‘I’ll bet her father turns out to be … A senior consultant cardiologist in the Blackrock Clinic,’ Helen chips in dreamily. ‘Or because she’s so musical, maybe a conductor. With the Philharmonic at the New York Met. Or maybe he’s a physicist well on his way to winning the Nobel Prize by now. One thing’s for certain though, he must be really good looking, because she’s such a gorgeous little fairy.’
‘Hmmm,’ is all I can say, getting intrigued now in spite of myself.
‘Either way,’ she goes on, still in her fantasy world and I think barely even registering me now, ‘if you were him, and if you had a little girl this special, wouldn’t you want to know about it?’
The funny thing is that when it boils down to it, I actually know so little about Lily’s father myself, it’s ridiculous. And I’m surprising myself by wondering about it now, as it’s something I rarely do. Once I had Lily, I banished all thoughts about whoever he might be completely out of my mind. She’s mine, I thought. Mine and no one else’s. One thing is for certain though, whoever he is and wherever he is, he’s got to be someone very special – because isn’t Lily the living walking proof of that?
Oh, sod this anyway. You know something? It’s curiosity that’ll be the death of mankind. Not all this crap about climate change.
No, it’s curiosity, plain and simple.
The fertility clinic I attended went by the unlikely name of the Reilly Institute, which at the time, appealed. It sounded like a place where you do night classes, I remember thinking at the time, not somewhere you’ve to reveal all about your private life and your full medical history, get totally undressed, then undergo possibly the most mortifying medical procedure ever devised by man. I’ll spare the details, but all I’ll say is that it involves lying on a sheet of freezing metal naked from the waist down, while being prodded with a load of ice-cold spatulas, and I’ll leave the rest to the imagination. Trust me though, no torture meted out to witches in medieval times could have been more excruciatingly painful or mortifying.
You know me by now; I did my homework and did it thoroughly. Firstly I found out from the concerned, mercifully sensitive nurse who was looking after me, whether or not the bank recruited, let’s just say, a certain type of donor? Because I was fussy; I wanted someone intelligent, talented, from ‘good stock’, as Helen put it. I bombarded this poor, patient nurse with a thousand questions – on average how old were the donors? (Under age forty apparently is preferable, I knew from my own exhaustive research on the subject. Higher sperm motility.) How and when did donors sign away legal rights to any child conceived using their sperm? And most importantly of all, how exactly was confidentiality maintained?
I must have driven her nearly insane with my inquisition; I requested a full list of donor profiles, then asked for information about each donor’s physical characteristics; ethnic background, educational background, occupation, general health, and hobbies and interests. Some banks will even provide photos, which I took a lightning-quick scan though, then dismissed. Somehow it made the whole mortifying process far simpler not to attach a face to a number on a donor profile.
Made me feel a bit more in control, if that makes any sense.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that the whole process took weeks. I trawled through each and every profile on offer, knowing that this was probably the single biggest decision I was ever likely to make in my life. And finally, finally finally, I found The One. No name, just a number, but this one seemed to tick all the right boxes. Blue eyes, fair hair and fair skin, just how I imagined my little baby would look. Supermarket genetics come to life.
The Chosen One seemed sporty and athletic too: he’d won gold medals for the two hundred metres and was a member of the Trinity College rowing team. This appealed; if I had a boy, I reasoned, he’d have great biceps and would look like he rowed everywhere. And he’d grow up with shiny skin and cheekbones you could grate cheese on, like all athletes seem to have. His profile also claimed that he’d written a thesis on Ireland’s economic meltdown and the subsequent road to recovery, which immediately gave me a mental picture that maybe he worked as a high-earning TV economist, one of those young preppy guys who look straight to camera and gravely tell us we’re all doomed, but do it with such persuasive charm that you end up not really minding that much at all.
What swung it for me though, was that his profile claimed he was musical as well as everything else and played classical piano right up to concert grade. That alone made me almost able to picture him; tall, gifted, clean shaven, articulate and an all-rounder. A real renaissance man. The type that if I ever happened to meet him in a bar in real life, most likely wouldn’t give someone like me a second glance, but would be surrounded by tall blonde modelly women with caramel skin and perfect Hollywood smiles.
But not here. Because in the Reilly Institute, it was me that was calling the shots. And I’d decided on him and that was all there was to it. He was good at sport, academically sound and cultured too – barring him having become a self-made billionaire by the age of twenty five, what more could I possibly ask for?
Then came the science bit. A Dr. Casement, with the cold clinical dispassion of someone who spends half their day looking down a microscope, advised that we needed to find out how many pregnancies this donor’s sperm had previously produced. Ten is the recommended limit apparently, to lessen the chances of a single donor’s offspring ever meeting and producing children of their own, instantly making me think of just about every Greek tragedy I’d ever yawned my way through. But my luck was in; astonishingly, I was the first woman through there to have chosen this grade A specimen. Massive sigh of relief.
Then as soon as the sample was fully medically assessed for family history, heritable conditions, any diseases that could be passed down – not to mention infectious diseases like chlamydia, HIV, hepatitis, syphilis and let’s not forget the delightful gonorrhoea – the rest was plain sailing.
I was told it would take a few rounds of treatment before we’d have a successful outcome, so not to be too disappointed if it didn’t take on my first go. But I was having absolutely none of it. Because under no circumstances was I going through all of this malarkey all over again, so I willed my uterus lining to thicken up and do what it was told and miraculously, astonished everyone at the clinic by getting lucky first time round.
Out came Lily, punctual to the dot nine months later and thus ended my involvement with the Reilly Institute.
Until now, that is.
Chapter Four
Initially, Helen gamely offered to do the detective work for me – the Jane Marple bit, as she put it – but I told her there was no need. Firstly, as any self-respecting control freak will tell you, either you do the thing properly yourself, or it doesn’t get done. And secondly, whenever you’re cold-calling and trying to find out, let’s just say, information of a sensitive nature, you’ve no idea how much this magic phrase works. ‘Hi there, I’m senior editor of the Post and I’m calling to inquire about …’ Works like a charm every time. When people, and particularly Irish people, realise you’re a journalist, they will open up and tell you absolutely anything, if they think it’ll get their name into the paper. Or better yet, their photo. In colour. For all their mammies and pals to see.
The first part is astonishingly easy. Next day at work, I kick closed the inner door to my office and make the call, being careful to keep my voice discreet, calm and business like.
‘Hello, you’ve reached the Reilly Institute, how may I direct your call?’
A woman’s voice, curt and businesslike. So I explain that I was treated there four years ago and now need urgent access to my patient file. For, ahem, personal reasons. We’re terribly sorry, comes the crisp answer, but I’m afraid we don’t give out that information.
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 paus
e, 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?’
A Very Accidental Love Story Page 9
