It's strange, but far from being disconcerted by the fact that he's put a name to the father of her unborn child she actually welcomes it. After months of sitting on the secret, it is a relief to be able to offload, even if it is to a virtual stranger with aspirations that apparently lie in stand up comedy.

"The problem lies," she says, as she sips her drinks, relishing the sensation of neat liquor burning her throat for the first time in months, "in the fact that the man couldn't bring up…" she pauses, contemplates going for 'a goldfish' and then decides that if she's going to insult her former lover she may as well go the whole nine yards, "phlegm, let alone a child."

Across the table Abra bursts out laughing, showering both himself and the table with alcohol, "Don't mince your words Mrs Beauchamp."

She shrugs, "I very rarely do."

He looks at her curiously, noting the way she can't meet his eyes, "So, it's as simple as that is it. He's incapable of being a father so you're not going to let him try?"

She sighs, "I didn't tell you because I wanted a lecture on paternal rights."

"You didn't tell me at all. I worked it out for myself. However," he smiles at her genially, "I have no intention of lecturing you. You're a smart woman, you obviously know what you're doing. Unless," he adds, "you want to talk it over. It's a big decision to make on your own."

She wants to tell him to mind his own business, but instead, as before she finds herself keen to talk, more willing to open up to him than she ever thought possible.

"It is a big decision." She says slowly, "But I'm sure it's the right one. And I have to get used to making such choices, I'm don't doubt that motherhood will throw up a whole lot of more of those."

"Ah yes," Abra says, peering at her over the top of his glass, "- education, discipline, childcare – I mean you'll be going back to work." His last remark is phrased as just that, a comment not a question and for some reason Connie finds herself bristling at it.

"What makes you think I can't be a stay at home mother?"

He smiles knowingly, "What makes you think you can?"

Touché.

"Of course," He continues, the knowing smile getting slightly more knowing, "your decisions will be based on one principle and one principle alone – only the best for your baby right?"

She's not surprised by his assumption – her reputation obviously proceeds her – and she's quick to acknowledge that he's right, adding after the fact that this is precisely the reason that his or her father will have absolutely nothing to do with them and then regretting it when it occurs to her that the comment may earn her the lecture she's so far avoided.

To her relief though, he lets the subject of Sam drop, choosing to remain focused on his theory that only the best will do, and contemplating what exactly that'll mean for the baby's wardrobe.

"Babygrows by Gucci? Bibs by Prada?" He chuckles, "Booties by Manolo Blahniks."

She laughs and teases him over his knowledge of ladies shoes – a consequence of watching too much 'Sex and the City' he informs her, but little does he realise his words aren't a million miles from the truth; already the room she has earmarked for the nursery is full of designer babywear, Beauchamp Junior already owning a wardrobe to rival her own.

Only the best indeed.

It's then that she pulls him up on his continued interest in her child, pointing out that if babies are such a fascination to him he ought maybe consider having one of his own.

"I don't have the equipment." He points out, before adding, "Anyway, I'm not interested in babies." He lets his words hang in the air for a few seconds, "I'm interested in you."

It occurs to her she may very well be being hit on for the third time that evening – fourth if she includes Diane telling her that "she loves her very very much" as she was trying to get her out of the car – and it concerns her that far from getting tired of it, she's actually becoming more and more receptive to the idea. She tries to tell herself that it's just because she's tired and / or already feeling the effects of the alcohol she's drinking, but some small part of her knows its because far from finding Abra to be the irritating little bastard she's always written him off as, she actually, truth be known, rather likes him.

Not 'likes him' likes him, as in wants to screw him but he's funny and perceptive and well… she's enjoying his company.

Having reached this rather worrying conclusion she tries to decide how exactly to handle it. Going home seems like the best idea, but given that she's now at least three quarters of the way to being completely pissed, and he being all the way there and halfway back driving would not seem to be an option.

She looks at him, "I think I'm going to call myself a taxi."

"You're going home?" He asks, "Can I come too?"

"No you can not." She fixes him in one of her best trademark frosty stares, which he ruins seconds later by pouting with such disappointment that she can't help but laugh, at which his pout fades and his grin returns.

"Come on, at least let me share the ride. No funny business, I promise." he adds, sounding, she thinks, more sincere than he ever has. She smiles, "Ok then, but no funny business."

"Of course not Boss…" he grins, "just full sex the second we get back to yours…"