So there they are, Diane's place. It's still raining. Possibly raining more, and the sky has gotten dark and threatening with the onset of night. Diane's clothes are plastered to her skin in an attractive way, and her face is pretty much bare of make-up by now.

She grins at Tam.

The house they have stopped in front of is impressive looking, in a decrepit Victorian way. It looks slightly menacing, like there might be vampires or something inhabiting it. There is a looming fence, some dead-ish trees and a garden. Someone's ancient Volvo wagon is sitting in the rain in front of the garage.

"So here we are. Home sweet home." She points up at the dark third story. "That's me. So, uh," she shifts her weight to one foot and gives Tam a long look, saturated with meaning, although what meaning we cannot be sure. "Want to come up?"

There was no umbrella on the ride over. Nor were the helmets. Diane might have been protected a little from the lashing rain since she was sitting behind Tam, but by the look of her that didn't really count for much.

The man himself is soaked. His chestnut hair is hanging limply somewhere past his chin, no longer in corkscrew curls. His jacket has protected him from the worst of the rain but it's been dripping irritatingly down his chest and much of his shirt is now soaked through. His jeans were a wash long ago. All in all, coming up to Diane's right now does not sound like a bad idea, especially if she has dry towels.

The rain is loud and Tam is a man of few words so he nods his yes and walks the bike to the side of the garage to chain it up, where he hopes it will be safe.

He jogs to Diane and the door and says in a voice slightly louder than his usual one: "nice place. Shame it's no' weather for the beach." It's one of a few conversation topics he remembers from Thanksgiving.

Diane has her house key on a bit of black cord around her neck - she pulls it from where it's hidden under her shirt and fumbles around with the lock. Her fingers are practically numb with cold, so it takes her a minute before she gets it. Then she puts a hip to the door. It creaks open ominously.

"Come on in," she tells Tam, "don't make too much noise."

She leads him down a long, dark hallway to the back of the house, dripping along a rich red carpet, and then up a couple flights of stairs. At the top she pushes open a blue door and ushers him in. "This is mine."

It's essentially the attic, and it has a draft as well as a leak, with water coming in through the roof and falling into a floral vase that's been left to catch it. The vase is almost overflowing. The room has a musty looking, unattractive rug, a table and a couple chairs (mended, like her boots, with duct tape), a little fridge and a stove. There is another door on one end of the room, and the other end is curtained off with something purple and paisley.

She kicks off her boots by the door. "Okay. Bathroom over there," she points at the door. "Shower if you want, clean towels in the cupboard."

Tam has deja vu of another girl a long time ago leading him into another house. That house was bigger and more supernatural than this one but this one has all the charm of a house full of squatters.

Which some people would say is not much.

His hands were melded to the bike only a few minutes ago, so it takes Tam a few clicks to warm them up enough to unzip his jacket. The clicking is a habit usually accompanied by fire. He doesn't want to scare Di, and isn't sure how close she and Jessie are, so he keeps the pyro tendencies under wraps, sticking to friction to do its job.

Holding the jacket over one wet arm and dripping steadily on the floor, Tam is just about to offer to mend a few things about the place when Diane goes into schoolma'am mode. Being the gentleman he is, he offers her first shower and is refused politely but firmly, so he goes into the bathroom and strips off his togs, where he stands shivering as he tries to get the shower working. Finally. Warmth.

There is a knock on the bathroom door a couple minutes later and Diane lets herself in. It's not like there's a lock on the door anyway. The shower curtain is opaque enough for decency, denying Tam a sight of Diane's fantastic satin dressing gown.

"I'm just going to hang your clothes up, 'kay," she says. "There's dry stuff here."

Said dry stuff, which she hangs on the towel rack, includes plaid flannel jammie bottoms (that will probably be a bit too big for Tam), a big fuzzy black sweater (that kind of gives off a Jason Bourne as fisherman vibe) and a black AC/DC shirt (that is presumably not a comment on anyone's sexuality).

She goes out again, and hangs his things with hers. She's got a bit of rope strung from the coat hook to the sconce on the opposite wall for pretty much this purpose.

Then she puts on the kettle and finds a pot that she can stick under the leak so that she can empty the vase.

Tam jumps when he hears Diane enter. Although she knocked first he's still surprised to hear her voice coming over the curtain rail. "Uh, OK," he manages in a strangled reply.

