(Human) tigers vs rom-coms: result 0-1

For once, an Ambitious Book Project has disappointed me. I remember the enthusiastic reviews for Tigers in Red Weather. They made it sound like one of those novels which you start fearing it will be faintly worthy, and then find out is a really exciting read. In these cases, you can almost feel the reviewers in question (who have to finish the books they're writing about, let's not forget) heaving a sigh of relief. They've actually been allowed to read something they enjoy - and still get paid for it. The puff quotes on the cover reinforce the impression that this is a ripping yarn with literary merits. "A delicious pleasure" (The Sunday Telegraph) and "Immensely gripping" (The Guardian) are only two of them. So when I spotted a second-hand copy costing only 4 pounds on my latest London trip, I bought it, thinking I'd made a bargain. The word "tigers" was in the title too - always a bonus.

Well. It's not bad, exactly. The annoying thing is that it's interesting enough to keep you reading - just. But it's not that enjoyable. While you don't hate the characters, you don't care that much for them either. The narrative is in third person but from different characters' point of view. The narrative voice remains more or less the same, though: detached and careful of detail. I grow impatient with it, as the characters grow impatient with each other. There is an atmosphere of tetchiness which is catching. Yes, the book's got something. But "a delicious pleasure"? Nah.

In contrast, one of my self-indulgence reads came up trumps. It's just a soufflé-light chic lit novel, true, but this isn't as easy to get right as people imagine. I know, because I've read some dire chic lit in my day. Ali McNamara's From Notting Hill with Love... Actually, about a (you guessed it) rom-com-obsessed heroine who's trying to figure out what love and life is all about, does exactly what it sets out to do: this is reading as comforting as creamy milk chocolate without too much healthy cocoa in it. I felt a bit guilty buying a book with such an unashamedly chic-ingratiating title, but I've no regrets. The trouble is, now I've finished it, it's back to the tigers (who are only tigerish women anyway).

What do you do with books that are just that little bit too good to give up on? Reading time is precious, and I feel as if I'm wasting it - at the same time, I can't ditch every novel that isn't a hundred per cent perfect, can I? I'd end up with an apartment full of one-third-read novels. In any case, I blame The Sunday Telegraph and The Guardian. Oh, and Metro: Where's that "intoxicating cocktail of money, sex, heat, boredom and beauty" you promised me?