out, but Penelope shook her head, telling me her mother never left her flat. She’d rung ahead, and when she closed the call, she looked at me and said, “I don’t really want to do this.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She asked if I had any cash.” Penelope looked up at me and bit a nail. “That’s normal for her. Let’s not go. It won’t be pretty.”
“I want to meet her. I’m not going to judge her. But will she mind me seeing her? That’s more the point.”
“My mother’s self-respect went out the window years ago. In fact, you know, I don’t think she’s got any. That sounds awful, I know. But…” She shrugged.
I stroked her cheek. “Hey, it’s all good. I just want to meet her.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay, then. But I warned you.”
* * *
THE CRUMBLING ESTATE WAS predictably squalid. Penelope greeted a skinny guy wearing loose, low-slung sweatpants. His fancy trainers seemed incongruous on that skinny drug-riddled frame. He scratched his arms and almost looked shy around Penelope, which was cute but still harrowing. I hated her being there, let alone sharing a laugh with a drug dealer.
They’d grown up together, she assured me as we walked along the cracked pavement.
Graffiti was splattered across the walls, not in any artful fashion but in that angry I hate the world way.
Penelope insisted on going first. Seeing how shaky and affected she was, I held her hand.
People yelling over blaring TVs and loud thumping rap music filtered through as we moved past the endless doors in that crowded estate.
I examined large cracks around the entrance, and as we stood at the threshold of Penelope’s childhood home, I wondered if it was even structurally safe. The place needed to be condemned.
“Have you got a key?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. The door’s always open.”
“Really?”
She smiled. “There’s nothing to steal. Only Oxfam hand-me-downs.”
I frowned.
“Hey. No pity or judgment, remember?”
I took her hand and squeezed it gently.
She opened the door and called out, “Mom.”
Beneath the blaring TV, a voice said, “Hello, darling.”
Penelope stepped into the haze, gesturing for me to enter a room that had smoked a million cigarettes.
I stood before her mother, who slouched on the sofa, watching telly. “Hi, I’m Blake, Penelope’s boyfriend.”
Penelope’s face turned sharply to mine, a sparkle of surprise in her eyes.
How else can I describe myself? “A rich lover who’s so addicted to your daughter he needs to see her, taste her, fuck her every night?”
Penelope’s mother lifted her slouched spine, appearing more like a frail sixty-year-old than someone in her mid-forties. “Oh.” She studied me and then gave me her hand, which was small, cold, and shaky.
Her green eyes reflected back a life of sadness and bad choices. I struggled to look at her, because she didn’t even try to hide behind a screen of pleasantries.
“I’m Sandy.” Her uncertain stare flitted between Penelope and me. “Please sit.” She pointed to a chair buried in clothes.
Penelope quickly removed them and then headed to the untidy kitchen, where the bench tops were scattered with used packaging.
She opened the fridge. “There’s beer but no food, again.”
“I’m okay, Penny. Please don’t make a fuss.” Sandy cast me a tight smile.
She had the guarded expression of a person so broken that she wasn’t going to let anyone in. I recognized it because my mother had often put up that same wall. But instead of drugs, she drank, mostly with Sir William, who also loved to drink. I’d often find them sharing a bottle, and laughing at ridiculously childish things.
“Is there anything you need?” I asked, reaching for my cellphone.
She studied me. “I could use some smokes. And there’s my script.”
Penelope removed the prescription from her mother’s hand. “This is for your methadone?”
Sandy nodded and scratched her arms. “Yes, love.” She smiled at me meekly.
It was so sad. I understood the hopelessness of it all. I could see that this woman didn’t want to wake up. Hell stood at her doorstep, and she’d buried herself in drugs to ward it off.
“How about food?” I looked over at Penelope, who nodded, biting a nail. “I can arrange for Patrick to pick up that script if you like. And buy some food.”
Penelope shook her head. “No. She’s had her quota.” She looked at her mother. “How about a pizza?”
Sandy nodded with resignation. I could see the disappointment etched on her face at the lost opportunity to feed her desperate habit. “One with pineapple and ham.”