Geordie Neighbor's Wife
"New build estate outside Newcastle. Her husband works offshore—two weeks on, two weeks off. She gets lonely. He starts helping out."
New build estate. Cramlington. Twenty minutes from the city but feels like another world.
I buy the place thinking it'll be quiet. It is—mostly. Except for next door.
Stacey. Thirty-eight. Married. Husband works on the rigs.
She introduces herself the day I move in.
"Welcome to the street, pet."
She's standing at the fence with a bottle of wine—housewarming gift.
Thick in that comfortable way, like she was fit once and has settled into something softer. Yoga pants, oversized hoodie, hair scraped back. Pretty without trying.
"I'm Stacey. Me and Dave are next door."
"Nice to meet you. I'm Ryan."
"I know." She smiles. "Small estate. Everyone knows everything."
Week One
Dave's offshore—won't be back for two weeks.
I learn this when my boiler packs in and I knock next door to ask if she knows a plumber.
"Dave usually fixes things," she says. "But he's on the rig. Let me have a look."
She fixes it in ten minutes.
"Surprised?"
"A bit."
"Dave's useless." She laughs. "I've learned to do everything myself."
We have tea after.
She tells me about the estate—who's friendly, who's a nightmare, which takeaway delivers fastest. About Dave and the offshore life.
"Two weeks on, two weeks off. Been doing it twelve years."
"That's a lot of time alone."
"Aye." Something flickers across her face. "You get used to it."
Week Two
She asks me to help move some furniture.
Nothing sus—just shifting a sofa she ordered while Dave was away. We spend an hour rearranging her living room.
"He'll hate it," she says cheerfully.
"Why do it then?"
"Because I like it." She shrugs. "He'll moan, then forget. That's how it goes."
We drink wine on her sofa.
It becomes a thing—whenever Dave's offshore, she texts. Comes over for dinner, or I go to hers. Neighbors helping neighbors.
That's what we tell ourselves.
Month One
The texts get more frequent.
Boring night. What are you up to?
Watched a film. Made me think of you.
Can't sleep. Stupid empty bed.
I shouldn't read into them. But I do.
She comes over for dinner.
Dressed up—actual dress, makeup, effort. She's thick and gorgeous in the candlelight.
"This feels like a date," she says.
"Does it?"
"Aye." She sips her wine. "Is that bad?"
I should say yes. I should remind her she's married.
"Not to me."
Month Two
Dave comes home.
I see him unloading his car—big bloke, tired, barely acknowledges me. The house next door goes quiet.
For two weeks, no texts. No visits. Just glimpses of them through windows, living their married life.
I tell myself it's for the best.
Then Dave leaves again.
She texts that night: I missed you.
Me too.
Come over?
We sit in her kitchen.
"Two weeks is long enough to remember why I stay," she says. "And long enough to remember why I shouldn't."
"Which is?"
"He doesn't see me anymore." She stares at her wine. "Twelve years. I'm furniture now."
"You're not furniture to me."
She looks up. Eyes wet.
I kiss her.
I shouldn't. She's married. But she kisses back, hands gripping my shirt, making small sounds against my mouth.
"We can't," she breathes.
"I know."
"Ryan—"
"I know."
Neither of us stops.
Her bedroom feels forbidden.
She's nervous—shaking almost—as she undresses. But she's beautiful. Thick thighs, soft stomach, heavy breasts. A body that's been ignored too long.
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something special."
"You are."
I make love to her.
That's what it is—not fucking, not sex. Something deeper. She cries when she comes, buries her face in the pillow.
"I haven't felt like this in years," she whispers after.
"Me neither."
"What are we doing?"
"I don't know." I hold her. "But I don't want to stop."
Months Later
We develop a rhythm.
Two weeks on: she's Stacey, Dave's wife, the woman next door.
Two weeks off: she's mine. Every night. Every moment we can steal.
It's wrong. We both know it.
But when she looks at me—really looks—I can't find it in myself to care.
Dave suspects nothing.
Too tired, too focused on work, too blind. He waves at me over the fence, thanks me for "keeping an eye on her."
"Anytime," I say.
Stacey hides her smile behind her coffee.
"Leave him," I say one night.
"It's not that simple."
"It could be."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"Give me time," she says finally. "Just... give me time."
I've got nothing but time.
And I'll wait as long as she needs.