He left her then, and made his way back downstairs to the lounge, where Charlotte and Robyn were playing with Charlotte's new toys. Robyn looked up when he entered the room, concerned etched on her face.

"How is she?"

He shrugged, moving into the room and sitting down on the sofa, "I don't know, Robyn. Not good." His words felt like an understatement, "I've never seen her like this. I'm worried."

"Me too." Robyn left Charlotte playing and came and sat beside him again. "She seems so out of it. Do you think," she hesitated, and Charlie correctly called what was coming next, "Do you think she might be self prescribing again?"

"No." He shook his head, confident in his response. Connie was in a bad way, there was no escaping that fact, but he had enough confidence in her to believe she wouldn't risk taking that route again. It had done enough damage the last time.

Robyn looked sceptical however, "She disappeared down the rabbit hole once, Charlie. And I know you want to think the best of her, but this pandemic, it's a game changer for mental health, you know that. If she's really struggling, is it so hard to believe that she might go back there, just to keep her head above water?"

He understood her concern, which he knew was for him as much as it was for Connie, and so, slowly nodded, conceding her point. "Yeah, OK. I'll talk to her." It wasn't a conversation he was relishing the prospect of, but he wanted to put Robyn's mind at rest, and perhaps the very fact he was concerned enough to ask the question would be a prompt to get Connie to talk, because on that morning's evidence, she really needed to.

xxx

Further evidence of that came when she appeared back downstairs a couple of hours later, coat on and her bag over her shoulder. From his place on the living room floor, trying to assemble Snow White's Dream Castle, Charlie looked up at her, eyes raised, asking his question without saying a word.

"I'm going back to work." She said quietly, sounding anxious, clearly anticipating his response. "It was nice of you to invite me, but I'm going back."

He handed the screwdriver he was using to Robyn, and got to his feet, wordlessly leading her into the kitchen and closing the door behind them before turning to look at her.

"Why?"

"I was tired." She looked around the room, apparently dead set on keeping her gaze anywhere else but on him, "I've slept now, I'm fine. I should go back. They need me."

He sighed, "Connie, they will need you tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that. Give yourself today. Please."

She shook her head stubbornly, "No."

He moved closer to her, and in spite of her protestations of being fine, it was clear to him that she was anything but. No amount of make up could hide how pale and drawn she was, and although it was clear she was trying to fight it there were tears in her eyes.

"Why?" He said gently, "Why won't you allow yourself to have Christmas?"

"Was Noel allowed Christmas?" If she'd hoped to keep her emotions in check, she lost the battle at that moment, as her voice cracked, "Is he celebrating with his daughter and grandchild today?" He moved to hold her but she ducked from his reach, "Noel is in a box in the ground, and if he can't have Christmas why the hell should I?!"

Her question hung in the air as she turned away from him, leaning on the breakfast bar, head hung as she sobbed. He gave her a couple of minutes, let her cry herself out, and then slowly and purposefully spoke,

"Because since Noel left us, you're now the first one into the department and the last one out. Because week on week you've taken on more overtime than you're fit for. Because this week alone you personally have certified the death of 12 COVID patients in the department. And most importantly," he moved up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, "because you are alive, Connie, and Noel would want you to."

She turned to look at him through red and blotchy eyes, said eyes raised slightly, a disapproving look on her face, "Did you really just use the emotional blackmail of a dead man's wishes against me?"

He nodded, and to his relief, she smiled weakly back in response.

"You're playing hard ball, Mr Fairhead."

"You need it, Mrs Beauchamp." He reached for a nearby kitchen roll and handed her a couple of squares to wipe her eyes with, "Besides which," he added, "you can't go anywhere. You're making my gravy."

She laughed slightly, placing her bag down, "OK then, you win. I'll stay."