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I walked her to her door. All two streets of it, under one umbrella, our shoulders bumping.
On her doorstep she turned round and looked up at me.
“You’re not going to kiss me, are you?” she said.
“I want to,” I said. “God, I want to. But I’ve had four pints and you’ve had three gins and you’re Gemma’s best friend and last week I tried to pay you. I want to do this properly. If we do it at all.”
She stared at me. Then she laughed and shook her head.
“Ben Hartley,” she said. “You are the most frustrating man in Manchester.”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a goodnight.” She kissed me on the cheek, very close to the corner of my mouth, and let herself in.
We became friends. Proper friends. Pub quizzes on Tuesdays. Old films at hers on Sundays. She told me about her clients, anonymously, and they were mostly sweet and sad and occasionally hilarious. I told her about my dates, which were mostly disasters.
Gemma was delighted. “My two favourite people are mates!”
Every so often, on Tess’s sofa, during a black and white film, her head on my shoulder, she’ll look up at me with a question in her eyes.
One of these Sundays, I’m going to answer it.
Ending 10 of 16: Friend Zone. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.