'Dulce Ahumado Vaina'

‘‘Dulce… Dulce Ahumado Vaina,’ this one’s called,’ says Matthew. ‘You know, for simplicity's sake.’

            The label, etched in monochrome by a local artist, bears a sturdy vanilla pod, held like a cigarette between painted lips. Jessica unscrews the lid. A sweet, humid smell pools into the air around her. It is the smell of her mother, before Jo. It is the smell of Matthew’s fingers on the beach, when he leant over and painted a neat strip of tanning oil on her nose. And something else, much further back. A sicklier odour, with the same mingling top-notes:

Corinne, four months pregnant and still nubile on the floor of the girls’ changing rooms at secondary school. ‘Impulse’ body spray – the yellow one - cloys with the smoke hanging limply under the skylight. Corinne cackles as she takes her cigarette between her toes; angles her leg high to take a drag. Jessica stares in muted fascination as a tiny yellow thong disappears between stubbly, razor-burnt labia.

‘You looking at my cunt, cunt?’

She wasn’t. Well, not really. She was looking at the thong; imagining the thin material snaking its way up into Corinne’s stomach, and winding around her baby’s tiny, frog-spawn throat. Billie, it was to be called. After Billie Piper. Didn’t matter if it was a boy or a girl: Billie either way. If Billie died early on, thought Jessica, maybe Corinne wouldn’t bleed as much as her mother had.

‘It’s tobacco. And vanilla. Like the Tom Ford,’ says Jessica presently, turning the bottle over in her hands.

‘There’s nothing on the back. No list, or… ingredients.’

Matthew saunters. Hands on her waist.

‘Ingredients? Well, no, my pleb. You’re in darkest Bohemia.’

Jessica lolls against him: indignant, delighted. Matthew, with all the confidence and radiance of immense privilege. He smirks lots. Too much. He is downright filthy. But his eyes are clever and warm. It is love.
He consults his phone drunkenly, chin on her shoulder: Pedro Ximénez. Fortuna.

‘Here we are. Dulce Ahumado Vaina. Translation: sweet... well, I knew that. Sweet, smoky little pod.’

He looks at her. ‘Little pod. Just like you. Pea-pod. Cardamom. Vanilla.’

‘I’m not a pod,’ says Jessica. 
Jo and Billie. They had been peas. Seeds.

‘Well, anyway,' says Matthew. ‘I’m buying it. Te amo, etcetera.’

For a week, the scent takes on new shape and depth. It changes. It mingles with their skin, with carotene and sea salt. With week two comes the morning sickness. Vomit, bile, ‘Dulce Ahumado Vaina,’glass, Matthew’s cigarettes - all but one – straight down the sink.