Claudia Carroll 3 Book Bundle. Claudia Carroll
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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.