“Daddy’d let me have one,” Lola whined. “It’s not fair.”

The back of my hand cracked against her cheek before I realised I had wanted to slap her.

“Well Daddy’s not here, is he? And believe you me, he’s more worried about fucking his Portuguese whore than getting you a goddamned iPod. Now march.”

I grabbed her arm and bee-lined out of the mall, ignoring the staring shoppers. It was getting late and the last thing I needed was another ticket for driving with no headlights.

So I probably shouldn’t have clocked her. Especially in public. And now I’d have to make another frickin’ orthodontist appointment to get her headgear unbent.

I passed the whore at the Grand Union the other day, in the spices aisle. She looked me right in the eye, lowered her head and whispered, “pesarosa.”

Like she’s one to call me names. “Right back atcha, bitch,” I said and spit at her.

More stares. Fuck them. They can’t see the bank account he’d emptied to move in with her. Or the eviction notice in my purse. Or the hunting knife that will soon live in her home-wrecking back.

Just wait lady. We’ll see who’s the pesarosa.