February 9th, 1964.

Last night had been so peaceful. Bobby had turned up at Diana’s door just after midnight, huddled up in his big scarf and jacket, curls damp and soggy and flattened. And she’d let him in, obviously, and dried his hair with a towel while he sat in his boxers on her bedroom floor.

And they’d fallen asleep, no sex, tangled up together, limbs interlinked, faces so close that he could feel her little sniffly snores as she drifted off against his skin. Intimate. Loving. Soft.

Bob wasn’t used to that. And she wasn’t used to waking up to an empty bed.