As it happens though, I anticipated this and am prepared for all of this red-tape crapology.
Yes, I fully appreciate that, I tell her, but this is a pretty unique situation. As it happens, I’m about to commission a piece about fertility clinics in the Dublin area and this is all part of the research I’m carrying out for the article, writing of course from the basis of my own personal experience, blah-di-blah. I even tack on, astonishing myself at the sheer brazenness of the fib, that I’d be attaching a full-colour photo of the Reilly Institute, with plugs galore.
Funny how lying through your teeth becomes kind of second nature to you when you’ve worked at the
Post
long enough. Bit worrying, really.
But it really was that easy. A slight, wavering pause, then a supervisor is called to the phone, so I repeat verbatim the conversation with the carrot attached and we’re away.
My file is reopened and here it is.
Wait for it, his name is William Goldsmith. William Goldsmith. Of course he’s a William, I think a bit smugly, sitting back in my swivel chair and gazing absent-mindedly out the window, in a rare moment of self-indulgence. I like the name William; always have. Sporty, athletic, cultured guys always have names like William I think, suddenly getting a sharp mental picture of Prince William on his wedding day, looking hot to trot in his scarlet army uniform with rows of medals hanging from his well-toned chest.
Best bit of all; he is, or was at least when he filled out all his details at the Reilly Institute, a post-grad student in Trinity College. Then some details I already knew and remembered well, that he’s exactly the same age as me, six foot two, blond, with blue eyes. No address of course, but that I look on as a minor challenge and nothing more.
Jesus, why didn’t I do this years ago?
Never mind Lily wanting to meet him, now I do too.
Right then. Next stop, Trinity College.
I have to sit through another two editorial meetings before I can snatch a quiet bit of alone time to make my next move, itching to get out of there and back to the privacy of my office. Again, I slam the door shut, call Trinity and get put straight onto the registration office. I’m inquiring about a post-grad student by the name of William Goldsmith, I tell them with great confidence. Do you have any forwarding details, or maybe even an address?
I’m put on hold for ages, which allows me more time to drift back into my little fantasy balloon. I’ll bet William is good-looking, the kind of guy you look at and think, yeah, that’s natural selection at work. Bet he’s the kind of guy that otherwise intelligent women lose their thought processes and speech patterns over. Bet he lives in a gorgeous city-centre apartment, conveniently close to college, with amazing panoramic views over the city, where he hosts elegant soirées with everyone talking about the shards of our economy and how exactly they’d go about fixing it. ‘Hi, great to see you, how are your lectures going? Hey, I’m going to William’s for a drink this evening. You know William, William Goldsmith? Of course you do, everyone knows William. He’s just been elected most popular auditor of the Literary and Historical Debating Society ever, in history. Just wondered if you were coming? William’s parties are always the best, you know …’
Could there be a girlfriend or wife in the picture? Hmmm. Possibly. Maybe even other kids too.
But somehow my gut instinct, honed from years of hard-nosed graft at the coalface of journalism, is telling me no. Because let’s face it, leaving a deposit at a sperm bank is hardly the kind of thing guys in long-term relationships tend to do in their spare time, now is it? Unless my antennae are very much off-kilter, I don’t think so. No, I’m thinking, someone as bright and undoubtedly gifted as William (love saying the name over and over, can’t stop myself: William, William, William) probably figured it was an act of selfless humanitarianism on his part to share this tiny part of him with the world. Because don’t genes as rare and special as William’s deserve to be propagated?
‘Sorry to keep you,’ says the warm, friendly lady eventually coming back to the other end of the phone.
‘Not at all,’ I smile, supremely confident that William probably graduated with a first. And might even be lecturing or tutoring there by now, who knew?
‘But I’m afraid there’s a bit of a problem this end.’
‘Oh?’
‘Well, but it seems there was no William Goldsmith doing any of our post-grad courses here. Not at any stage in the past four years. It seems we’ve no record of anyone by that name at all.’
Shit, shit, shit. What is going on?
‘Are you absolutely certain? Maybe there’s some kind of mistake?’
