Chapter 6
The receptionist glanced down at a notepad in front of her,
"Erm, yes, a Mr Lennox, Duncan Lennox."
Gina started to laugh not sure whether to be relieved or not. Admittedly Duncan didn't have the 'cat amongst the pigeons' potential of Craig, but that didn't exactly guarantee things were going to go smoothly.
"You alright?" Gemma asked as they walked away from the desk.
Gina nodded, "Yes Gemma, I'm fine. Just remind me to give Samantha a ring when we get upstairs. I think she might need some prior warning on this one."
At that moment Samantha was letting herself into her room, mentally planning what she was going to wear that evening. Whatever she chose from the vast bag she'd packed she knew she had to look fantastic. To be precise, a million times more fantastic than Debbie McAllister.
The woman infuriated her. She was so up her own arse, in spite of the fact she'd only got to where she had by making eyes at the right people, or rather the right person. That was the main difference between them - any job Samantha got, she wanted to get on her own merit. The old boy network would always assume that a successful woman had slept her way to the top, but why give them the satisfaction of being right?
Looking nice tonight, that was different. It wasn't like she was doing it to attract Jack, but just to show everyone she was special. A damn sight more special than Debbie.
She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn't realise there was anyone in the room until she was greeted by the sight of her daughter, sprawled on one of the twin beds (hers as it happened) in the throes of passion.
"Shit." She immediately turned and went to walk out of the room to leave Abbie and her 'guest' to finish whatever they were doing (and it was pretty obvious what that was) when suddenly something in her head went click as she realised just who that guest was.
She swung back round, "DUNCAN?!?"
"Samantha! What are you doing here?"
Duncan, to his credit, looked totally astounded, and made every effort to cover himself up with the duvet. Unfortunately the end result of this was that it fell off of Abbie leaving her pretty much naked.
Samantha, feeling like her legs were about to disappear from under her, reached out and grasped the dressing table for support.
"What am I doing here?" she heard herself laugh bitterly, "This is my room Duncan. No, the real question is what are you doing here? But no, don't answer that. I already know. You're shagging my daughter." She shot Abbie a contemptuous glare, "Cover yourself up dear, you look like a slut."
Duncan looked from one blonde (the mother, furious) to the other (the daughter, faintly amused) and back again then held his hand up, confusion written all over his face.
"Hang on a wee minute here. You told me your name was Nicola."
Samantha rolled her eyes, "Nix. She told you here name was Nix."
"Yeah. Nicks short for Nicola."
Abbie grinned, "I never said that."
Her remark earned her another dirty look from her mother.
"No Duncan, not Nicks short for Nicola, Nix short for Nixon. Abbie Nixon. What kind of useless Detective are you?"
"It's a natural mistake." Duncan blustered.
"Oh I'm sure it is. If you're thinking with your prick."
Samantha reached for her suitcase, pulled out the first outfit she came to and walked towards the bathroom.
"I'm going to get changed now." She tried very very hard to sound calm but knew she was failing miserably, unsurprisingly given the circumstances, "When I come out I'd like very much if you two were somewhere else. Oh, and next time I see you, which I'm assuming, joy of joy, will be at dinner, could you please make sure you have some clothes on? Thank you." And with one final glare at her daughter she entered the bathroom slamming the door behind her.
Debbie lay curled up on her bed, dressed for dinner, aware she was crumpling her trouser suit but only half bothered. Andrew was a good kid, but he knew how to hit her where it hurt.
She thought about the row that they'd had half an hour earlier.
It was the same old row that they'd been having since he learned to talk.
She'd been able to handle it in the early days when his line of debate got no more intellectual than toddling up to Jack's photo, pointing at it with his podgy little hand and saying, "Dadda." That was easy. She'd just laughed to herself and told him no. If she did that now, he argued back and he did it in such an eloquent way that was so far beyond his years that, had she not known and trusted Jack as much as she did, she'd have suspected he'd been coaching him.
Take tonight. What was it he'd said?
"Why won't you let Uncle Jack look after you? He's already like a dad to me. Why can't he move in and make if official? You know you're lonely."
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