‘Richard Charles, thank you so much for joining us on the radio, this afternoon. You are the author of twelve novels, each one about family life. The books have a warmth, a charm about them. My first question is one I’m sure you must be asked all the time. Are your books inspired by your own family?’

Richard smiled warmly, leaning forward in the studio chair, nearer to the microphone.

‘Absolutely.’ he said. ‘My family are everything to me. When it came to writing my novels, I didn’t have to look very far for inspiration, for a topic I wanted to write about. The love we share as a family, as a unit, let me just say, I’m a very lucky man.’

Richard paused, swallowing back the lump in his throat. The interviewer went on to describe his latest novel, a heart-warming slice of family life, with a new step-father, having to adapt to his new family. The interviewer was sure that readers would be deeply moved by his latest book. Richard nodded, thank you very much.

Once the interview was over, he took off the bulky headset off and was handed a large stack of hardback copies of his new book. He felt a sense of achievement and price as he looked at the copies. He opened the cover of the top book and scribbled best wishes and his signature.

An idea for a new novel came to him. A writer, a young man, full of inspiration, has a wife and infant child. He struggles to balance his working life as an aspiring writer, with his role as a loving father. It would be another sentimental, caring novel. A story about the strong bond between husband and wife, parent and child. Richard rummaged in his leather satchel, for his spiral-bound notebook. He made a quick note of the story idea and resumed signing the stack of books.

As he was leaving the studio, a woman in her thirties approached. She had the eager eye and awkwardness of a fan seeing her favourite author.

‘Excuse me, Mr Charles. Would you sign this for me? I’m such a massive fan of your books.’

He signed the paperback book while she explained that her family life wasn’t great and that she took so much comfort from reading how family life could be. Richard nodded, saying that her comments meant a lot, always good to hear from readers.

In the taxi cab across Manchester, his mobile phone rang. The small screen display flashed Anna. Richard shook his head, tutting to himself. What did she want now? She knew he was working. If he worked in a factory or a warehouse, would she be calling him while he was working? Knowing his wife, she probably would.

‘Hello?’ he finally answered.

‘Hi, love. How did the radio thing go? Did they say when it would be broadcast?’

‘No,’ he sighed. ‘No, they didn’t say.’

‘Did you see any famous presenters? Anyone I’d know?’

‘Anna, I’m busy. I’ve told you not to call me at work.’

‘Sorry, I thought you’d be done by now. Are you still in the studio?’

‘I am working, okay? That’s all you need to know.’

Anna was still apologising for disturbing him when he hung up the phone. He took a deep breath and stared out at the city streets rolling by. He tried not to let his nagging wife take the shine off the day. His new novel was out and set to be even more successful than the last. There was talk of television appearances and a long run of book signings across the country. If things went well there would be international video calls with book stores and fans from around the world. He was, he hoped, on the way to becoming a household name. His unique brand of family fiction seemed to really connect with the readers.

His mobile phone pinged. One new message. His wife, not satisfied, with the intrusive phone call, had now decided to disturb him by text message. Unbelievable.

Really glad the radio interview went well. We’re so proud of you. Xx.

Richard rolled his eyes and hit the delete message button.

The swanky city-centre bar was busy. Richard squeezed through the throng, the air thick with chatter, laughter and expensive afternoon. He found his friends at a tall table on the far side of the room. They ordered another round of drinks as he arrived. He opted for a whiskey cocktail, the smoky old-fashioned. As he sipped his liquor a friend spoke. Andrea had the suave air of a Hollywood legend about her. She leaned in and looked at him through her thick eye lashes.

‘Congrats on the book, sweetie. Anna must be just thrilled for you.’

‘Oh yes, she really is delighted.’

‘How are they, Anna and the kids?’

He lowered his glass and paused for a moment.

‘They are fine, they’re great. I am so lucky. In fact, I think it’s time I was heading home.’

‘Have you got time for another drink? We were about to order food. The foie gras is just divine.’

‘Go on, then.’ he said. ‘You’ve twisted my arm.’

Around midnight, Richard let himself into his house, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could. The kids would be asleep, but no doubt Anna would be awake, waiting for him to get home. He found her in the bedroom, reading in the glow of the bedside lamp.

‘I wasn’t expecting you to be this late.’ she said, placing down her paperback book.

‘Do you begrudge me a night with my friends? Is that too much to ask?’ he snapped.

‘Rich, that’s not what I’m saying at all.’