‘No mistake, I’m positive. I’ve been through our computer files twice for that period. Nor do we have any record of a William Goldsmith ever studying here. Sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t help you any further.’
Odd. Why would they have no record of him on computer? But then I quickly snap out of it and think, okay, this is just a dead end, nothing more. A minor clerical error, a bump in the road, a hurdle to be got over, that’s all. I thank her politely, she hangs up and I immediately ask the Trinity switchboard to put me through to security. Because not only is every student required to have a security pass, but I remember from my own college days that no matter who you are, even if you’re working down in the bowels of catering, you can get neither in nor out of the place without one.
Same drill. I slip into my patter of, ‘Hi there, I’m the editor of …’ But if I’m expecting a magical door in the wall to be suddenly swung open, I’m wrong. Instead, it’s slammed shut right in my face with a wallop so violent that it feels like a slap.
‘Sorry love,’ says a bored-sounding guy with a twenty-fags-a-day rasp.
‘That’s classified information, that is.’
‘But, you don’t understand,’ I say, trying to keep the pleading note out of my voice. ‘I’m ringing from the
Post
, we’re doing a feature you see …’
‘Listen love, I’m not bothered if you’re ringing from the White House, I can’t give out private information about anyone who studied here. More than me job’s worth.’
Okaaaay. From my days as a humble hack, I know how to gamble in a situation like this. Bit below the belt, yes, but sometimes … just sometimes, if you hold your nerve and keep steady, you can hit the jackpot.
‘You know,’ I say, quickly scanning down through my desktop computer to see what shows, events, or film premieres are coming up in Dublin. Anything posh or glamorous that’s considered a hot ticket, I need right now.
‘I’d hate for you to do anything you were uncomfortable with, of course,’ I tell him in my most cajoling voice, ‘but you know, if you were to do this massive favour for me, I’m quite sure I could do the same for you.
Quid pro quo
and all that.’
‘
Quid pro
wha’?’
‘Say for instance …’ I scroll down the computer screen in front of me. Bingo. Just what I’m looking for. ‘If you were a fan of U2? I’m just saying that here at the
Post
we get bombarded with all sorts of free tickets and if you happened to know any fans, I’m sure I could arrange two complimentary tickets for you.’
I’m a bit of a dirty player, I know, but there you go. That’s what years of working at the coalface of journalism will do to you. I leave it hanging there, take a deep breath and wait it out.
Still no response.
‘For the opening night, of course,’ I throw in hopefully. ‘VIP tickets, obviously. Where you’d get to meet the band afterwards, it goes without saying. Backstage.’
I’m almost about to tack on, ‘and if you really want, I can probably fix it so you get to spend the rest of the night quaffing Chateau Rothschild with Bono and The Edge up in their dressing room, chatting about what the hell possessed them to try and make Spider-Man into a Broadway musical.’ Because right now I’m prepared to say absolutely anything at all that might just swing it for me.
But instead a bored yawn comes from down the other end of the phone.
‘Wouldn’t go to see that shower of gobshites if they were playing out in me back garden.’
Oh for God’s sake.
Now what?
Then, after yet another excruciating, long-drawn out pause, I’m suddenly thrown a lifeline.
‘Tell you what though, love. If you could swing me two tickets for the
X Factor
live show in London, then I
might
just might be able to do something for you. Strictly confidential though, you know what I’m saying? I mean, if I was ever to be found out, it’d be more than me job’s worth.’
‘Of course, this is totally confidential; and yes, I’ll make sure you get all the
X Factor
tickets you want.’
How in the name of God I don’t know, but sure I’ll worry about that later.
‘Right so. Gimme your number and I’ll get back to you.’
I do what he says, hang up gratefully and head into my next meeting.
Five o’ clock comes and still no news. Half an hour later, still nothing. My phone’s on silent but somehow I can’t prevent my eye from wandering over to it every five minutes, just to check.
Why hasn’t he got back to me yet? How can something this simple be taking so bloody long?
It’s well past half six in the evening before eventually the call comes. I’m down in the depths of the print room going over the first draft of tomorrow’s layout when my mobile rings and the Trinity number flashes up.
