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
