After The After Party
Disclaimer – All characters property of the BBC.
It is, what would probably be referred to as, an 'after party'. Numbers have long since dropped off leaving only those that could best be described as Ric and his inner circle; those who came to hobnob have done so and left, while the hard core have relocated from the hospital function room to a nearby bar; apparently with the intention of drinking it dry, and, it has to be said, have done a pretty good job.
'Carnage' would be the best way to describe the scene, Connie thinks as she surveys the after effects of the champagne, the cocktails and the multitude of shorts. She has the advantage of being completely sober, and as tempting as it would have been to join in with the fun, she's just beginning to see the benefits of not having done so – it makes the spectacle in front of her all the more enjoyable to watch.
Diane is, there's little doubt, the worst affected, having passed out at quarter to 10 and been asleep with her head in Connie's lap ever since. The man of the hour is doing slightly better, being as he is still standing but the fact that he's at the bar giving a girl who appears to be barely out of pigtails the come on would seem to indicate that it won't be long until he joins her.
Just as she's thinking this, and wondering if it might be wise to step in before Ric finds himself on a charge of sleeping with a minor, a voice breaks into her thoughts.
"What a sorry state of a man…"
She turns to see Abra Durrant sitting himself down beside her, following her gaze to Ric, and instantly gets the urge to move. Inwardly laughing at drunken people is one thing, having to engage them in conversation is something else entirely.
Before she can though, he's opening his mouth again and delivering one of his trademark conversation stoppers,
"Didn't you sleep with him once?"
"Well I wouldn't make the same mistake twice." The retort comes out slightly more icily than she intends, and she feels guilty. In actual fact, Ric was a 'mistake' that she'd have quite happily made two, three or four times more, if only her pride would have let her. Not that she's about to admit it.
"Oi." Abra waves a finger in the air in the way that only a drunk person can, "that's my best friend you're talking about. We're practically brothers." A drunken yet sly yet oddly endearing smile appears on his face, "And we share everything you know, even," he drops his voice and whispers to her in a mock confessional tone, "the ladies. Did he tell you that?"
She smiles in spite of herself, although she's blatantly aware of where the conversation is headed. Unpredictability is obviously not Mr Durrant's strong point. "Is that so?"
He nods, apparently in all seriousness although she suspects this is a long way from the truth,
"Yep. So, you know, if you want a bit, I can arrange it."
She looks at him thoughtfully, as if she's actually considering taking him up on her offer and then slowly shakes her head, "I think I'll pass for now, but thank you, I'll keep it in mind."
He grins a grins that falls somewhere between cheeky school boy, and leering pervert. "You make sure you do. I don't even care," he adds, "if you are pregnant. It doesn't bother me. I think its quite sexy."
At his words her smile freezes on her face, "Who said anything about being pregnant?" she mutters, hoping it sounds more convincing to him than it does to her. In response he reaches out taking her hand in his and inspecting it closely,
"This." He says, then takes her other hand as well, "and this." He smiles at her again, "You've got chubby little pregnancy hands."
"I'm sorry?"
There's obviously something in her tone that makes him more than aware that he really hasn't done himself any favours and he quickly attempts to dig himself out of the hole he's got himself into.
"They're not fat. They're just well," he turns one of her hands over and over in his, inspecting it closely, "pudgy."
She doesn't even need to respond this time for him to know he's in trouble so he puts his shovel down and lets the subject of her hands go. Instead he picks up her drink and tastes it, nodding knowingly, "Plus, no one would voluntary drink soft drinks all evening while surrounded by such distinguished company as," he nods towards Diane, "Sleeping Beauty, and," he looks over at Ric who now has his tongue down the throat of the Lolita figure at the bar, "Casanova over there."
She knocks back her orange juice in one, wondering where her denial can really go considering the way he's stacking the evidence up against her and decides that changing the subject is the way forward.
"You missed yourself off of that list."
"That's because I'm the kind of company an intelligent sophisticated woman like yourself would crave." He explains simply, before returning to the topic of his pregnancy once more, "When's it due?"
She is saved, at that moment, not by the bell, but by the unmistakable sound of Ric falling from his barstool and landing on the floor with a resounding crash. Looking at him, sprawled on the floor with no chance or intention of getting to his feet, and then Diane who is in the process of dribbling all over the cream fabric of her extortionate dress, she sighs and turns to Abra,
"Come on Mr Durrant, lets get this useless twosome home."