Irish Fiction: There's a moment towards the end of The Very Man, Chris Binchy's début novel, when Rory, its smooth-talking narrator, recounts his final tumble on a long fall from grace. At the end of a two-day bender, he wakes up to find himself in the street, in the middle of the day, with no job, no girlfriend, no dignity. Reviewed by Catherine Heaney.
It's a stark contrast from the urbane, successful young man of the book's opening - freshly returned from six years in New York, condescending and confident - and provides the inevitable rock- bottom moment in this cautionary tale for an over-privileged generation.
After the death of his mother, Rory has come home to settle down. He quickly adjusts to life in Celtic Tiger Dublin, and before long he's got the job in advertising, the Temple Bar flat, the girl, and a serious impulse to self- destruct. After some truly appalling behaviour - betraying friends, cheating on his girlfriend, undermining colleagues - he finds his life unravelling, but cannot, nor will not, take the blame for his situation. The downward slide continues (taking in binge drinking, sacking and alienation from his friends and family along the way), yet still Rory insists on making things worse for himself. It's his self-righteousness coupled with a stubborn refusal to do the right thing that make him such an infuriating character, but in spite of everything, you still want him to get his act together, partly because Rory's insecurities are those of a whole generation, his mistakes (bad, granted) are by no means unique and he is capable of humour, self-awareness and sensitivity.
Binchy's razor-sharp portrait of Rory is equalled by that of the utterly recognisable, unromanticised Dublin he inhabits - a city of sushi bars and slick offices, of English stag parties and Saturday brunches. There's a particularly good scene in which, outraged at the shoddy service in a chi-chi French bakery, Rory throws his coffee cup at the shopkeeper. On the one hand, it's yet another instance of our protagonist's capacity to be obnoxious, but it also highlights an all-too-familiar exasperation at the flipside of Dublin friendliness (and you can't help wondering if Binchy may be having his own crack at some offending Gallic baker).
But it's not just Rory's antics or his ambivalent take on the city in all its grubby splendour that make The Very Man such an enjoyable read - it's Binchy's writing. His ear for dialogue, particularly the wry banter of the young Dublin male, is unerring; and even when he's writing in the presumably less familiar voice of, say, a 19-year-old Monaghan girl, his tone and turn of phrase always ring true.
But more than anything, The Very Man gives us hope - for Rory, for a whole generation, for our often not-so-fair city - and reminds us why greed, drink culture and overpriced delis aside, there's still plenty worth coming home for.
Catherine Heaney writes for Red magazine
The Very Man. By Chris Binchy, Macmillan, 246pp, £10