In New York

Sun streaming through a gap in curtains assaults my senses the second I open my eyes. In my head, a collection of small but obstreperous men are bouncing around my brain. The effect is painful and dizzying. The morning is not off to the finest of starts, and to add to my confusion, I am starving. As in ravenous.

Through my barely open eyes I notice a half eaten bag of crisps on the bedside table, and although it is oddly out of character I reach for them, and stuff two handfuls immediately into my mouth barely even bothering to chew them.

It's as I go to devour a third handful that my focus lands on the lamp that sits next to the bag, and I start to choke as I register, with some surprise, the incongruous item that is hanging off of it.

Boxer shorts. Men's boxer shorts.

I don't have time to consider who they may belong to as the crisps, lodged firmly in my throat, leave me coughing and spluttering, and seconds later the owner makes himself known to me, as he slams me forcefully on the back, trying to restore my airway.

I finally get there, collapsing back on my pillow, trying to catch my breath. At my side, my heavy handed hero hands me a glass of water, encouraging me to drink although in all honesty my mind is on other things.

Like the fact he is naked in my bed.

I glance around the room, cringing as I take in the scattered clothes, half empty champagne bottles and general carnage. This really isn't looking good.

I force myself to look at him, cringing further more as I note the fact that his neck looks like it's been dined on by a vampire. I don't know for sure, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I may have been responsible.

I groan, and then, much as I really don't want to know, I ask the question.

"Bloody Hell, Sam... what exactly did we do last night?"

xxx

12 Hours Earlier

"Looking good, Connie."

I look up from where I'm sat on the floor of Sam's Manhattan loft, surprised by the compliment, until I realise it's not actually aimed at me, but the pink and silver balloon arch I've been assembling for the last hour.

"Do you like it?" I ask as I lean back, scrutinising my handiwork. In truth, I think it looks a little wonky; balloon modelling being somewhat out of my comfort zone. Give me a CABG to perform over balloon arch creation any day.

"It's great." Sam grins at me, "I particularly like the way it coordinates with your hair. I'm sure Grace will be very impressed by your commitment to colour matching."

I reach up and touch my curls self consciously, still getting used to my new baby pink locks after many decades as a brunette. Sam must notice the action because when he speaks again, it's seemingly to reassure me.

"It suits you you know. Infact," he looks me up and down in a way that makes me feel even more self conscious, "I love the whole new look. It's different, but I like it."

I glance down at my free flowing tie dye trousers, and crochet beaded top. It's a long way from my Clinical Lead attire, but then I'm not a Clinical Lead anymore. That said, I still have my doubts.

"You don't think I'm too old for it."

He chuckles, "Definitely not, but then you don't look your age. There's no way you should have a 17 year old daughter. Speaking of which," he hands me two giant balloons shaped as a 1 and a 7, "where do you want these?"

I arrange them in the middle of the arch, then get to my feet, with one last critical look at the balloons.

"They're fantastic, Connie." Sam says, and I find myself wondering, not for the first time since Grace and I arrived in New York, why things are so good between us. Sam and I have always tried to get on for our daughter's sake but it's not always worked. This time round, we seem to have slipped into the perfect set up, parenting rather than co parenting, albeit as friends not lovers. It feels nice. Odd, but nice.

Before I can dwell on it any further, Sam is running through our plans for the evening, with a military precision that I can only admire.

"So balloons are done, caterers arriving in an hour, soft bar stocked, alcoholic bar similarly stocked and under lock and key." He laughs, "We will need it. Grace has done the playlist, lights are set up. Valuables locked away. I think we're sorted, so," he takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen, "Champagne? Early celebration of a great job done raising the kid?"

Given my poor parenting track record, I'm not entirely sure I'm deserving of it, but I never say no to champagne, and so a few minutes later we're settled at the breakfast bar, a glass a piece, enjoying some peace and quiet before we are thrust into the noise and drama of our daughter's 17th birthday party.

We're two glasses in, when said daughter appears, a Bloomingdales bag over her shoulder,

"Well, well, doesn't this look cosy."

Sam rolls his eyes at me, then grins at Grace, "We're celebrating surviving 17 years of you. Although I'm amazed we've got the energy after a day of party planning."

Grace grabs a glass from the cupboard, and moves to pour herself some champagne, silencing Sam before he can argue.

"It's my birthday." She takes a sip of her bubbles, "Ah, excellent. I love Bollinger. So," she crashes on, oblivious to the amused looks we, as her parents, are exchanging, "Thanks for all you've done. The balloons look great. But can I just check, the buffet, it's all plant based right?"

"Absolutely, darling." I answer without hesitation, kicking Sam in the shin under the cover of the breakfast bar, because he's smirking and I know it's full well because he's thinking of the meat feast pizza in the freezer that we're going to eat on the balcony in my bedroom once she's too busy partying with her friends to care.

"Fantastic." She kisses his cheek, then mine, before disappearing, glass in hand to go and get changed, presumably into whatever was in the Bloomingdales bag.

Sam watches her go, looking slightly pained, "Where did our baby go? And," he grimaces, "is whatever is in that bag going to be even slightly appropriate for a 17 year old?"

I chuckle, grateful to be the chilled parent for once, "I'm sure it'll be fine. And," I added, getting to my feet, "I think I should go and get changed myself. For our guest appearance."

As part of a well negotiated compromise Grace has deemed to permit Sam and I to be present for the first hour of the party, to welcome and generally scrutinise the guests, following which we will discreetly remove ourselves unless there is any trouble. Hence the well planned, highly anticipated and very definitely non plant based pizza party.

I head for the door, only stopping when Sam calls me back.

"Just for the record, Connie. I don't care if your outfit is appropriate or not. In fact the more revealing the better."

xxx