateur, I could see I had achieved my intended effect; I had averted disaster.  Both Pam and Didier froze.  Then, ever so slowly, my former student's daughter relaxed her hold and eased off the forward motion that would have sent the young man into a five-floor freefall.

"You're bluffing," she said with less conviction than her delivery required.

"Try me," I replied with grim confidence, for although she was not entirely wrong, she had tipped her hand and she knew it: my hunch, arrived at (in the previous installment of this sordid tale) in utter panic and despair, contained a kernel of truth -- I'd learned long ago that the very well-to-do, at least those of the divorced variety, have a rather shockingly difficult time keeping track of their offsrpring.  Oh I know, I know; I couldn't ditch fifth period Civics without alerting the town, a couple Eastern Star ladies reporting me and half the Kiwannis Club calling to inform my parents I was a Commie-fag-hippy, but that's what growing up middle class (read poor) in the Midwest gets you.  Throw a family fortune or two in the mix with a few key variables like a litigious and contested settlement, a doting grandmother sans restraint of pocket or checkbook, new romantic pursuits of both parents on separate continents, and it's a lead pipe cinch you got yourself one precocious and duplicitous minor flying first class cross-country and Bob's-your-uncle 'til Nana's trust officer puts a Post-It (TM) on her Amex bill.

In short, Pam was AWOL in L.A. and I had gambled correctly her mother the Countess (although she rarely used the title) was as yet blissfully unaware of the fact.  There would, with any luck, be hell to pay.

In the hesitation of the moment, Didier saw his chance to wiggle free from his backwards pose in the open window and stumble to safety.  Whereupon, collecting himself at a safe distance, he proceeded to hurl unflattering epithets in French at his former assailant.  I swiftly turned and proffered the phone in a menacing gesture, meant to suggest I'd make another call which wouldn't help his case either.  "Arret," I said and he did in mid-insult. 

"Now," I said, addressing the two of them the way you would the slightly insane, the elderly or the mortally ill, "I suggest we all take a seat and act like grown-ups and --"

"Don't," Pam warned.  "Don't talk like we're both retarded," and she threw a meaningful glance over her shoulder. 

Already oblivious to us, Didier had begun a deeply self-absorbed physical examination of himself to check for bruising or visible wounds, which apparently required reaching inside his t-shirt, flexing, and testing various muscle groups.  I could see her point. 

"Deal," I said, which resulted in a stand-off, until eventually she and I sat, opposite one another, and a silence fell over the room as we waited to see what the other would try and pull next.

"You have no idea what he's done," Pam said at last, partly as a statement of fact.  I took a deep breath.

"Why don't you tell me, Pam," I said as pleasantly as possible.  She returned the smile.

"You sigh a lot," she said.

"I've been told that recently," I replied.

"I know what you're thinking," she continued.  I tipped my head as though pretending to be curious, hoping she would know full well that I didn't care in the least what she "knew" and la-tee-da.  And then she went for the jugular:

"You're thinking you can hardly wait to blog about this."

"Oh really Pam, how preposterous," I swiftly lied, as though nothing could be further from the truth.  "What would your mother think if she heard you say that?"

Her eyes narrowed.  "What do you want?" she asked, cutting (as they say) to the chase.

I could well imagine that whatever had happened, whatever she would tell me, it might not be pretty.  "Tell me everything," I said anyway.  She was a worthy adversary, and I realized I must mentally gird my loins.  I must prepare for the worst, and yet, Faithful Reader, I did not flinch.

"Tell me everything," I repeated fearlessly. 

To be continued.