Although I shouldn't have done, I drank the Scotch that Martha poured for me, and after that, I drank another one. Anything to blot out the pain caused by having to relive the day we lost Gina.

It would be quite easy for me to be very clinical about her. I could just write her off as another patient, albeit she one that I went the extra nine yards for. But to do so would be to do her a disservice. She wasn't just another patient, she was my friend. One of the few I've had in my life, and for that reason I felt her loss like no other. In some ways even more than I did Michael's.

That said I could have kicked myself for breaking down the way I did. Having said I wanted to take care of Martha, bursting into tears and having her having to comfort me seemed to be to renegade on that. But what could I do? I've long since learnt that when the pregnancy hormones start flowing, rolling with it is all you can do. And to be honest, although I didn't really buy her reasoning that my crying was of benefit to her, she did seem calmer, and whether that was down to my tears, or just a result of finally knowing the truth about her mother's death, it could only be a good thing.

For all she seemed calm though, she also looked drained, and I knew exactly how she felt. If the story was even half as emotionally draining for her to hear as it was for me to tell then I didn't doubt that she was absolutely exhausted, and the silence that we fell into as she cuddled up to me again only seemed to be a testament to that.

Unlike before though, the silence wasn't uncomfortable, it wasn't born of awkwardness – it was companionable, and as I held her against me, gently toying with her hair I realised that for the first time, in a long time, I didn't feel lonely, and, as messy as the day had been, and as emotional as the night was shaping up to be, I felt content.

So content in fact that I fell into the kind of deep and restful sleep that I hadn't had in months; since before Sam, Michael, Chrissie, Fiona Dunn and the VRSA. Since my bastard husband turned my world upside down.

Even when I woke, hours later with a crick in my neck and the acrid taste of alcohol in my mouth, I still felt completely at peace. I don't know what it was – whether it was the benefit of good sleep, or the way I could feel Martha's hand gently caressing my neck, but I was so relaxed I could quite easily have fallen asleep again, if I hadn't felt quite so guilty for having done so in the first place.

When I opened my eyes though, and apologised to Martha for being so antisocial, she shook the apology away.

"You looked so peaceful." She said gently, sliding her hand from my neck to my cheek, "You obviously needed it. Don't worry."

The guilt not quite abated I pulled her more closely into my arms, "And what about what you needed? You wanted company tonight," I reminded her, "I was meant to be providing that."

She smiled, "You did. I loved having you hold me." She cuddled closer, "It doesn't matter that you were sleeping. Although," she added, "I did remember something I wanted to ask you…"

"Go on…" I encouraged her, anxious to be able too return the favour she'd given me when she'd allowed me to sleep.

She sighed, "There's a song. Dad played it for hours on his guitar tonight. I want to know why."

I second guessed what was coming, and therefore as she opened her mouth and started to sing Moondance my only real surprise came at the strength of her voice – she was quite a songbird, and she handled the lilting melodies in such a way that it sent shivers down my side. As if sensing my surprise she smiled shyly and then explained,

"I did A level Music. My voice was my instrument."

"I assume you got an 'A' then…" I murmured, but it was small talk really, and a distraction from my having to answer her query, which I knew I'd have to do sooner rather than later.

"It's called Moondance."

She nodded, "I know. Richard Fleeshman sang it on Soapstar Superstar."

I had no knowledge of Richard Fleeshman or Soapstar Superstar but I suspected from the rosy tint that had suddenly appeared on her cheeks that he was a celebrity on whom she had a crush to rival my own on the Kemp brothers at her age. She must have sensed my lack of recognition because she explained,

"He's Baby Goth Craig, in Corrie."

I nodded then, since that meant more to me, although I found myself seriously questioning the taste of any girl who could fancy a boy who wore more eyeliner than she did. Although given my own track record with men I was hardly at liberty to comment.

Not that of this changed the fact that we were still desperately skirting around the issue, and finding it utterly uncomfortable I grabbed the bull by the horns.

"I think it was your parent's special song." I took a deep breath, "It was playing as your mum died."

She nodded, as if she'd known all along, and I suspect she probably had, but it didn't stop the onset of a fresh flood of tears. Not that it mattered, by that point I was an expert in dealing with them, I knew what to do.

I held in her in my arms, planted soft kisses in her hair and let her know, that in spite of how it may have felt, she wasn't alone. And while I don't think for one minute it came anywhere close to taking the pain away for her, she calmed down, rested her head on my chest and took her turn to fall asleep, while I watched over her.