When he gets out the clothes he draped artfully over the sink are gone. In their place, on the towel rack, are the remnants of previous men foolish enough to leave their clothes in Di's apartment. Tam dries himself off briefly and pulls on the jammies. They are, as Diane guessed, too big, serving as both jammie bottoms and slippers as Tam shuffles forward into the hems.

"Hey," he says as he comes into the kitchen, looking like a seven year old at a slumber party. He wrung his hair out into the sink and it is slowly recurling. The trousers are too long and the jumper comes down to almost his knees. "Ah'm done in the shower if you wanit. Ah'll make the tea an' all."

Diane is getting the tea out of the cupboard when Tam comes back in, but she sets the box down on the edge of the sink and smiles because he looks absolutely silly in the mismatched conglomeration of other people's clothes. "Nice outfit. Thanks. Uh, teapot, cups, etc... In the cupboard. There's probably not any milk, but I think there's some cream in the fridge. I'll just be a minute."


She ends up taking a bit longer than that, and then reappears (followed by a cloud of steam) in a dye stained purple towel, dressing gown over one arm. She hurries across the room (the floor being bloody cold, probably because of the aforementioned draft) and ducks under the curtain.

"Did you find everything okay," she calls out to Tam, picking through the mess on the floor for something to wear. When she comes out again she is a vision of loveliness, hair stuck up with chopsticks from the take-out down the road, and charmingly clad in lurid green satin trousers, fuzzy blue slippers, a rainbow stripy scarf and a skimpy lacy thing that's held together with safety pins, and which is already sliding deviously down her plump pale shoulder. A tattoo is just visible on her left shoulder, Greek letters in blue.

Tam feels awkward when he's left alone in Diane's house.

Awkward but nosy.

He has a poke through her cupboard and finds mismatched cutlery, half a bottle of rum, a few stray grains of rice and a crusty looking bottle of cough medicine. Feeling guilty he tries to make up for his prying by standing on a chair and feeling round the edges of the torn grouting while rain runs over his hands and drips slowly down into his armpits. When he realises what it's been doing he stops, gets down again starts clanking about with the kettle and mugs. There's a teapot in the cupboard but Tam has only the vaguest of ideas how to use one, which would be OK except the tea's loose and Tam doesn't know if loose tea works like teabags or like coffee in a filter. In the end he decides he can't go too wrong if he shoves it all in a mug and pours scalding water over it.

"Yeah cheers," he calls back to Diane, standing perched on the edge of the cupboard with a mug in each hand. "Here y'are, wasn't sure if you wanted milk or no'."

"No milk, thanks."

Diane accepts the cup of tea from him, not really caring about his dubious tea-making methods (since when were the leaves meant to stay in the tea, exactly?) because the tea is hot and that's all that really matters. "I don't think there is any. There might be some cream if you want it."

She cradles the mug for a moment, then sets it down on the table and gets the sugar out of the fridge. She's not entirely sure how it got in there in the first place, but there it is. She finds a spoon, stirs a spoonful into her cup, and then gets a box of Oreos out of the cupboard.

"Would you like a cookie? Or six?"

"Oo-ooh." Tam has a sweet tooth so he takes three. It's not as greedy as six but still enough to turn his teeth black. Not caring how disgusting he looks he dips them in the tea, twists them open, eats the icing and then eats the biscuit. He doesn't talk at all while performing this little ritual but once it's over he looks perfectly content.

It feels strange sitting at Diane's breakfast table in his pyjamas. Eventually he'll have to change back into his own damp and clinging clothes. "Do yez have a dryer?" he asks eventually, eyes still shut and hands on his stomach, full of oreo satisfaction and shower warmth.

Diane watches Tam eating his cookie with a sort of fascinated amusement. She herself has taken one cookies and is in the process of dissecting it to create three separate parts. This is a slow, careful job and is not to be hurried. When she's finally done, she eats one of the biscuit halves, then the filling, then the second biscuit.

Yes, Diane is one of those people who thinks it's absolutely necessary to segregate her Smarties by colour, and then eat them in some order that is presumable pre-determined by their chromatic superiority, i.e. yellow first, pink last.

"Not as such," she admits, "but..." she glances over at the clock on the stove. "If you don't mind waiting, Mrs Peterson will be gone in half an hour or so, and then we can use hers." She smiles brightly at him. He's presumably the kind of person who understands strange living arrangements and won't utterly disdain her for stealing the use of other people's driers. After all it's not like he's got a bed.

