Geordie Mate's Mam
"House party at his mate's in Newcastle. Everyone leaves. His mate passes out. Her mam's still up, and she's been giving him looks all night."
Daz's gaff. House party. Classic Saturday night in Newcastle.
His mam's out—or supposed to be. But she comes back early, finds the place heaving with lads and lasses, and instead of kicking off, she grabs a drink and joins in.
"Howay, if you can't beat them," she says, winking at me.
Donna's forty-four and doesn't act it.
Thick in the way Newcastle women often are—solid legs, proper arse, tits that her low-cut top barely contains. Bleached hair, fake tan, full face of makeup even at midnight.
She's loud, funny, life of the party.
And she keeps ending up next to me.
"You're Daz's quiet mate, aren't you?"
"I talk."
"Aye, when you've got something to say." She nudges me. "I like that. Most lads your age just chat shit."
"You'd know. You've got a house full of them."
She laughs—proper belly laugh.
"Cheeky bastard. I like you."
1 AM
The party thins out.
People pairing off, heading home, passing out in corners. Daz is face-down on his bed, snoring. The house goes quiet.
Donna's cleaning up, collecting bottles.
"You not heading off, pet?"
"Could help. If you want."
She looks at me. Something in her eyes.
"Aye. Go on then."
We clean in comfortable silence.
Every now and then our hands brush. She doesn't move away. Neither do I.
"You're a good lad," she says eventually. "Daz is lucky to have you."
"He's alright."
"He's a lazy sod." She laughs. "Gets it from his dad. Useless prick."
"Divorced?"
"Ten years." She ties off a bin bag. "Best decision I ever made."
2 AM
Kitchen's clean. Living room's passable.
We sit on the sofa with cups of tea—her suggestion, very Geordie—and talk.
She tells me about raising Daz alone, about working at the call centre, about nights out in the Bigg Market when she was my age.
"You remind me of someone," she says.
"Who?"
"Me. When I was younger." She sips her tea. "Quiet. Watching. Taking it all in."
Week Two
I'm at Daz's again.
Normal hangout—FIFA, beers, talking shit. But Donna's there, and every time she walks past, something passes between us.
"You staying for tea?" she asks me.
Daz shrugs. "He can if he wants."
"I want," I say.
She smiles.
Tea becomes a regular thing.
Sundays, usually. Daz gets bored after an hour and fucks off to his room, leaving me with Donna.
We talk for hours. About everything. About nothing.
"You're easy to be around," she tells me one night.
"So are you."
"Daz thinks I'm embarrassing."
"Daz is wrong."
Week Four
Daz cancels. Something came up—a lass, probably.
I should go home. Instead, I text Donna.
Daz isn't coming. Still want company?
Always, pet. Door's open.
She answers in loungewear.
Leggings, oversized jumper, no makeup. She looks softer. More real.
"You didn't have to come."
"Wanted to."
She lets me in. The house feels different without Daz—quieter, more intimate.
"Wine?" she offers.
"Sure."
We drink on the sofa.
Closer than we should be. Her thigh against mine. Her perfume—something floral and warm—filling my head.
"Can I ask you something?" she says.
"Anything."
"Why do you keep coming round? It's not for Daz. We both know that."
I don't lie.
"You. I keep coming for you."
She exhales. Sets down her wine.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
"What now?"
"Now—" She turns to face me. "—we stop pretending."
She kisses me.
Soft at first, careful. Then deeper, her tongue sliding against mine, her hands gripping my shirt.
"Been thinking about this for weeks," she admits.
"Same."
"We shouldn't."
"Probably not."
She kisses me again. "But I'm going to anyway."
We move to her bedroom.
She's self-conscious at first—turns off the main light, leaves a lamp. But I don't care about the light. I care about her.
"You're beautiful," I tell her.
"I'm forty-four."
"And you're beautiful."
Her body is thick and warm.
Soft stomach, heavy tits, thighs that wrap around me like they were made for it. She's vocal, telling me what she likes, guiding me.
"Right there, pet—fuck—don't stop—"
I don't stop.
When she comes, she buries her face in my shoulder and shakes.
I take my time with her.
Slow, deep, learning every response. She's responsive, gasping at each thrust, her nails digging into my back.
"Christ—you're—oh fuck—"
She comes again. I follow her over.
After, we lie tangled together.
"Daz can never know," she whispers.
"Obviously."
"This is mental. You're his mate."
"I know."
"We should stop."
"Do you want to?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"No. God help me, no."
Months Later
We're still going.
Sunday nights. Sometimes Wednesdays. Whenever Daz is out.
He thinks I've got a girlfriend—someone mysterious I won't talk about. He's not wrong.
"You should bring her round," he says one day.
I catch Donna's eye across the room.
"Maybe one day," I say.
She hides her smile behind her tea.
It's complicated. It's risky.
But when she looks at me like that—like I'm something special—I don't care.
Howay, man.
Some things are worth the risk.