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Authors: Paul Murray
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sex with each other. The bar’s style is classic Celtic Tiger – white armchairs with zebra throws, ubiquitous mirrors, large unseated area, palpable air of incipient violence – like a cross between a hairdresser’s and the Stanford Prison Experiment. Nevertheless, Life is the closest thing the Financial Services Centre has to a local. This is where the real information is exchanged: who’s getting paid what, who’s hiring, who’s on the way up/down/out; tips for good schools, good builders, good mechanics, good tailors, good divorce lawyers.
The name is a pun –
Life
is Gaelic for Liffey, the river that splits the city into north and south (and, broadly, rich and poor) – and gives rise to many more puns (‘I hate Life’, ‘After a few drinks Life won’t seem so bad’, and so on), which we make instead of finding somewhere less repugnant. On Friday nights, patrons will typically skip dinner in order to start drinking sooner – unthinkable in Paris; get stuck beside Ish and you will first be treated to what seems an unending series of humorous cat videos, then, as the hysterical laughter dies away, find yourself attempting fruitlessly to comfort her as she rehearses yet again the break-up of her relationship, before lurching off into the night with whichever opportunist has bought her last drink.
Tonight the turbulence on the markets has lent an extra edge
of mania to the proceedings, as employees of the many banks not currently punching above their weights contemplate the idea that this time next week they may be out of a job, and reach desperately for a lifebelt.
‘Think the brunette there’s taken a shine to you, Kev,’ Gary McCrum, Utilities analyst, says.
Kevin turns to look. The dark-haired girl at the end of the adjoining table glances up and away again. She has delicate hands, eyes with a little too much white in them, a disorientating air of weightlessness, like a dress on a clothes line flapping in the wind.
‘Totally checking you out,’ Dave Davison, Commodities, confirms.
Kevin scrutinizes the brunette dubiously, like a diner in a restaurant examining the lobsters in the tank. ‘Is she hot?’
‘Is she hot? She’s right there in front of you!’
‘I’ve looked at so much porn I can’t tell any more if IRL women are good-looking or not,’ Kevin confesses. ‘I have to imagine if I saw her on a screen would I click on her.’
‘IRL?’ I ask Dave Davison. ‘This means Ireland? Irish women?’
‘
In real life
, Grandad – here, Kev, look at her through my phone. See? She’s an eight, easy.’
‘Well, a seven,’ Gary says.
‘Maybe she is more of a seven,’ Dave concedes.
‘Pff, I’m not wasting a drink on a seven,’ Kevin says, and turns his back on the brunette, who dips her eyes woundedly into her lap, then reaffixes herself to her friends’ conversation, throwing her toothy smile about the room betimes like a cracked whip.
‘I used to feel that way about sevens,’ Dave says sadly. ‘Then I got married.’
‘Those two are really hitting it off,’ Jurgen says to me, nodding over to where for the last half an hour Paul and Ish have been deep in conversation.
‘I hope she is not telling him anything too personal,’ I say.
‘Such as her theories about where it all went wrong with Tog?’ Jurgen says.
‘Yes.’
‘Or the time she got diarrhoea in China?’
My eyes widen. ‘You think she’s telling him the Yangtze riverboat story?’
Maybe I should go and check, I decide; but someone is blocking my path. It’s Howie, arriving with Tom Cremins, Brian O’Brien and a couple of other traders, all carrying glasses of single malt whiskey. They crowd in beside us; the girls at the next table swivel their heads towards ours once more, like lovely, money-tropic flowers.
‘Hear you had a little chat with the government today,’ Howie says to me. ‘What’d he tell you? Are they going to recap Royal?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘He must have said
The name is a pun –
Life
is Gaelic for Liffey, the river that splits the city into north and south (and, broadly, rich and poor) – and gives rise to many more puns (‘I hate Life’, ‘After a few drinks Life won’t seem so bad’, and so on), which we make instead of finding somewhere less repugnant. On Friday nights, patrons will typically skip dinner in order to start drinking sooner – unthinkable in Paris; get stuck beside Ish and you will first be treated to what seems an unending series of humorous cat videos, then, as the hysterical laughter dies away, find yourself attempting fruitlessly to comfort her as she rehearses yet again the break-up of her relationship, before lurching off into the night with whichever opportunist has bought her last drink.
Tonight the turbulence on the markets has lent an extra edge
of mania to the proceedings, as employees of the many banks not currently punching above their weights contemplate the idea that this time next week they may be out of a job, and reach desperately for a lifebelt.
‘Think the brunette there’s taken a shine to you, Kev,’ Gary McCrum, Utilities analyst, says.
Kevin turns to look. The dark-haired girl at the end of the adjoining table glances up and away again. She has delicate hands, eyes with a little too much white in them, a disorientating air of weightlessness, like a dress on a clothes line flapping in the wind.
‘Totally checking you out,’ Dave Davison, Commodities, confirms.
Kevin scrutinizes the brunette dubiously, like a diner in a restaurant examining the lobsters in the tank. ‘Is she hot?’
‘Is she hot? She’s right there in front of you!’
‘I’ve looked at so much porn I can’t tell any more if IRL women are good-looking or not,’ Kevin confesses. ‘I have to imagine if I saw her on a screen would I click on her.’
‘IRL?’ I ask Dave Davison. ‘This means Ireland? Irish women?’
‘
In real life
, Grandad – here, Kev, look at her through my phone. See? She’s an eight, easy.’
‘Well, a seven,’ Gary says.
‘Maybe she is more of a seven,’ Dave concedes.
‘Pff, I’m not wasting a drink on a seven,’ Kevin says, and turns his back on the brunette, who dips her eyes woundedly into her lap, then reaffixes herself to her friends’ conversation, throwing her toothy smile about the room betimes like a cracked whip.
‘I used to feel that way about sevens,’ Dave says sadly. ‘Then I got married.’
‘Those two are really hitting it off,’ Jurgen says to me, nodding over to where for the last half an hour Paul and Ish have been deep in conversation.
‘I hope she is not telling him anything too personal,’ I say.
‘Such as her theories about where it all went wrong with Tog?’ Jurgen says.
‘Yes.’
‘Or the time she got diarrhoea in China?’
My eyes widen. ‘You think she’s telling him the Yangtze riverboat story?’
Maybe I should go and check, I decide; but someone is blocking my path. It’s Howie, arriving with Tom Cremins, Brian O’Brien and a couple of other traders, all carrying glasses of single malt whiskey. They crowd in beside us; the girls at the next table swivel their heads towards ours once more, like lovely, money-tropic flowers.
‘Hear you had a little chat with the government today,’ Howie says to me. ‘What’d he tell you? Are they going to recap Royal?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘He must have said
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