He has a bed, it just happens to be an unusual shape, ie lumpy with cushions and in front of the television.

And everyone knows orange smarties are the best, though Tam feels no need to eat them first. He pops the smarties lid off with his teeth and pours them into his mouth to chew. Because that's the (entirely irrelevant) way he rolls, baby.

When Diane talks he leans back towards her and opens his eyes. "No problem." Thumbs up. He's stolen televisions before; loaned electricity hardly even ranks on the scale of Tam's misdeeds.

Diane cradles her mug (chipped, pink, but Tam seems to have ended up with the one that doesn't have a handle) between her hands, relished the warmth. Her flat (such as it is) isn't exactly all that warm. She tries not to run the heat because that's expensive. The plus of being on the top floor is of course that all the heat rises from the house below.

"Yeah, I usaully just..." she indicates the washline strung across the room. Then she sort of laughs. "It's weird, seeing you in that shirt." AC/DC isn't really Tam's style, as far as Diane thinks of Tam having a style.

Although Tam got to show off his fantastically cool moves on his motorbike, doing so has meant he can't call Jessie and ask her to pop round with some of his clothes. Hanging his clothes on Diane's bit of string would take so long that he might as well stay the night, thanks to the breeze, so unless they're going to warm their clothes over the cups of tea it seems the hour's wait is the only way to go.

"Wha', this?" Tam asks, looking down at his chest. AC/DC shirts are usually worn by AC/DC fans which would account for why Diane thinks Tam looks strange in it. He has no particular favourite bands; the friends he had growing up never grouped into tribes according to music tastes. Diane must have some particularly strong memories associated with the shirt, seeing as how it is covered by the jumper Tam is currently wearing, to think that even the act of it being close to him is strange. "How so?"

"Well actually you're wearing a pretty weird bunch of clothes anyway," Diane admits, grinning at Tam. "But I guess AC/DC doesn't seem like your kind of thing." She shrugs, and the strap of her camisole slips farther down her arm. She makes a particularly half-hearted attempt at righting it, and then takes another sip of tea. It's not like her modesty is being compromised, as it has long since been misplaced and isn't around to witness the travesty of shamefulness that is Diane. "My sweater looks kind of cute on you, though."

"Yeah, not really," Tam agrees, and drinks the dregs of oreo sludge from the bottom of his mug. He is quite glad for Diane's lack of modesty in an abstract, slightly scared way. "Spice Girls forever," he continues, grinning. Jessie was once a Spice Girls fan. When she was about eight. "This is your sweater? What, do you use it as a dress?"

It wouldn't be the first time Diane had used something quite unsuitable for the entirety of her clothing.

Diane has had her (closeted) Spice Girls moments. And her Madonna moments, and her Shakira moments and her Kylie moments. "Yeah, it's mine. And I do, a bit," she agrees. "It's comfortable," she adds, by way of explanation. It is pretty much too small to be a dress, even if it's baggy as hell. "It's more modest than Tatter's shirts, anyway. Well. A little bit more." She laughs, drinks more tea. Wearing baggy sweaters as dresses is a perfectly reasonable thing to do. It saves you having to buy trousers.

It may save you having to buy trousers but in a Canadian winter it must be bloody freezing. At least the tea is warm. Or since Tam has already finished his, the mug. Its state of handlelessness gives him a proper excuse to hold it close to him with two hands.

"So are you and Tats... uh..."

Diane is pretty much used to freezing by now. It comes with the job (both the job of being trashily dressed and the job of being poor).

"Are we..." Diane looks pure confused for a moment. Realisation dawns on her face like a summer morning. "Oh. G-d. No. I honestly have no idea what he does, but it's not me. Well. Once, but we were drunk, and it was once."

And she should have known better, cause honestly... Well, just look at Jessie.

"He crashes here sometimes, though. I do laundry."

Tam grins crookedly. Usually this would only happen if Diane had Irish'd up his tea. She hasn't, but he's happy anyway, because random bits of clothing keep falling off her and while he's a bit scared of her he also is a general fan of nakedness.

"So, y'd'nnae mind street trash using your flat as a hotel?" he asks, jokingly, self-depricating in the safety of tea. Tam only scores points over Mark Illsey for not having knocked anyone up... that he knows of.

