‘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 …’
‘You’re going OUT?’ Seth says, deliberately stressing it that way. ‘As in, OUTSIDE the building? What on earth for?’
Ahem, good question. Can’t say for coffee, we already have Starbucks in here. If I say personal reasons, sure as eggs he’ll start spreading it around that I’m in the throes of a breakdown and am sneaking off to see a psychiatrist on company time.
Think, think, think …
‘Highly confidential,’ I eventually say, trying to sound as brisk as possible. ‘Can’t possibly give you a name. And you know me, I wouldn’t dream of revealing a source, not under waterboarding. But for safety and security reasons, we’ve got to meet on neutral ground.’
OK, now it sounds like I’ve suddenly morphed into Bob Woodward in All The President’s Men, about to meet Deepthroat in some deserted underground car park.
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,’ Seth sniffs, whipping a monogrammed white hanky from his breast pocket and wiping his long, bony nose with a flourish, a mannerism of his that, quite irrationally, drives me up the
