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

vegetable shelves outside her shop. A cyclist in pink Lycra is skipping a red light. Up high, an intrepid cat is sunbathing on a flat roof, licking her front paws then rubbing her eyes. The bus crosses the river, and Precious looks out to see white swans and pleasure boats and tourists taking photos.

The bus stop is a little way from the inquiry. A crowd has already gathered outside the building. There are journalists and photographers. Precious recognizes some faces from the neighborhood—shopkeepers and waiters who have come to show their support. A couple of times, she spots a woman who she thinks might be her—tall, glamorous, cold—but she can’t be sure. These women have her aspect—from the pictures she’s seen—but something about them isn’t right. They are too old; too eager.

Then Precious spots a blue Rolls Royce reversing into a parking space.

“That’s her,” she says quietly. It is unclear even to her whether she is speaking to the other women or to herself. Tabitha and Nicky follow her gaze.

“Oh right,” says Tabitha.

“Who is it?” Nicky asks.

Precious doesn’t answer. She begins to walk in the direction of the blue car, but Tabitha holds out an arm. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, love. You shouldn’t do or say anything without lawyers being around.”

Precious shrugs her off and continues along to the car. She always felt that if she could have had it out with this woman, one to one, it would never have ended the way it did. Precious has a huge amount of faith in the power of human communication; of two people looking each other in the eye and speaking their minds, generously, politely, but clearly.

The driver’s door opens and a man steps out. He is old, but not elderly. He moves around the large car, catching her eye, looking her up and down, spotting Tabitha, looking back to Precious. He then pulls at the rear door, swings it open. A huge dog jumps out, and Precious steps back, startled. It is tall and thin, with long, white fur, a pointed face and dark eyes. After the initial shock, she steadies herself, and crouches, then holds out a hand. The dog comes forward and touches his wet nose to her upturned palm.

The Last Laugh

Bastian and Laura are lost.

“Shank, it’s called Shank. Not Hunk. Shank.”

“You thought it was called Hunk? Why would it be called Hunk?”

“You know, like a hunk of meat. I thought that was the general vibe.”

Bastian and Laura are trying to find the restaurant, only Bastian has been typing the wrong name into his phone map and has been met with confusing search results.

Bastian tries to visit Laura every weekend. He gets the train on Friday night and another back to London on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning. This is the first time Laura has been down to London to visit him. Her mum has assured her she is able to cope without her. Bastian left his office early to go and meet her at King’s Cross.

They are now heading in the right direction. Bastian holds his phone in front of him with his right hand. Laura has slipped her right hand into his left and he grips it tightly, eager to endorse this rare public display of their relationship.

They stop outside the door of a restaurant. It looks to be newly opened. The windows are very clean and it smells of fresh paint. The decor takes its inspiration from an old-fashioned butcher’s shop. The waiters are all wearing stripy aprons. They look up at the sign.

“Here we are,” says Laura. “Hunk.”

Bastian laughs sarcastically. “It quite clearly says Shank.”

“Oh no,” says Laura. “I was actually referring to you.”

She gives him a coy smile. He shakes his head but laughs anyway. Then he pulls her towards him by her coat and kisses her lips.

They have a table reserved, booked in advance by Lorenzo.

They are greeted by one of the waiters in the stripy aprons. He is very tall and muscular. Many of the waiters seem to be tall and muscular. The selling point of the restaurant (according to an online review Bastian read) is that huge pieces of locally sourced meat are cooked publicly. You can see into the kitchens as you eat. There are parrillas, which are a kind of Argentine barbecue, and at one side of the kitchen there is a huge, enclosed fire pit where whole animals are roasted on a spit. The waiters have to be strong because they parade around the restaurant carrying the meat.

Glenda and her Lorenzo are already there, sitting at a rectangular table with two place settings at either side. Glenda grins when she sees them, and Lorenzo smiles too. They both get up and come round the table to greet them. Bastian shakes Lorenzo’s hand. Then Bastian goes round the table to hug Glenda. He opens his arms and draws her towards him in a tight embrace. She sinks into the hug easily and rests her head on his chest briefly before pulling away. Bastian has only seen Glenda once since she left London, and only for a short time. She looks healthier and happier, and stronger, physically and emotionally.

They all sit down. Bastian and Laura are on one side; Glenda and Lorenzo are on the other. “We should just get Lorenzo to order for all of us,” suggests Glenda. “He’s been here before and knows what’s good. And I find that when you’re sharing stuff in a restaurant it gets annoying when everyone has their own suggestions but also everyone is too polite to make any firm decisions, and you end up going round and round.”

Lorenzo orders the suckling pig spit roast. “It’s basically a heart attack on a plate,” he says. His tone makes it clear he considers this to be a good thing.

The furniture in the restaurant is made from chipboard. Lorenzo says that chipboard is the new exposed brick. The restaurant is lit by bare lightbulbs hung from long electrical cables