Doing his laundry suggests Diane is to Tatters as Tatters is to Josephine; matronly and non-threatening. But there might be more drunkenness when Diane and Tats get together.

Diane laughs.

"Don't you be calling yourself trash sweetie. We've all been there. Fuck's sake, I haven't had a steady job for more than a couple months. I figure everyone will end up sleeping here eventually anyway. I don't mind. I kinda owe it to the world, I guess. I have somewhere to sleep, and I mean... so many people out there let me crash at theirs when I didn't have a place. I'm just passing it on."

She hadn't spiked the tea because it hadn't occurred to her. Now that hers is mostly gone, the idea of alcohol crosses her mind. She's not sure if she dares it though, given the conversation that they've been having.

Well, fuck that.

"Not that I'm suggesting anything..." And not that she's not suggesting anything either. "Do you want a drink? I've got whiskey and it's awful but if you drink it fast it's all right. I promise I won't take advantage of you if you want some."

Which implies that she took advantage of Tatter, but that's hardly the way it happened.

There's the possibility she's suggesting she's a massive slut.

Tam frowns. "Well, so long as y'take care of y'self an' all," he warns. One by one he uncurls his fingers from the cup. In a jumper, with warm tea and his feet curled up under him, the flat has ceased to be as cold. He wants a cigarette but the pack is in his biker jacket and he's not sure where that is and they're probably soaked through anyway.

With his head cupped in one hand, Tam looks across to Diane, who has finally ceased moping about and sat down next to him. Or maybe she was already sat down next to him and he didn't notice it because I didn't. Either way, now he says slowly, weighing the possibilities: "that would mean I couldn't drive home," and leaves it to hang there.

Whatever she's suggesting, there is always the truth - which includes many things, but not her being a massive slut. She dresses like one, and her heart's easily won, but she is not in and of herself easy. Leastways, not by her own standards. And by her own standards, she takes care of herself. The question lies in how she defines things.

She gives him a slow grin. He's close enough to her now that she could reach out and touch him, but she resists the urge. She's trying to behave. "Well, I'm not forcing you," she says, because she isn't. She wouldn't want anyone to do anything they didn't want to do. "But you can always crash here." She shrugs, adjusts the strap of her shirt. "Like you said, it might as well be a hotel."

Not that she's charging him, obviously, but it was his metaphor not hers.

Sleeping here would be like being young again, living on sofas and floors and one night in a shopping trolly. It would be a bit like living at Jessie's save the fact if Diane walked around in jeans and a bra it would be enchanting, not highly disturbing.

"Nah, pet," he finally decides, "ah winnaewata take advantage of y'r hospitality like that." He can be almost gentlemanly sometimes. Having said that, his love of alcohol will usually outweigh his gentlemanliness, so he gladly accepts a few snifters of Diane's utterly atrocious whiskey.

"Y'think the woman wi'the dryer has gone out yet?"

Gentlemen or no, Tam is going to start having a serious negative effect on Diane's self esteem if he keeps up like this. Although she can console herself with the idea that he is perhaps just not into girls. It's not like she's all the desirable or anything, but hell. A girl can always hope.

"Yeah, maybe," she agrees, setting down her cup and standing up. "I'll go have a look."

Tam's things are strung out across the room. Some are sort of starting to get damp, but they're mostly still pretty soggy. Diane pulls them down off the line and gathers them up in her arms. "Is there anything in your pockets that'll melt or combust or anything?"

Christ, too much stuff to count. None of it will do anything as cool as combust, but a few things that will burn, a few that will get soggy, and a few that will melt into grotty and fizzing little balls. Tam is a walking apothecary.

He stands up and stumbles over himself in an effort to stop Diane going through his pockets and starts a tug of war with his clothes. "It's alright hen, ah'll dwit-" although obviously he has no idea where the woman with the dryer lives or how to work it.

Diane is emptying out his pockets onto the counter, carefully, but without much interest. She knows all about the things guys keep in their pockets, and they mostly don't bear much thought so she's not paying much attention.

She does however resist Tam's attempts to steal his clothes back from her. She is a big girl and can do things all by herself, even other people's things. She manages to cling onto most of the clothes, but he gets a shirt.

"You can open the door for me," she suggests, as a division of labour. "C'mon, it's downstairs a bit."

