'I married the man next door'

I’d only been dating Paul for seven weeks when I quit my job in London and moved to Oxford to live with him. As rash as that may seem, moving in together felt totally natural. For five years Paul had been my next-door neighbour. Ironically, it took all that time before I noticed what was right under my nose – but I remember that moment of realisation well. 

I was lying on a hospital trolley being wheeled into the operating theatre, but I had a big smile on my face. I was in agony as a dog had just bitten my hand and was about to undergo emergency surgery, but moments earlier I had received a text from my neighbour, Paul: ‘When you’re discharged, I want to take you out for dinner.’

Even the nurse asked what I was so happy about. ‘The man I’ve fancied for the best part of a year has asked me out,’ I said, still grinning. Two days later, I met Paul at a local gastropub for a date. My hand was still sore as I’d only just been discharged from hospital, but the atmosphere was relaxed and the evening sped by.

On the way home Paul said, ‘Can I ask you something? Are you attracted to me?’ No one had asked me such a direct question before, but I replied, ‘Yes.’ I’ve always had my feet on the ground and am not usually the romantic type, but after that evening we fell head over heels in love.

Bizarrely, we had known each other for years, as we’d long been neighbours, both living in Iffley, a village outside Oxford. Our houses were so close that I could see into Paul’s garden from my window. He worked as an AA mechanic and often repaired neighbours’ cars, so we’d say hello whenever I took my dog for a walk.

But then one day I lost my car keys, and while I was at work, my mum introduced herself to Paul and asked him how to get into the car without a key. After that, barely a month went by without me asking for Paul’s mechanical assistance. He’d always undercharge me, so I’d buy him a few beers at the pub as a thank-you. 

At the time I was 35 and single, but even though Paul was single too, I didn’t look at him in that way. He was 39 and had been married with three children, but his wife had left two years earlier. We’d joke about being single and share dating experiences and we became friends.

We both love dogs and hold similar views, but are like chalk and cheese in other ways – he loves the outdoors while I’m happiest curled up inside with a book. I didn’t realise I found him attractive until one afternoon when he was repairing a broken wing mirror on my car and my hand brushed his accidentally.  

I think that’s the moment I knew he liked me too. But by the time he sent me that text, it was many months later and by then I had decided to sublet my home and move to London. I went ahead with my plans but couldn’t stop thinking about Paul. ‘I miss you too much,’ I admitted to him on the phone. He said he felt the same.

That weekend I quit my job and went back to Oxford to move in with him. Just over a month later, while we were away for the August bank holiday weekend, Paul proposed. I didn’t hesitate in saying yes, and the following Christmas we got married. Mum was thrilled; she claims to have known from the start we’d end up together. 

We’ve since moved to Tyne and Wear, but recently we returned to visit the village where we met – and curiously the magical atmosphere had gone. It’s as though it had served its purpose, allowing us to close the chapter of our life where I fell in love with the man next door.

Nancy Revell is a novelist. Her new book, ‘Secrets of the Shipyard Girls’, is out now (Arrow, £5.99)