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

the node begins to glow, as Roster releases it from its socket and holds the hot tip to the end of the cigar. The dried leaves kindle. Roster wets his lips and sucks on the other end, pulling the first rush of air through the chamber and drawing smoke into his lungs. When he exhales, the car is filled with a thick smog that rises and hangs around his head.

Agatha doesn’t mind. He isn’t a regular smoker but has enjoyed the occasional cigar for as long as she can remember. She likes the smell, and the way Roster breathes it in and blows it out. When she was a child he used to entertain her with smoke rings, or by exhaling through his long nose.

“You won, then?”

“Two out of the six. I placed in all but one. Up on the day.”

“Congratulations.”

When the lad arrives, Agatha opens the back door, then shuffles across to let him sit next to her. Roster turns on the radio to give them privacy.

Roster finds first gear. The wheels grip the gravel and begin to roll. It is a twenty-minute drive back to Bythwaite Hall, along narrow roads then winding lanes. The hedgerows are frozen bare. The fields were plowed after the harvest, before the soil became too stiff and turgid, and the lines of orderly furrows have frozen hard, preserved until spring.

They reach the gatehouse, which sits at the edge of the grounds. The lights are on, meaning her sister is at home. Roster took Fedor to Valerie before they left for the races, but Agatha hasn’t been to see her yet.

There is a long driveway, edged with beech. Bythwaite Hall can be seen at the end: a Tudor manor, with a large Victorian extension, and a vast climbing hydrangea.

The car stops by the front door. As Agatha steps out, Roster opens his window and whispers, “poor chap.” Agatha ignores him. She climbs the steps and the lad follows her in. His rubber-soled boots are still wet from stepping on frosty grass. They squeak on the stone floor. Agatha looks down at his feet as he shuffles, awkwardly.

“It’s probably best to take those off,” she says.

He does as he’s told and places the boots side-by-side next to the doormat. Agatha offers him a drink.

“A glass of water would be great, thanks.”

“I was going to have something stronger. A whiskey?”

“That sounds nice. I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

Agatha leads him into a sitting room and guides him to a chair. Then she goes over to the drinks cabinet and pours Balvenie from a decanter into heavy tumblers. She holds one out for him, and he gets up again, comes over to her and takes it, then sits back down.

The lad looks around. The walls of Bythwaite Hall are lined with portraits of the previous owners. Before her father bought it, the manor had been in the same family since the fifteenth century. There are hunting scenes with lusty men, muskets and spaniels. There are gilded portraits with neoclassical backdrops, presenting their subjects as paragons of learning; men with torrents of borrowed curls. Then there are vases, coats of armor, coats of arms, hunting trophies.

She can’t remember the name of the family who owned the estate. They won the land by making good choices during the Wars of the Roses. Before that, who knows what they’d been. Mercenaries, butchers, peasants. They must have felt very smug by the end, Agatha supposes. They must have thought it would all last forever. She imagines their descendants living in three-bedroom semis on the outskirts of shitty towns. She imagines them driving Vauxhall Astras and buying lottery tickets in the hope of better times.

She looks over at the lad, as out of place as her, or them.

Why is it she can only feel attraction towards men like this? Younger, less powerful, less experienced. She needs to catch them before they become confidently aware of their place in society.

“How old are you?” Agatha asks.

“Eighteen.”

Good, she thinks. Old enough. The last thing she needs is trouble of that kind.

The lad drinks his whiskey in a single gulp. The alcohol makes his eyes water. Clearly, his only experience of spirits comes from drinking shots on a Friday night.

“Would you like some more?” Agatha asks. She sips her own whiskey delicately.

“Er, yeah.”

She pours again, and he consumes it in the same manner.

“How are you feeling?” Agatha asks.

“All right, thanks. Only, I’ve been working in the yard all day and I feel a bit minging. Is there anywhere I can get a quick shower? Sorry to ask.”

“It’s fine. I’ll run you a bath.”

As Agatha and the lad climb the wide staircase upstairs, the last of the natural light is dragged from the Hall and spread to a different part of the world. The place is eerie in the dark. The stairs and wooden floorboards creak as they’re trodden, and Agatha can hear the lad breathe loudly and deeply.

The light in the bathroom is bright and reflects against the white tiles. In the center of the room, there is a bath standing on brass lion’s feet. She releases water from the taps and it splashes on the pit of the basin. The sound rings around the room, bouncing off the hard surfaces. Agatha goes to the cupboard and pulls out some expensive bath oils, and she drips them into the running water.

“I’ve never used owt like that before,” says the lad.

She smiles. There’s a chair at the side of the room, facing the bath. Agatha sits on the chair. The lad stands by the heated towel rail.

“Do you know why I brought you here?” Agatha asks.

“I’ve got a couple of ideas. I’m not sure it’s got owt to do with stables.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I was thinking, maybe, you wanted to get to know me better.” He’s not looking at her as he says this but at the running water coming from the taps.

She crosses a leg over the other. “Do you find me attractive?” she asks.

He seems startled by