‘I work hard to give you and the kids the best of everything, and this is the thanks I get?’

‘I was only saying I thought you’d be back earlier, that’s all.’

Richard growled that he needed a drink, and stormed from the room, slamming the door shut. As he sipped his whiskey in the kitchen, he wondered just when things had gone so sour with his home life. Anna was just so nagging, so very demanding. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? He gave so much to his publishers, to his fans, and sometimes there just want enough of him to go round. Why couldn’t his wife understand that?

At that moment, having flung on a dressing gown, Anna appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘I wasn’t having a go, love. I’m sorry if-’

He had his back to her as he spoke.

‘Can’t I have a moment’s peace? Can you not just leave me alone?’

‘Leave you alone? I’ve not seen you all day.’

Richard felt the anger and frustration boil up inside him. He launched his whiskey glass across the room. It smashed into pieces against the fitted cupboards. As Anna fled upstairs, sobbing, Richard reached for another glass and poured a generous measure. Leaving the shards of broken glass on the floor, he went through to the living room. He flopped into the armchair. He sipped his whiskey in the darkness. Another idea for a novel came to him. A father who worked nights to put food on the table, but in the process, missed out on seeing his kids grow up. He nodded to himself, yes, that would work. He took another sip of liquor and was soon lost in his stories.

By the time he woke the next morning, Anna was already up and about. He checked the time. Gone ten o’clock. The kids would be at school by now. He went downstairs to find Anna loading the dishwasher.

‘Morning, hun. Cup of tea?’ she said brightly.

Richard nodded and perched himself at the breakfast bar. He noticed the broken glass had been swept up. It was as though the night before had never happened.

The following week, Richard arrived home earlier than usual. His son and daughter rushed to greet him, as excitable as puppies. Richard shrugged out of his coat and tugged his scarf loose. The children fussed and played around him.

‘Haven’t you two got homework to be doing?’

Anna placed her hands softly on their shoulders.

‘Go and play in your rooms. I’ll give you a shout when your tea is ready.’

As the kids trudged up to their bedrooms, Richard and Anna went through to the living room. They flopped on the sofa in front of a television quiz.

‘The kids miss you when you’re not here.’

Richard sighed, saying nothing.

‘My friends love your new book. They reckon it’s the best yet.’

‘I’ll have to put that on the cover of the paperback. Trish and Tina say the best one yet.’

‘Why do you have to be this way?’

‘I’m an artist. I put my heart, my soul into my work. I’m sorry if I don’t have time to pussy-foot around and pander to your every whim.’ he said.

Anna got to her feet, she walked slowly across the room. As she reached the door, she turned back to face him, a sad look in her eyes.

‘Pander to our every whim, Richard? A civil word now and then would be a start.’

She slipped quietly out of the door.

When Richard arrived home the next evening, he found Anna waiting for him in the hallway. She was wearing her coat, her hands crossed in front of her. She looked sad, nervous and angry.

‘What’s this?’ Richard asked.

‘I’m leaving. We are leaving. The children have gone ahead with my mother. I thought I’d give you the courtesy of waiting and telling you in person. I didn’t want you to come home to an empty house.’

‘Anna-’ he whispered.

‘Don’t. We’re done.’

Richard was reeling. Tears streamed down his reddening cheeks.

‘Do you know what really hurts?’ she said. ‘It’s that everyone thinks you are this loving father, this wonderful family man. It was so hard to pretend, to keep up this charade. People read your books and tell me that living with you must be just wonderful.’

Anna took a deep breath and nodded. It was done. She quickly moved past him and left.

Richard slumped to the tiled floor of the grand hallway, sobs wracking his body. He knew Anna was right. He hadn’t been a good husband, nor a decent father. He had been a brute. At best he had neglectful to his family waiting at home. His children. His poor children. And now they were gone.

The house suddenly seemed very large and very empty. And he wanted nothing more than to hear the kids playing and laughing and running around the place. He stumbled through to the kitchen and poured himself a massive measure of whiskey. Sipping his drink, he wandered through the now-empty house. The large mansion-house felt as vacant and soul-less and an estate agent’s show-home. It was so very quiet. For years he had craved peace and quiet, and now he felt as though the silence might crush him.

He found himself in his writing office. Without thinking, he took the chair and booted up his laptop. He stared at the blank screen and took another swig of whiskey.

He started typing. There came the sound of fictional children running down made-up corridors.

Hello, children, he said.

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom