If his comment unsettles me, I decide not to let it show, and even when he compliments my eventual choice of cocktail dress with a particularly affectionate "Wow" I respond only with a characteristic eye roll, amazed that in his advanced years he is still more than capable of acting like a horny 20 something.

Besides which, I don't really have time to dwell on it, as the party gets underway and my senses are assaulted by music I'm too old to identify (whatever happened to 1Direction?), a teenager daughter pleading for the key to the cocktail cabinet, and the sudden realisation that I'm really not as young as I think I am.

Eventually, we are stood down and packaged off to my room, and I'm actually oddly grateful for it. I sit at the little bistro table on my bedroom balcony and await Sam, who eventually appears with our contraband pizza, another bottle of champagne, and a wicked smile on his face.

I smile back at him, "This all looks very lovely."

Sam's grin widens as he places the plate and bottle down and then reaches into his pocket, "It's about to get even better." He removes his hand again and holds it's contents out for my inspection.

I start laughing, "You have got to be kidding." I reach out and take the small plastic bag from him, surveying the four neatly wrapped joints in it. "Where the hell did you get these from?"

He nods towards the bedroom door and the party beyond, "I whipped them off of some grungy looking kid in a beanie hat." He smirks, "His loss right?"

I lay the joints on the table, and pick up a slice of pizza, laughing with incredulity at what he appears to be suggesting,

"Sam, we can't. Not at Grace's birthday party."

"I think Grace would be more upset about the number of deceased animals involved in the pizza you're currently chowing down on than a couple of harmless doobies." He gives me a challenging look, "Go on, I dare you... live a little."

I shake my head, still laughing slightly, "I've not smoked a joint since Med School."

"Well that sounds like a story I need to hear." Sam lifts the packet from the table, and removes one of the spliffs, pulling a lighter from his pocket and lighting it. "We'll split this one whilst you tell me, and you can see if it's as good as you remember."

He holds the lit joint out to me, and I hesitate, but then his words come back to me.

Live a little.

And, then, I take it, because, actually that's my mission in life right now. Living a little. Hence quitting my job, moving to a whole new country, dying my hair pink and dressing like some kind of recycled hippy.

I'm living a little.

I lift the spliff to my lips and inhale, and I'm surprised by how easily it comes back to me. Suddenly I'm 21 again, sat round in our student house, grilling each other on anatomy and waxing lyrical about medical ethics.

And getting utterly wasted.

"You remember Arianne." I inhale a second time, and then pass the joint over.

Sam takes it from me, and nods, "Your Consultant? The Nemesis?"

I nod, "And my housemate in Med School. She had boyfriend." I grinned, "No, not boyfriend, friend with benefits." I laugh and then shake my head, "No, not even that. He was the guy in the local Blockbuster. She used to occasionally screw him in the store room where they kept the videos. He kept us in weed for the whole of third year in return."

"My God!" Sam exclaims with mock disapproval, "Connie Beauchamp, a pothead. Who knew?"

I nod in the direction of the spliff in his hand, "You're full of surprises yourself. You're not exactly smoking that like an amateur."

He grins, "We all have pasts, Mrs Beauchamp." As he inhales again I make a snap decision and reach for a joint of my own, lighting it as he looks on with amazement. "And to think I had to force you to have your first drag." He remarks.

I shrug, "I'd forgotten how good it was." Although, I do have one concern, "Do you think I should be doing this? You know, given..." I fade out, not willing or able to verbally reference my drug addiction of 18 months before.

He laughs gently, shaking his head, "It's one spliff, Cons, I think you're cool. Call your sponsor if you're that worried though." But he's being playful, and I kind of like that. No one came down harder on me when I ended up in rehab than him. This feels like a sign he's forgiven me.

Although when he speaks again, I start to wonder if less playful would be better,

"Did you ever shag her? The Nemesis?"

I give him a withering look, although I can feel a blush spread across my cheeks and down my neck, "You're asking that why?"

He grinned, "When you were sick, we went for a drink one night, she mentioned that the two of you were in an all female halls for the first two years."

"And so that means we fucked like bunnies?" I'm buying time. I know I'll have to answer him eventually. And so does he.

"I like to believe you did." He says, "So don't disappoint me."

I sip my champagne, inhale and then don't disappoint,

"Just once. In second year."

He chuckles, "I'm going to need far more details than that."