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

done is find rich and powerful men to cling on to. And that’s a skill, is it? That’s a skill? That’s something I should admire you for, be proud of, emulate? You think I’m embarrassed of you? Well then, yes. Yes I am. Of course I am. How could I not be? You’re nothing but a whore. A whore, a whore, a whore.”

The blood above Agatha’s lip is beginning to dry. She takes the paper tissue from Anastasia’s hand and uses it to dab the cut.

Anastasia’s face settles into an expression Agatha can’t quite read. She might be about to apologize or she might be about to spit in her daughter’s face. After a short pause, she says, “Your position is under attack on a number of different fronts. Your sisters are still trying to prove that either you or Donski’s last will is illegitimate. That band of hookers have kicked up a huge fuss. The newspapers have become involved—the left-wing press because you’re rich and because of your political donations; the right-wing press because the roots of your business are sordid, and also because you’re a woman and a foreigner in their eyes. You need your friends at this moment. You need your mother.”

“I have everything under control. When I need help, it will come from well-educated, qualified, trained professionals, whose services I will pay for. You don’t know anything about it.”

“I don’t know anything about it? I have been defending your fortune your whole life. I’ve been fighting your half-sisters since the moment I popped you out. I used to go to arbitration with your mouth clamped around my tit. I know what they’re like. Don’t underestimate them. They would rather see everything crumble than allow the estate to remain under your control. You can use your lawyers and your politicians and your policemen and your business speak all you like, but do not forget how this fortune was won—because that is what they will use against you.”

Agatha doesn’t answer immediately. A family with small children comes into the shop. They busy themselves at the refrigerators, selecting and reselecting combinations of sandwiches, wraps, fizzy drinks and packets of crisps that fit the shop’s meal deal. They’re oblivious to the scene on the next aisle. The dad is wearing a checked shirt and faded blue jeans. He becomes more and more irritated by his wife and two elder children who keep changing their minds and squabbling over the last BLT. The mother intervenes with suggestions of sharing but this is poorly received. Only the youngest child, a girl of about five, stands back from her family and watches Anastasia and Agatha as they argue.

The little girl sees the face of the older woman crumple in anger then relax in despair. She sees the color of her cheeks range from red to white to red. She sees tears build at the corners of her eyes then boil over and drip down her face. The older woman says the word “fucking” a lot. The little girl knows this word because her older sister whispers it to her between mouthfuls at the dinner table then giggles then whispers it again behind her hand then giggles. She sees the older woman turn and leave the shop with a lipstick clenched in one hand and her handbag in the other. The younger woman, whom the little girl cannot fathom as a daughter because daughters are little children like her, stands still.

Agatha goes to the till and waits for the checkout assistant to re-emerge. She pays in cash for the lipstick her mother has taken, sliding loose change over the counter one coin at a time.

Set in Silver

“I was an idiot for trusting that bitch. But whatever. Damage done. Lesson learned. I’ve moved on.” Precious has not moved on. “The thing that fucks me off, though, is that it was so blatantly obvious something like this was going to happen. I should have spotted it a mile off.”

“If she was a bloke you would have,” says Tabitha. “We’re constantly on the lookout for dodgy blokes—men who pay you for one thing then demand another, men who don’t pay what they’ve agreed to pay, men who pretend to be all charming then are complete jerks. We’re wise to that. But with a woman it’s a whole other game.”

Tabitha is standing by the kitchen counter staring at the toaster. It is sitting at a jaunty angle, closer to the edge of the surface than it should be. She pushes it back against the wall. “Is it just me or is this toaster further forward than it used to be? I shift it back every morning, and it just creeps forwards again over the course of the day.”

Precious ignores her.

“Do you have to move on though?” Candy is sitting by the little table in the corner. The window next to her is open at the bottom, and her arm is dangling out, drooping at the wrist, a lit cigarette in her hand. She keeps leaning towards the opening, taking a drag, exhaling, then rejoining the conversation. “Isn’t there anything you can do about it?”

“Like what?”

“Someone can’t just take a photo of you and put it all over the place without your permission.”

“Yes they can. Of course they can. Do you think the paparazzi ask celebs for permission before selling photos of them arse over tit at 4 a.m.?”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Precious invited this photographer up to the flat. She posed for her.”

“More fool me,” Precious says. “If anything, that makes it even less likely I’ll be able to do anything about it. God, I’m such an idiot. It’s like inviting a known burglar into your home then being surprised when they make off with your jewelry.”

“Fuck her,” says Tabitha. “Fuck Mona Beardsley. Fuck her to hell.”

Tabitha throws down the pamphlet she is holding. It is a program for a photography exhibition. The photograph of Precious that Mona took in her bedroom three months before is the image that