Hot Stew Fiona Mozley (ebook pdf reader for pc txt) 📖

point of reference Agatha has for how her father looked is photographs, gaudy paintings, and her own appearance and that of her sisters. Although it might seem as if the photographs or paintings would offer the most accurate, faithful, true-to-life portrait of the man, this is not the case at all, for the photographs and paintings are not alive. They do not move, they do not breathe, they do not make a sound, they do not smell like him, they do not reveal character, mannerisms, gait. The best approximation Agatha can make for the father she never met comes as a composite of herself and his other children. Agatha and these five other women each carry a portion of his whole.

• • •

The journey from central London to Ryedale is mostly on motorways and dual carriageways. Agatha suffers from motion sickness so is unable to read in the car, but she listens to an audiobook about the Thirty Years’ War. At the halfway point of the journey they pull in at a motorway service station so Fedor can stretch his legs.

Agatha generally prefers to stay in the car during these breaks to avoid the fat, lumpy people who trudge from the car park to the fast-food restaurants. They spill coffee and sugary drinks on the floors and tables and their children shout and scream. They can’t use the toilet without strewing paper all over the floor or pissing on the toilet seat. The thought of these communal lavatories makes her feel ill. All those ugly, dirty, stupid creatures pissing and shitting and menstruating in the cubicles next to her.

On this occasion she’s not permitted to remain in the car. Anastasia wants to buy a new lipstick. She opens the back door of the car and drags Agatha out, insisting she help her choose. Agatha tries to persuade her to wait until they are back in London so she can go to Selfridges or Harvey Nichols or a Mayfair boutique, but Anastasia apparently wants the lipstick immediately. Agatha goes with her into the service station and finds a makeup concession inside a small branch of Tesco. Her mother is such a child.

They stand together for several minutes, passing shades to each other, arguing over hues, smudging testers onto the backs of their hands.

“You are absolutely not buying a glittery one. Absolutely not.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

They try more testers and smear more colors on the backs of their hands. They hold the lipsticks against their faces and look into the square mirror at the side of the concession to check if the color complements their skin tones.

“Let’s get one for you too,” Anastasia suggests.

“I’m not going to buy my makeup from a stand at a motorway service station.”

“Oh but it’s good enough for me, is it?” There’s hurt in her voice, hurt that’s been building from these last few months of cold dismissal from her daughter.

“No, it’s not. That’s why I suggested you wait. And if you can’t wait until we’re back in London then at least let’s pop into somewhere in Ripon or Helmsley. They will stock some better brands.”

“Yes, yes, they all stock those brands that look the same. You want to dress me up like some horsey aristocrat. Well, I’m sorry, Agatha, but that just isn’t me. I like lipstick with blue glitter and if you have a problem with that, well it’s tough.”

There’s no reasoning with her. She’s so sensitive these days.

“You can wear whatever you like when you’re picking up men on the French Riviera but excuse me if I don’t want to turn up in the owners’ enclosure with a mother who looks like a prostitute.”

Anastasia carefully places the lipstick back onto the stand, turns to her daughter and slaps her hard across the face.

That’s another thing about her mother: she watches too much daytime TV.

Anastasia is wearing several rings on each finger. They caught Agatha’s skin and there’s a small amount of blood on her upper lip.

A middle-aged woman in a blue uniform is stacking sandwiches into a nearby fridge. She stops mid-motion, turns towards the scene. Her eyes are open wide.

“What the fuck you looking at, you dumb bitch?”

The shopworker scurries away to the side of the shop, quickly types a code into the keypad on a locked door and disappears behind it.

“I cannot believe you just did that,” says Agatha quietly.

Anastasia rummages in her handbag and pulls out a fresh tissue. She moves it towards her daughter’s face to wipe away the blood. Agatha takes a step back.

“You will never touch me again.”

“Oh please. Oh please. That was nothing. If that was the worst you’ve had, then you’ve led a very easy life indeed, my dear.”

“Maybe so. But I won’t be treated with so little respect.”

“How would you like me to treat you? Would you like me to bow and curtsy; treat you like a little princess because you’ve got your money now? And where did that money come from? Did you earn it? Did you fight for it? Was it your skin and sweat and blood that secured it? No. It was mine. All mine. Oh, my sweet naive precious little princess. If you only knew the things I had to do to give you this life. The things I’ve done. The things I’ve seen done. The things that have been done to me. But no. You believe it, don’t you? You really believe it? You believe that you have these luxuries because of your own superiority.”

“The business has gone from strength to strength under my management. You would see if you ever bothered to study the figures. But you wouldn’t understand even if you did look. You can’t read. You certainly can’t count. You know nothing of finance and business. And it wasn’t you who built this fortune; it was my father. And it’s clear that though I never met the man, I take after him rather than after you. He built an empire from scratch. All you’ve ever