They picked me up in their new car. It smelt of leather conditioner and perfume. Hers. French. Thick. She stunk, as my mother liked to put it, like a fuckin’ pole cat.
Everything about this woman, it was made clear to me, was to be despised. Everything, especially her expensive secretions. It was Madame Rochas, I think, and I secretly liked it. It smelt like the David Jones Christmas catalogue. It smelt like the holidays.
They didn’t come to the door; my mother didn’t go out. Their arrival was signalled by a single, sharp beep. The car, black and shiny as a leech, sat on the cracked concrete driveway, revving its engine like it couldn’t wait to get away. It didn’t look right in our scrappy, wire-fenced yard. The two Rottweilers were circling, sniffing its tyres. I could see her face through the tinted windows, nervously watching the dogs, and watching me as I approached.
The dogs barrelled up to me, almost slamming my knees out from under me with their joyful heft. I gave them each a nuzzle before sliding into the cream leather embrace of the back seat.
Immediately, she pulled a packet of Wet Ones out of the glove box and handed them to me…
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