Tim Dowling: my wife has always wanted to kick me out of book club. Now’s her chance

For the first time in the history of book club, I can’t make it to book club. The scheduling conflict arises late in the day, which is galling because I’ve already read the book, and I can’t very well unread it. “You won’t be missed,” my wife says. “Are you kidding?” I say. “Everyone will be gutted. I had a lot of insights ready.” “You’re not even really in book club,” she says. “I am the beating heart of book club,” I say. Here’s what happened: my wife started a book club with four local women. The first meeting was at our house, and although I wasn’t invited, I noticed that fine cheeses were being served. I dutifully shut myself up in the living room for the first half hour, but when I realised the book club was standing between me and my next glass of wine, I crept into the kitchen, where the women were sitting round the table with paperbacks in their hands, eating cheese. “I’ve actually read that book,” I said, opening the fridge. “Really?” said Emma. “What did you think?” “Oh my God,” my wife said. “Don’t ask him that!” “Well,” I said, sitting down … I send a text to the WhatsApp club: ‘I’m sorry I can’t make it – I would totally understand if you wanted to cancel the whole thing’ That was six years ago. My wife tried to bar me from subsequent meetings, but by then I was in the WhatsApp club. Membership of book club has expanded and shrunk slightly since then – for a while there was even another man in it, but for the past five years I’ve been the only one. And in all that time I’ve maintained a perfect attendance record. Until now. I send a text to the book WhatsApp club that says: “I’m sorry I can’t make it to this one, and in the circumstances I would totally understand if you wanted to cancel the whole thing.” Sasha sends a reply that says: “We’ll somehow manage without you.” The morning after the meeting the WhatsApp club is full of sly references to bits of conversation from the previous evening. Evidently they spent a lot of time talking about Fran’s kitchen floor. I can’t really bring myself to read it all – I feel too left out – and I lose track of the subsequent negotiations over the date and venue of the next meeting. “It’s book club on Wednesday,” my wife says to me four weeks later, while we’re driving back from somewhere. “This Wednesday?” I say. “Yes,” she says. “But I figured you might not want to come after you skipped the last one.” “I had a conflict,” I say. “An unavoidable conflict.” “And you haven’t read the book,” she says. “I don’t even know what the book is,” I say. “Exactly,” she says. “You’ve lost interest. It’s OK to let go. No one would mind.” “Wait, are you trying to get me kicked out of book club?” I say. “I’ve always been trying to get you kicked out of book club,” she says. I go on to the WhatsApp page, find the name of the book, and order it. It arrives the next afternoon; I read the whole thing in 48 hours. On Wednesday evening my wife and I walk to book club, which is just round the corner at Suzy’s. I’m carrying a pudding I made. “We don’t have to spend every single waking moment together,” my wife says. “That’s true,” I say. “It’s fine if you want to quit book club.” “I want you to quit book club,” she says. “I can’t,” I say. “I’m central to the whole thing.” My wife pushes the bell. A dog barks. Suzy comes to the door. “I couldn’t stop him,” my wife says. “You brought pudding!” Suzy says. That night I have a lot to say about the book, because it’s so fresh in my mind. At the end of the evening we choose the next book, and discuss a proposed venue. “We can have it at ours,” my wife says. “To be determined who the actual host is, me or him.” “Indeed,” I say, portentously. “Why indeed?” says Emma. “Perhaps you’re not aware that someone in the club is conducting a whispering campaign,” I say. “I’m not whispering,” my wife says. “This unnamed member,” I say, “who operates in the shadows …” “It’s me,” my wife says. “I’m actively agitating to have him removed.” “But we like him,” says Emma. “Can you believe it?” I say. “From the very book club I founded …” “You did not found this book club,” my wife says. On the WhatsApp club the next morning, all the talk is of my pudding. Join Tim Dowling and other Guardian journalists at a special live event hosted by Nish Kumar on 26 Nov. Book tickets at theguardian.com/guardian-live-events