"Well... fine," Tam replies, sounding like he's sulking and clutching the shirt tight in triumph. Right now he's drunker than he realises. If there had been a proper, sibling-style fight, Diane would have beaten him no problem.

Tam's pocket contents sit pathetically on the counter. He's got a few keys to various places, a bent hairclip (for the places he doesn't have a key to), half a pack of mints, two crumpled cigarettes and strange bags of even stranger substances.

With a flourish and a stumble Tam opens Diane's front door. With no judgement and too much self confidence he smacks her on the arse as she walks out of it.

No rubbers in his pockets then, unlike some other young men of Diane's acquaintance.

That Tam is just fucking with her has occurred to her. She can never tell if he's coming or going with her, or if it's entirely dependent on how horny he feels in a given moment. She's not sure exactly what she's supposed to read into the ass slap. It's more to the sort of thing she expects in a bar.

But she can play along, so she goes, "Oi, watch it!" in a way that doesn't mean anything at all.

Mrs Peterson's washing machine is in the basement, which is a long bloody way down. The number of times she's had to walk up and down these stairs is doing good things to her figure, mind.

"I'm really sorry," she says, as they walk down the flights and flights of narrow stairs. "You prolly wouldn't have got so wet if you hadn't been taking me home."

Tam is spoony. He has a close sense of personal space and has been known to slap male friends, strangers and his younger sister on the behind. It's understandable for Diane to be confused as to the meaning of this particular ass slap. Tam isn't entirely sure himself. He's lost some blood, drunk some bad whiskey and is easily confused at the best of times. (This is one of those times. Diane still isn't wearing much. That might be contributing to both his confusion and his willingness to assault her.)

He stumbles after her down the stairs without a banister. They're steep and narrow, but they're not yet the blurred and doubled cliché of drunkeness for Tam. The cool air - cooler, than is, than Diane's flat - does him good and so he breathes it in, stinging his mouth and nose with the metallic aftertaste of dried blood and cheap booze.

"Aye," he agrees amiably, "but you would've got a lot wetter."

Then when they get to the cramped landing at the bottom of the stairs Tam kisses Diane straight on the mouth and with as little warning as he can give.

Diane - who is, like Tam, confused, although in her case it's mostly his fault rather than the fault of outside influences such as booze or people's fists - had stopped on the landing to fumble with the door. She was in the process of biting down on some weak innuendo that had been swelling up in her mouth but now Tam has rather saved her the trouble.

Her innuendo turns into a somewhat muffled "oh" of surprise because really, she wasn't expecting that just there.

Not that she's complaining. It's not like she hasn't been wanting him to do this all fucking night. Scratch that. Since Thanksgiving at least.

So she'll make the best of it now that he has, whatever his intentions might be.

When she kisses him back she tastes salt and iron and cheap booze and it's just how you'd expect him to taste.

Diane tastes like tea and lipstick - not because she's wearing any, you understand, but she usually wears so much that there's just the faintest hint of it in her kiss. The RP cliché says his green eyes should be flashing right now. They're not. Eyelids half drawn, he looks stoned but pleased. "Oh." She kissed him back, after all.

The door opens. Diane loads up the dryer and Tam puts his shirt in while she's doing so. Of course, this puts them close to each other, so he leans to the side and kisses her again.

Kissing is great.

He's laughing, trying to drag her away from the laundry and copping the occasional feel at the same time. Eventually he settles on stroking her hair, tugging it every now and then for another kiss.

Tam seems to be somewhat less than interested in the fate of his wet clothes. He keeps going for kisses, and while kisses are great and Diane is all about kissing, she's still worried about the laundry. So Tam has to be patient and wait while she puts his things in the dryer and adjusts all the knobs and kicks it a couple times and it hums to life. She's laughing the whole time, too, because Tam is trying to get her to come and be interesting.

Laundry safely out of the way, the more intriguing question presents itself.

Are they going to do this?

And more importantly, are they going to do this in Mrs Peterson's laundry room?

The answer to both of these questions is clear in her mind. The answer to the second one is absolutely not. And it's not that she's got pretensions to class or anything, but the laundry room is damp and smells a little like mold. And Mrs Peterson's alarming undergarments are hanging off the drying rack.

Anyway, she's pretty sure that even Tatters doesn't keep condoms in his jammy bottoms.

There are still four flights of stairs and a few doors between them and her bed, though, so she turns back to Tam, drapes her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Nobody keeps condoms in their jammy bottoms. That's how Tam ended up getting the clap at sixteen.

