“What’s the subject?” Although his change of subject was jarring, I welcomed it.
“How the Pre-Raphaelites informed the neo-classical movement.”
“I’ve got an idea,” he said, brightening.
“About the Pre-Raphaelites?”
He laughed, which was rare for him but beautiful. “No, although I do love the collection at the Tate. You enjoyed our little trip to Bath.”
“I did. I’ve even started sketching my new bridge series.” I smiled as he took my hand.
“Why don’t we go there for a couple of days? While you’re working on your paper, I can arrange renovations for my new spa.”
My spirit came alive. “I’d love that.”
“I actually got a distinction for English, so if I can help in anyway…” Blake’s gentle smile gave him that rare boyish look that I loved.
“Oh, that would be super.” I fell into his arms, and our lips met for a soft, tender kiss that quickly developed into one of need and hunger. I pulled away and smirked. “So, you’re not just a pretty face?”
Blake wore a half grin that dimpled his cheek and made me want to eat him.
He squeezed my ass and then fondled my breasts. A sliver of electricity gusted through me. The more intense Blake’s life was the harder his cock became.
His fingers moved inside my panties and tickled my clit.
“And you’re very creamy,” he rasped, waltzing me to the sofa. My body relaxed entirely, not only because his ravishing tongue promised to send me over the edge but also because my mother hadn’t been mentioned again.
37
* * *
BLAKE
I’D SUGGESTED INVITING HER mother 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.”
Penelope removed a sticker from the fridge and took out her phone. “Do you feel like some pizza?” she asked me.
“No, I’m good,” I replied. “But if you want to stay and eat, I’m okay with that.”
Penelope read me like a book, and I hated myself for being so transparent. “I’m not hungry.” She looked at her mother. “We just popped in to see how you are, and Blake …”
I interjected, “I asked Penelope to introduce us.”
Probably due to being stoned, Sandy seemed more relaxed than the two of us. “It’s nice of you to drop in, love. Don’t fuss about.” She winced at the noise Penelope made as she tossed out bottles and cleaned the kitchen.