‘Excuse me, I urgently need to take this,’ I tell our duty manager, then skip out of there, desperately looking for somewhere I can take the call with some bit of privacy. Which ends up being at the bottom of a deserted stairwell.
‘Well?’ I hiss, like I’m suddenly in an espionage movie. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘You’ll get a right laugh out of this love, I know I did.’
‘Just tell me!’
‘Oh yeah, turns out you were right. There was a William Goldsmith working here in Trinity, not for long mind, just for about six months or so.’
He
worked
there? I think, mind racing. Worked as what? A tutor?
‘Now I’ve no phone number, but I do have an address for you.’
‘Brilliant thanks, that’s all I need.’
‘But I’ll tell you something love, if your man told you he was a student here, then I can tell you right now he was talking through his arse.’
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean?’
‘Because the William Goldsmith that’s on record here was from the sanitation department. Over in the residential halls.’
‘What?’
‘He was working as one of the cleaners.’
This is fine, this is okay. Not by any means the end of the world. So William did a fairly menial job to support himself, what’s so wrong with that? I mean, I waitressed my way through college and it didn’t do me any harm. And so technically he never actually studied at Trinity per se, but clearly he was drawn towards academia and who knows? Maybe he just couldn’t afford the fees?
Suddenly I feel a huge pang of sympathy for William, getting a sharp mental image of Matt Damon in
Good Will Hunting
; gifted guy, high IQ, no money for education, but desperately trying to haul himself up by his bootstraps and make something of himself in the world. And if I’m slightly peeved at him for lying on the Reilly Institute form, then I brush it aside. Because everyone tweaks the truth on those things, don’t they? Let’s face it, claiming to be a post-grad Trinity student on a sperm donor application form is always going to make you sound a far more tempting proposition than the fact you scrub down toilets for a living, isn’t it?
So far, I forgive him. So far, I can even understand where he’s coming from.
So far.
As luck would have it, the address I got for him is actually fairly close to our offices. Flat two, number twenty-four Pearce Square, right behind Trinity College and only a ten-minute walk from here.
An hour later, I’m back upstairs in my office, signing off on tomorrow’s editorial and taking a call from Robbie in foreign affairs at the same time, but somehow I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on either. Or to multitask, like I normally would.
It’s just gone half seven now. I’ve got a window of exactly thirty minutes before my next meeting.
I could, couldn’t I? Just slip out of here for half an hour and race up to Pearce Square? I’d be back in plenty of time and sure no one would see me, I’m sure of it.
Feck it anyway. Don’t think about it, don’t overanalyse it, don’t debate it, just GO. Think of Lily. Remember I’m doing it all for her.
Decision made, in a flash I grab my bag and coat and slip out the office door down to the lift. Everyone seems to have their head buried into a computer screen, so no one even looks up at me or as much as throws me a second glance. Anyway, it’s not like I’ll even be gone that long anyway. Because I only want the answer to a handful of simple questions. Who is he? Where does he come from? Why did he leave Trinity after such a short time, where did he go afterwards and most importantly, what is he at now?
Okay, so maybe more than a handful of questions, but there you go, old journalists’ trick. Saying ‘can I just ask you one thing?’ then sneaking in another fifteen questions and hoping no one will notice.
One thing is for certain, the answer is only a stone’s throw away from here and I know myself well enough to know that it’ll consume me until I’ve completely laid the whole thing to rest. Mind racing, head pounding, I slip my raincoat on and have just made it through the security barrier inside the main door of the
Post,
one hand on the revolving doors all set to make my escape, when suddenly from behind a voice stops me.
‘Eloise? Surely you can’t be leaving this early, can you?’
Shit, shit, shit.
I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is. There’s only one person I know who speaks in that snivelly, nasal twang.
And there he is, right behind me, Seth Coleman. Looking me up and down like he always does, the unblinking, lizardy eyes taking everything in.
‘Course I’m not leaving, Seth,’ I force myself to half-smile. ‘Just stepping out for … emm …’