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