He's learnt a little since then and doesn't want to end up with Diane's older brother trying to beat him up outside a coffee shop.

Tam ignores the dubious undergarments. They are glaring at him and trying to put a dampner on his bouyant mood. Fie on Mrs Peterson's knickers.

When Diane kisses him with her arms around his neck, Tam takes this as a sign. He leans down and sweeps her off her feet. Unfortunately, he's not that strong and she's tall for a lass, but love - or a southerly version thereof - stops him from stumbling too much. He maintains the kiss all the way to the door.

The stairs might pose a problem.

They get the door open and then Diane - who still doesn't fancy navigating the stairs - proceeds to distract Tam a bit. Her hands are all over the place and her mouth trails around his jaw bone and down his neck. Her hair is damp from the shower and it smells flowery.

"Fuck stairs," she complains into his shoulder. He's wearing her sweater, Tatter's pyjama bottoms, and a tee-shirt that used to belong to someone very dear to her. This is entirely too many layers of clothing for the situation, but there's not any real point to taking them off just yet.

She takes his hand and pulls him up the stairs. She figures they can make it if they run.

Only that just as they get to the second landing, Mrs Peterson's front door creaks open.

"Diana, is that you?"

Diane is very distracting. Even if he had been able to navigate the stairs with Diane in his arms, her hands and her mouth make Tam go 'mpf' and let her down heavily. The two of them together are a mesh of fingers and lips and heightened senses.

And then they're running, Tam with one hand on the waist to Tatters' pyjamas, trying to hold them up so he doesn't trip over and fall face first.

When the front door creaks open there's a shoulder-dislocating gap as the two of them move at different speeds. Tam hops from one foot to the other. He liked where this thing was going, ie up to Diane's flat, so if she wants to stay and gossip with a neighbour he's going to continue moving like he's at a ceilidh.

In Diane's mind she's going "Shit, shit, shit."

In reality she is distangling herself slightly from Tam and making polite. "Hey Mrs Peterson," she says, wondering what the hell old ladies are doing up at this hour. They should be asleep or knitting or whatever. It's not like she and Tam were making all that much noise.

"I was just sticking some laundry in," she adds by way of explanation. Mrs Peterson is giving Tam a fairly evil look. He doubtless doesn't conform to her moral standards.

"This is Tam," Diane adds, "he's very pleased to meet you. And tired. Very tired."

Despite the incessant jumping around.

She puts a firm hand on Tam and pushes him up the stairs. "Night Mrs Peterson."

"Aye," Tam quickly and bumblingly replies, "ver' tired, i's why ah'm in ma pyjamas, y'see." He beams. Mrs Peterson is one of a long line of old ladies to give him a disapproving look. This one might be for having long hair, or it might be for running on the stairs, or it might be for smelling like alcohol and having dried flecks of blood around his nostrils (although old ladies are usually a bit too shortsighted for that sort of thing to bother them).

Then they were on the move again. "Bye Mrs Peterson!" Tam yells, and waves. Good thing Tatters' pyjama cord is reliable. The bottoms slip down to his hips but no further.

The rest of the stairs are taken at a run, because despite Diane's cunning ruse Tam is not, in truth, tired at all. He's drunk and woozy but he's also buzzed.

When they get to the top of the stairs Tam opens Diane's front door, pulls her close to him, and kisses her for the thirteenth time tonight. Unlike the first, this one must be entirely expected.

Or it might be for corrupting the border, getting her pregnant and ultimately causing her to take up a life of prostitution and drug addiction. Mrs Peterson's mind is already full of images of Diane's poor tortured child, starving to death, shaking from its cocaine addiction, unloved and uncared for.

Diane is blissfully unaware of all this. Tam is kissing her again, finally again, and its expected but nonetheless welcome and she kicks the door of her flat closed with the back of her foot and wonders if possibly he'll reconsider the staying the night thing and now she can get rid of some of those stupid layers of clothes he's got on.

Diane's camisole invites slipping hands, so it's only polite that as soon as the door shuts behind them Tam takes his jumper off. 'Tears' might be a more accurate verb. Tam tears his jumper off and pulls Diane close to him again as if he can't stand to be away from her in that short amount of time.

There's more kissing and his hands slid up the back of her cami, trying and failing to find a bra strap.