The evening before begun with a straight forward question about rotas, sent by text from Connie's iPhone to Charlie's Nokia brick. The text, although seemingly innocent, immediately set Charlie's concern sensors going, not least because Connie had already asked him said same question three times during the course of their ED shift earlier in the day. He was aware; more than aware, that his boss was currently off the boil professionally and personally, but all the same it was definitely a cause for concern.

He replied anyway, but took the hint that maybe, just maybe, she was looking for a bit of human contact and conversation, and followed up by asking how her evening was going.

And thus the floodgates had opened. Over the course of her next three texts he ascertained that Grace had flounced off to her grandmas, Connie had opened a bottle of wine, and that typing was no longer Connie's strong point given a reference in her final message to Penis Grigio.

From his comfy armchair in his nice warm living room, Charlie cursed inwardly the day he'd seen fit to take on the role of surrogate father to the handful that was his Clinical Lead. He berated himself for pushing his TLC and advice on her when she'd initially resisted it, and not taking the hint and giving up. Had he done that he might not have ended up in a position where he felt duty bound to put down his book; a particularly scintillating Spy novel, change out of his Jack Wills lounge pants (a gift from the lady herself – he'd had a fit when he'd seen how much a pair of pyjama bottoms had set her back!), get in his car and make the journey from his neighbourhood to hers.

All that said, once he arrived and she opened the front door, a cagey look on her tearstained face, he was glad he'd gone. She was clearly in need of some support, as much as she tried to argue it as she walked back through her hallway to the living room, tripping over the bottoms of her pair of oversized scrubs as she did so, and winding up in a heap on the floor.

She stopping arguing then, and sat crumpled up on the carpet, looking more like an upset child than a professional mother of one in her forties. He contemplated getting down on the floor beside her, but decided, wisely, that it wouldn't do anything for his back and so helped her up and gently guided her to the living room.

Once he got her there, and she curled up on the sofa with him at her side, she picked up exactly where she left off. Protesting.

"You didn't have to come." She said, the distinct slur to her voice a pretty good indicator that he was late arriving at party which had been going on for some time.

"I did. I was worried. Rightfully so I'd say." He watched her carefully unsure what her response to a statement of such an out and out confrontation would be, and concerned he might get his eyes scratched out for daring to suggest she was anything other than completely fine. "You don't look like you're in a good place."

"It's fine." She picked up one of two wine bottles on the table, one empty, the other, now in her hand, already under half full. "I'm alright." She looked at him, "I might have been upset earlier but now I'm fine." She topped up her glass and then looked at him questioningly, "Drink?"

He was tempted to suggest that the wine bottles, and the plethora of used tissues that surrounded them implied that she was a long way from fine but he decided to stall before saying as much by instead accepting her offer of a drink. At least if he drank it, she couldn't.

He nodded, and got to his feet, "I'll get myself a glass." He made to head for the kitchen but before he could she was on her feet and following him, making declarations of being a good hostess and getting one for him.

Such declarations aside she made it only as far as the kitchen before once again tripping on her flowing scrubs bottoms, only avoiding landing on her face by his very swift intervention as he reached out, grabbed her by the back of the scrub top and kept her on her feet. He sat her down at the kitchen table and gave her firm instructions not to move whilst he busied himself looking for glass.

"I'm not drunk." She said, sullenly, sounding like a truculent teen and to which end reminding him of Grace more than he suspected either mother or daughter would approve of. "It's the scrubs. They're too big."

Whilst Charlie was unconvinced by the argument, not entirely sure that the scrubs alone were to blame, he decided to play along, not least because her words gave him a very definite in, in terms of getting her to talk to him.

"I had noticed." He said, gently, taking in once again the way her tiny frame was dwarfed by the oversized scrubs, "They're not yours are they?"

At his words tears brimmed in her eyes, and she shook her head, swallowing hard, clearly trying to stop herself from crying.

"They're Jacob's."

Her words were a long way from a surprise, but the obvious emotion in her voice was something of a shock. Connie trusted him, he knew that, and over the months he'd been closer to her than anyone in the ED with one noteworthy exception, but he'd never seen her quite like this. So vulnerable, so open. The alcohol was playing a part, that much was obvious, but it was still jarring to see her in a place where her emotions were so raw and she seemed to broken.

"OK, darling." He spoke soothingly to her, even more so than normal. "Well I'm concerned you're going to do yourself an injury, and I really," he gave her a smile, trying to keep things light, "really don't want to spend the night at work, so could we go upstairs and get into something that actually fits."

"NO!"

He response was sharp, and snapped, the idea of losing the comfort blanket of Jacob's clothing clearly being a step too far for her. It worried Charlie. He'd known how much she'd adored his fellow Nurse; it had been obvious from the way her eyes rarely drifted from him when the two of them were in the same room and in the smile that had barely left her face during the time they had been dating, but Connie Beauchamp was a strong woman. Too strong to be crumbling like this.

He crouched beside her, and very gently tried to bargain with her, suggesting that she keep the top on, but swap the trousers for something a little more practical. She looked like she was going to resist, but when he went over to her washing machine and plucked a pair of floral pyjamas from a neat, obviously clean, pile that sat on top of it, she slowly nodded, took them from him and shuffled slowly and carefully towards the downstairs cloakroom.

Charlie found himself a glass and headed back into the living room, busying himself disposing of her tissue mountain, and pouring himself some wine, before settling down on the sofa to wait for her. He considered making her a coffee but suspected it would only go to waste. Connie didn't look like someone who was planning on ending the party any time soon.

She reappeared five minutes later, still drowning in Jacob's scrub top but at least sensibly attired from the waist down, and sat down beside him before reaching for her wine. She sipped it, and then glanced over at him and gave him a weak smile,

"Thank you for coming. I'm grateful. It's good to have you here."

He smiled, seeing her comment as progress, glad that she was no longer resisting his support.

"It's good to be here." He replied before sipping his own wine, "I'm particularly enjoying the Penis Grigio."

Confusion clouded her face for a second, and then silently she reached for her phone and checked her messages, laughing slightly as she realised her mistake and then blushing in a very unConnie like way.

"I'm sorry. I guess I'm drunker than I thought."