Tim Dowling: can I conquer my wife’s book club? I can certainly divide it

My wife would have everyone in our book club believe that the First Rule of Book Club is: Tim Is Never Allowed to Pick the Book. Having failed in her several attempts to have me removed from book club, she has settled for imposing restrictions on my participation to make my membership seem second tier.

“You’re not allowed to pick because you’re not really even in book club,” she says to me before every meeting. “You’re like a mascot.”

“What are you talking about?” I always say. “I’m the beating heart of book club.”

In truth, there is no First Rule of Book Club. There is, however, a longstanding protocol under which my suggestions are given less weight than anyone else’s. This is partly because I’m the only man and my opinions sometimes go against the grain of majority taste, and partly because the only time I did get to pick the book everyone loathed it, including me.

But more than a year has passed since then, and on a night when my wife and I are hosting book club in our kitchen, I feel ready to try again.

Last year I started keeping a list of the books I’ve read on my phone, because I could never remember the names of any of them, even the most recent ones. This list is where I went for inspiration when I needed a solid, unassailable choice.

“What about a classic?” I say casually, when the time to choose arrives toward the close of the evening. Tonight’s book has been universally popular, and everyone is in a mood to see the point of book club.

“Yeah, I’m ready for a classic,” says Nicola.

The book I have in mind – from midway through my list – is indeed a classic, a century old and a recognised masterpiece, but also obscure enough that I can be fairly certain no one else has read it. My oldest son recommended it to me, and I in turn recommended it to his brother. We were all in agreement: a banger.

“Death Comes for the Archbishop?” says Emma, with transparent scepticism.

“Trust me,” I say. “It’s a banger.”

“What’s it about?” says Nicola.

“It’s about an archbishop, who dies,” I say.

“Spoiler alert,” my wife says.

“But really it’s about everything,” I say.

“Let’s do it,” says Sash.

Three weeks later I wake early in the morning to find my wife staring at me over the top of her Kindle as if I have done something terrible. Searching my memory for recent crimes, I find myself blameless. But she is still staring.

“What?” I say.

“I hate this book,” she says.

“Death Comes for the Archbishop?” I say.

“Stupid priests riding around on donkeys everywhere,” she says. “Is it like this all the way through?”

“I mean, that’s the premise, more or less,” I say.

Two afternoons later, while I’m sitting in my office shed, I develop an eerie sense that somewhere nearby I am being discussed. I cross the garden to find my wife talking to the middle one in the kitchen.

“Whatever it’s called,” she is saying. “Death Comes for the Fucking Archbishop.”

“You didn’t like it?” the middle one says.

“I haven’t finished it,” she says. “Because I hate it.”

“I read it last year,” he says.

“An absolute banger, right?” I say.

“Banger is maybe not the word I would choose,” he says. “It’s quite slow, and not much happens.”

“We agreed,” I say. “A banger.”

The following Thursday we arrive at Emma’s house for the next instalment of book club. Often the early part of the evening is taken up with preliminary topics: local gossip, domestic mishaps, recent holidays. Not this time.

“I hated the book,” my wife says.

“I loved the book!” says Suzy.

“I also hated it,” says Emma.

My wife raises her objection to the many journeys by donkey. Suzy, with a cry of affection, lists all the donkeys by name.

“Huh,” I say. “I had forgotten the names of the donkeys.”

The discussion becomes animated. Death Comes for the Archbishop has split book club opinion down the middle. But as certain key episodes are recounted in detail, I fall silent. Fran turns to me and suggests that, given the intensity of feeling, I might care to defend my choice.

“I can’t,” I say. “I don’t remember anything. I read it, like, a year and a half ago.”

“You mean you didn’t re-read it?” she says.

“Why would I?” I say. “The whole point of being the chooser is so you get a freebie.”

“You see?” my wife says. “This is why he’s never allowed to pick the book.”