Hot Stew by Fiona Mozley (most interesting books to read .TXT) 📕

cream and poured it over the fruit as liberally as if she were pouring milk onto breakfast cereal.

She didn’t appear to be with anybody but stood alone by the stand with her bowl and spoon and she ate without looking up. She took the bowl of cream, stained pink from the juice of the berries, with both hands, and brought it up to her mouth and drank from it until it was empty.

Bastian approached and saw that some of this pink cream had lingered on her lips, highlighting their curve. He doesn’t know why he walked towards her. He didn’t know at the time. He doesn’t know now.

Laura didn’t notice his approach until he was standing directly in front of her.

“Nice strawberries,” said Bastian, unaware of what he was saying until the words had come out of his mouth.

“What?”

She must have thought he was a total prat.

He thought it best to continue in the same vein. “They go very well with cream, don’t they?”

More idiocy.

“Um, yeah.”

Laura began to look over Bastian’s shoulder to spot a friend or someone else to whom she could escape.

Feeling the need to atone, he asked her if she wanted a glass of Prosecco. It was a shallow offer. All the drinks at the event were free. However, she said yes, and Bastian went off to get a bottle. He pulled one from a nearby bucket and opened it. He was glad of the task: it broke the awkwardness.

Laura smiled uncertainly as she took a glass from him. It was a smile that said “thank you” but also “go away now.” But he didn’t go away. Instead, Bastian held out his right hand with his palm upturned. He looked at Laura very deliberately and said, “What’s my fortune?”

Laura had just drawn a large gulp of Prosecco into her mouth and she was holding it there on her tongue to savour the sweetness and let the bubbles dissolve. After Bastian spoke she held the liquid there a little while longer and considered his words, looking repeatedly between his face and the palm of his hand.

She swallowed and said: “Yours will be a life of adventure and intrigue, so long as you follow your love line rather than your fortune line.” He relaxed his arm.

After that, there was talking and listening. They laughed a lot; Laura made Bastian laugh. They left the event together and headed to a pub and ordered a bottle of the cheapest, nastiest house wine, which they sipped from scratched glasses. Afterwards, they went back to Laura’s room. It was at the top of a dark, winding Victorian staircase, and had a slanted ceiling and a window looking out over the market. On the far side of the room, there was a single bed. Laura kicked off her shoes and headed towards it, leading Bastian by the hand. Then she turned and kissed him. Her lips were stained blood blue by the wine. He realized his must be the same color.

They were only together for a month, but of that month they spent every day and every night in each other’s company until, one morning, the relationship ended abruptly. Bastian still can’t get his head around what happened. Soon afterwards, Bastian and Rebecca got back together. He and Rebecca made more sense, he decided. They had more in common. They had known each other for a long time. He promised Rebecca he wouldn’t contact Laura ever again, and it was a promise he kept.

Back in the flat, Bastian goes to the narrow kitchen and pries open the freezer. Inside, there’s a bottle of vodka encrusted with frost. An upturned glass lies on the draining board. He rights it, pours in some of the gloopy liquid and takes a drink. He just about swallows the mouthful and feels it burn the length of his gullet, into his stomach. He fills the rest of the glass with water from the tap, then drains the glass in one go. He repeats both actions. By the time Rebecca returns, Bastian is drunk.

She didn’t go dancing after all, and is back earlier than expected. She lets herself in, and comes through to the sitting room. Bastian is lying on the sofa. He has replaced his earphones with a set of expensive headphones, which are plugged into an elaborate hi-fi system. A record is spinning on a turntable. Bastian’s eyes are shut.

Rebecca nudges him. He starts, and then, seeing who it is, he pulls the headphones down to hang around his neck.

“I’ve worked it out,” Rebecca says. She hasn’t put her bag down yet.

“Worked what out?”

“Who Glenda was. She was that lesbian who hung around with Laura Blind.”

Bastian feels himself redden. He should never have brought it up.

“Are you two back in touch?” she continues.

Bastian pulls himself up, so he is sitting on the sofa with a straight back. “No,” he insists. “God, no. I haven’t spoken to her in two years.”

Rebecca looks at him for a while longer, without saying anything.

Bastian can hear the music coming out of the headphones around his neck. It sounds tinny, like cutlery scratching an empty plate.

He takes a couple of deep breaths. So does Rebecca.

“Because if you did get back in touch, that would be us over.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

Rebecca pulls at her lower lip. Her lipstick has rubbed off. She turns away from him, walks into their bedroom and shuts the door. He can hear her going into the en suite bathroom and turning on the shower.

Bastian switches off the music and tidies away the headphones and cables. He is beginning to sober up. He is feeling like a complete dickhead. When he thinks about the time he spent with Laura, he is usually able to construct a network of explanations and excuses that align in his favor: Rebecca had made it clear she didn’t want to see him; Rebecca could have done something similar if she had wanted to (for all he knows, she did); there was never any certainty that