Excerpt from Us by David Nicholls, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

1. the burglars

Last summer, a short time before my son was due to leave home for college, my wife woke me in the middle of the night.

At first I thought she was shaking me because of burglars. Since moving to the country my wife had developed a tendency to jerk awake at every creak and groan and rustle. I'd try to reassure her. It's the radiators, I'd say; it's the joists contracting or expanding; it's foxes. Yes, foxes taking the laptop, she'd say, foxes taking the keys to the car, and we'd lie and listen some more. There was always the 'panic button' by the side of our bed, but I could never imagine pressing it in case the alarm disturbed someone – say, a burglar for instance.

I am not a particularly courageous man, not physically imposing, but on this particular night I noted the time – a little after four – sighed, yawned and went downstairs. I stepped over our useless dog, padded from room to room, checked windows and doors then climbed the stairs once more.

'Everything's fine,' I said. 'Probably just air in the water pipes.'

'What are you talking about?' said Connie, sitting up now.

'It's fine. No sign of burglars.'

'I didn't say anything about burglars. I said I think our marriage has run its course. Douglas, I think I want to leave you.'

I sat for a moment on the edge of our bed.

'Well at least it's not burglars,' I said, though neither of us smiled and we did not get back to sleep that night.

2. douglas timothy petersen

Our son Albie would be leaving the family home in October and all too soon afterwards so would my wife. The events seemed so closely linked that I couldn't help thinking that if Albie had flunked his exams and been obliged to retake, we might have had another good year of marriage.

But before I say any more about this and the other events that took place during that particular summer, I should tell you a little about myself and paint some sort of 'portrait in words'. It shouldn't take long. My name is Douglas Petersen and I am fifty-four years old. You see that intriguing final 'e' in the Petersen? I'm told it's the legacy of some Scandinavian heritage, some great-grandfather, though I have never been to and have no interesting stories to tell about Scandinavia. Traditionally, Scandinavians are a fair, hand- some, hearty and uninhibited people and I am none of those things. I am English. My parents, both deceased now, raised me in Ipswich; my father a doctor, my mother a teacher of biology. 'Douglas' came from her nostalgic affection for Douglas Fairbanks, the Hollywood idol, so there's another red herring right there. Attempts have been made over the years to refer to me as 'Doug' or 'Dougie' or 'Doogie'. My sister, Karen, self-proclaimed possessor of the Petersen's sole 'big personality', calls me 'D', 'Big D', 'the D-ster' or 'Professor D' – which, she says, would be my name in prison – but none of these have stuck and I remain Douglas. My middle name, incidentally, is Timothy, but it's not a name that serves anyone particularly well. Douglas Timothy Petersen. I am, by training, a biochemist.

From US by David Nicholls Copyright © 2014 by David Nicholls. Reprinted courtesy of Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers