Published

“They want to publish your novel.”

Henry rose, clenched fist aloft in triumph. Then cold realisation hit and he sank to his knees, hands over his face, the phone tumbling to the floor, his agent’s voice calling out, “Henry? Henry? Great news, huh? Henry?”

Yes, great news, but great news he would never be able to tell anyone. Twenty-one years of writing, nine rejected novels, and now this is the one to make it. The one based all-too-clearly on his life with Margaret. Of course, she wasn’t called Margaret in the book; she was Pamela, and Pamela had dyed red hair, not blonde. But the shrill, nagging tones were hers, as was the jarring hyena laugh, the hours spent twitching the curtains to keep up with the neighbours’ goings-on, and the habit of whipping your cup off to the dishwasher before you’d even finished your tea.

If those weren’t enough, the tell-tale phrases would give it away “Don’t just sit there, do something;” “Those people make me sick to my very stomach;” “I don’t think much to that.”

Maybe it won’t sell, he thought. But, under a pseudonym, it did. Not massively at first, but well enough for him to be able to quietly quit his job and rent a small flat in town where he commuted every day in his old brown suit. There he would write all day, leaving promptly at five to catch the five-fourteen to arrive home at five-fifty-three, with some fabricated tale of office life for Margaret to nod distractedly at, before filling him in on the cul-de-sac’s new arrival, Dominic, who wore swanky suits and was something in the City.

Then it became a surprise hit in the US, where they lapped up its “quaint British charm”. “You’re better than that Monty Python guy,” one fan told him in Des Moines on a publicity tour.

The trips away took some explaining. Margaret’s sneeringly incredulous enquiry: “Why exactly would a bed linen salesman be going to America?” “Looking at getting into the foreign markets; Frank’s getting ambitious.” She snorted derisively and then launched into a story about her-at-number-twenty-three’s low-cut tops. “She’ll come to a sticky end that one, mark my words.”

Phoebe wore low-cut tops. She was from New York. She absolutely adored the book. And she absolutely adored Henry’s British accent. And she absolutely adored Henry. His barely token resistance brushed aside with the swift removal of her top, she straddled him on his king-size hotel bed and Henry almost exploded with happiness.

He braced himself for an avalanche of guilt that never came. Perhaps he’d maxed out on guilt with the publication of the book. For the first time in as long as he could remember he was having fun. During the days, Phoebe took him to new and exciting places, galleries, parties, concerts. And at night she took him to heights of pleasure he had never dreamed possible.

Back at home, he sat on the sofa watching Strictly, barely listening as Margaret held forth on “that flash git” Dominic with his Rolex and new BMW.

Henry lived in a state of constant fear that the burgeoning success and consequent publicity would reach Margaret and blow his new life out of the water. But she didn’t read, and nor did any of her ‘stitch and bitch’ friends. “Why don’t you just knock out something like the one with the wizard kid?” she would shriek up the stairs as he retreated to his study. “Something to make us some money.”

When the film came out, “I don’t think much to that” became a national catchphrase on both sides of the Atlantic. Meryl Streep’s portrayal of Pamela was uncanny; Kevin Spacey, her suitably weak and defeated spouse. And of course, the film boosted book sales and the money rolled in, and the more the money rolled in, the more dejected Frank became, counting the days until he could get back on a plane to America and Phoebe.

It is drizzly and cold when the taxi drops him off one March morning, yawning against the jetlag; the memory of the farewell with Phoebe still fresh; five long weeks before he can hold her again.

The sound of the door closing behind him tells him something is different. An unfamiliar echo. Not that much is missing. He notices the fake fur from the coat stand is gone, and the spaces on the mantelpiece where the three china Pekinese sat. Otherwise it all looks the same. The note sits neatly on the table in front of his chair.

She’s leaving him because he’ll never amount to anything. She’s not going to waste her life with a loser anymore, especially one who’s never even here half the time. Dominic is going places and appreciates her for who she is. They’ve bought a three-bed semi; she’ll send for her things soon.

He sinks to his knees and stares at the carpet. After a moment he gets out his phone. As the international tone buzzes in his ear, his clenched fist rises slowly and begins punching the air. “Phoebe? It’s me. Yeah, I’m sorry, I know it’s late. Phoebe, I’m coming back. I’ll be there by tonight. Phoebe, I love you. I’m coming back.”