The task proves a lot less easy than they would have hoped, and as Connie tries to wrestle Diane from her car, her stomach churning from the smell and sensation of vomit - a parting gift from Ric - trickling down her back, Abra sees fit to step in.

"You shouldn't be trying to lift her" he says helpfully, "Not in your condition."

Connie responds to this by giving him a look that would sour milk – although the though of that only makes her nauseous as well – and snapping, "Well you get her into the bloody apartment then." At which she stalks off, deciding to make the most of Diane's hospitality and grab a quick shower, wherein which she spends a good 15 minutes wondering what exactly she's done to deserve this, and taking some kind of perverse pleasure in the fact that she won't be the one suffering in the morning.

She dresses in a very bland jeans and sweatshirt combo borrowed from Diane's wardrobe, leaving the dribble and sick stained dress in the bath for Diane to deal with. Quite frankly, after her display of behaviour that evening, it's the least she can do

By the time she's finished and goes in search of the others Abra has managed, quite impressively, to not only get Diane into the flat, but also into bed, and, if Connie's reading the bare shoulders that poke out of the top of the duvet correctly, undressed her to boot. She looks at him questioningly but he just smiles,

"We're old friends. She wouldn't have minded."

The connotations of the statement are far too worrying to even comprehend but she doesn't have time to even think about it before he jumps back onto the charm offensive.

"You look nice." He says, looking her up and down, before his line of vision lands at waist height on the jeans, "Shame you couldn't get the button done up though. The downside of being 'with child' I suppose." She's tempted to smack him, but he must realise that he's about to get punched because he quickly moves past her mumbling something about "fancying a night cap".

She catches up with him in Diane's kitchen, where he's rooting through the cupboards obviously in search of something. She stands watching, again questioning exactly what she's doing there, and clears her throat slightly, wondering if its too much to ask that they actually go home, individually of course, any time tonight.

He ignores her, too intent on the task at hand, and then, finally.

"Ah ha! Got it!" He turns to her, waving a bottle in her face. She recognizes it instantly; it's a Remy Martin Louis XIII Grande Champagne Cognac, and the last time she drank it was at her wedding reception, shortly before she threw up down Michael's paisley waistcoat (admittedly no one had been able to tell the difference anyway). Not that that answers the question of what exactly a registrar with all the non-sophistication of Diane Lloyd would be doing stashing an £800 bottle of liquor between a jar of marmite and, she peers over Abra's shoulder into the cupboard, a container of cheese sauce granules.

"Ric." Abra supplies, as if reading her mind, "He gave it to her when she qualified, along with the keys to a Mini." A puzzled look crosses his face, as he, much like Connie herself, wanders where the perpetually broke Ric managed to get his hand an that amount of cash. Then he shrugs, "Must have been a good day at the casino I suppose." He moves around the kitchen looking for a cupboard holding glasses and on finding one turns to Connie again,

"You fancy one? Or are you worried about Beauchamp junior getting shitfaced and chucking up in your womb?"

The comment is, in itself, enough to drive her to drink, but for the good of the baby she declines. However, sensing that she's not going home anytime soon she switches on the kettle and removes a jar of Tesco's own decaffeinated coffee from the cupboard, pulling a face as she does so. Last time she drank instant coffee she was still living in Peckham. It's only been a matter of hours but she misses her Tassismo already.

Her companion makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table, sloshing what she would estimate as being a £50 measure into a glass. He spots her disapproving look and then knocks it back in one anyway.

"She's had it years. She's barely touched it. Lets face it," he adds in his own defence, "Diane's a lovely girl but this," he tops up his glass again, "really isn't her thing. She's more gin and tonic, 3 for 10 quid Chardonnay,"

"Bacardi Breezers on a park bench on a Friday night?" Connie breaks in, unable to hold back a smile, at which Abra chuckles, "You really are the bitch they make you out to be aren't you?"

"Absolutely." She finishes making her coffee and goes to sit down at the table beside him, "Thanks for the compliment."

"My pleasure." He responds in all seriousness, "I never really saw it before though. When Ric came to Ghana last summer he painted you as a mix between Cruella De Ville and Medusa – I was terrified of meeting you. But," he chuckles, "in reality you're like a little puppy dog," he fashions his hand into a mouth shape and snaps it open and shut a couple of times, "just nipping around the ankles. You're also cute," he adds, "he never mentioned that either. Obviously didn't want the competition..."

Connie groans inwardly, not entirely sure that being hit on by a drunken Abra shows up high on her radar of things she'd like to happen right now, but as he continues she realises that actually, there are a lot worse things.

"Someone's a very lucky man." He comments, before tossing the ultimate grenade of a question into the conversation, "Who is the father by the way? You never said."

Without another word, beyond a silent apology to her unborn child, she reaches for the Cognac and adds a £50 measure of her own to her coffee…

Sometimes, if you can't beat them, you just have to join them.