"I don't know what they taught you at medical school," Abra says, eyeing Connie curiously as she pours the Cognac, "But that's not good for the baby."
She's tempted, very tempted, to tell him that the effect he's having on her blood pressure is no good for the baby either, but some how she suspects he'd quite like that fact, and she's not prepared to let him see he's getting to her. Instead, as she very coolly stirs the liquor into her coffee, she retorts,
"That's why I put it in coffee. It's a compromise between it and me."
He smiles, "So I see. But that in itself is sacrilege – you've just put Diane's very extravagant gift from Ric in instant coffee. What the hell are you playing at Mrs Beauchamp? I thought you were a woman of class."
For all that he is irritating her, for all that he is causing her blood pressure to rise, she realises she's actually rather enjoying herself. She likes the playfulness, the bantering, it's too long since she's had someone to do it with, and so, as she sips her coffee she can't help but respond.
"A woman of class would not be sitting at an Ikea table at midnight modeling a Primark sweatshirt and drinking from," she lifts her mug and glances at the bottom of it, looking for some indicator of where Diane might have bought it, and then realises she's giving the other woman far too much credit, "a mug stolen from the hospital canteen."
Abra sniggers and then returns to his topic de jour, "A woman of class also wouldn't have inexplicably found herself up the duff with some commoners baby."
"Who mentioned a commoner?"
He laughs, "Ah, well you see, that's all in my detective skills." He gets to his feet and goes over to one of the kitchen cupboards, returning seconds later with a selection of tinned food which he proceeds to line up in front of him before turning his attention back to Connie. "Ok Ms Scarlett, this is the deal." He picks up the first tin in the row,
"This is me."
She smirks at him, really enjoying herself now, and raises her eyes, "You?"
He nods, "Me. The hot dog sausages with salty water. Read into that what you will." He drops the tin to the floor with a resounding crash that Connie suspects would wake the dead, although not Diane from her alcohol induced coma upstairs, "I'm not that father. I'd remember."
"Depends what state you were in." She says pointedly.
"No matter. I'd definitely remember bedding you. And likewise you with me actually," He adds, "I'm very good you know."
She rolls her eyes, but as gestures go it's playful, "Get on with it."
He takes up the second tin, Swedish meatballs, and she instantly knows what's coming next.
"My husband I presume."
He claps at her insightfulness, "You're good at this. I presume Mikey's isn't in the frame though. He's been gone too long. Although," his tone softens, "I suspect he's the one you like it to be."
His words, so soft and gentle amidst all the comedy, cut right to the bone, and she finds herself unable to respond, rendered speechless that someone she barely knows has been able to touch on her deepest most hidden truth. Perhaps sensing this he lets that tin drop also before turning his attention to the next.
"Spaghetti hoops." He says, holding them up for her inspection, "Ric's favourite. Did you know that?"
She shakes her head, "But forget it. It's not him either."
He smiles, "This I know. He tells me everything." He pushes the spaghetti to one side and reaches for the two remaining tins, which he takes up, one in each hand, "Which brings it down to these."
Connie surveys the labels; beansprouts, and beef casserole, and suddenly finds herself feeling unusually concerned about the nutritional value, or lack thereof, in Diane's diet. Considering the woman is a qualified doctor it seems absolutely inexcusable. Before she can voice her concerns though Abra's off again, and with such precision that she can't help wondering if he's been rehearsing his act in his spare time for weeks.
"Beansprouts – stringy, weak, watery little things, and beef casserole – a piss poor specimen of meat that doesn't really make the grade. Representative of," he smiles a smug smile that leaves her in little doubt that he's very close to hitting the nail right on the head, "your Registrars. And since little Joe-Joe would have a coronary if you so much as looked at him with lust in your eyes, I think its safe to say," he drops the beansprouts onto the floor with all the other tins and hands Connie the beef casserole, "Sam Strachan is the father."
She tries to call his bluff, asking him why he's so convinced it's someone from Holby and his answer is as simple and to the point as his previous game was not.
"You're Cruella de Beauchamp." He replied, topping up his glass again, "You don't have a life on the 'outside' remember?"
At first she's offended, but then, comes the crashing realization that he has a point, and the knowledge that he's right tames her anger at him, whilst provoking the kind of melancholy mood that only pregnancy hormones can bring. Silently she reaches out and takes the Cognac bottle from him, sloshing it neat into her now empty mug and then looking at him challengingly, daring him to take her to task over it.
He doesn't, instead just smiling at her,
"Frankly Connie, I don't see what the problem is. With that combination of genes, it's going to be a good looking kid… stubborn mind you… but good looking and stubborn is quite a combination. I mean," he reaches for her hand, "look how well it's worked on you..."