Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  Lee smiled and slowly shook his head. “Actually, the reverse is true. If it is affection you crave, you will find it the moment you win your first gold medal. You will be adored by everyone. Think of all the millions whose hopes you will have justified. You are running for America, for the free world, and your achievements will be watched by people sitting in their homes across the world, the largest TV audience ever. For those few days in Moscow, you will be the focus of more pride, more affection, than any individual on this earth. Even the Russians will take you to their hearts, because everyone admires a great athlete. To be Goldengirl is to know that wherever you go there is warmth, admiration, recognition. Let me show you.” He went to a shelf and took down one of the video-cassettes stacked there. “I don’t think you’ve seen this one before.” He slotted it into the deck to the left of where he was sitting. “It’s a tape Dave Robb put together from clips of various Olympic champions. Yes, you’ve seen a lot of them, I know, but this is different. You’ll see why.”

  The TV screen on a lower level of the shelf unit flickered. The picture was black and white. An old film, scored with scratches. A blond girl in dark shorts and a white top crossed with a diagonal stripe was streaking to victory in a sprint event.

  Goldine identified it at once. “Betty Cuthbert winning the hundred in Melbourne, 1956,” she said, almost in a yawn. “I really have seen it before, Sammy.”

  “Watch,” urged Lee.

  Instead of cutting to the familiar slow-motion replay after the runners had crossed the line, the film stayed with Betty Cuthbert. People were running to congratulate her. There was no doubt about her victory; she had crossed two meters clear. They jostled around her, embracing her, kissing her.

  “She was eighteen,” said Lee. “A year younger than you. Now watch the two hundred meters.”

  Another sequence familiar from the training loops, the devastating bend-running that secured a three-meter victory in Olympic record time. And again the sequence ran on as the slim, smiling girl was mobbed by well-wishers and photographers. She was shown receiving her medal: a close-up of her face, happiness personified. The film cut to a Melbourne headline: BETTY YOU BEAUTY!

  Then the relay. Overhauling the British girl in the final leg to break the world and Olympic records. A third gold medal. Her teammates lifting her on their shoulders. A lap of honor, waving to the cheering crowd. Another victory ceremony.

  “This is her return to Sydney,” said Lee as a motorcade sequence came up. “They even named a street after her.”

  Betty Cuthbert was standing in an open car. Crowds five and six deep lined the route, waving and cheering. Children were running beside the car.

  Lee switched off.

  “Isn’t there more?” asked Goldine. “Doesn’t she get to meet the mayor, or someone?”

  “Tomorrow,” said Lee, his purpose achieved. “There are others on the tape: Rudolph, Tyus, Szewinska, Stecher. The emphasis, as you saw, isn’t on technique. It highlights the moment of victory. Did you like it?”

  “It’s set me up again,” said Goldine warmly. “A little of that each day, and I’ll get by, I guess.”

  “Running itself can be a satisfying experience,” said Lee. “Winning is better. Being adored is best of all.”

  “Must be out of this world,” said Goldine. Her expression became more serious. “But let’s not kid ourselves, Sammy. The motorcades don’t go on forever. Actually, I won’t mind that. I don’t need too much of that. I only need to feel I’m somebody.” She laughed. “Not just one of Pete Klugman’s hangups. I want people to like me, maybe even love me, for who I am.”

  “Naturally you do,” said Lee. “And we know, don’t we, that after next month you won’t need Klugman. You’ll have the independence you crave. A sense of identity. Because the world will recognize you as Goldengirl. You’ll go before the press and handle their questions as you do in the simulation sessions, experiencing the excitement of all that interest. That’s when you come alive, isn’t it?”

  Her eyes responded.

  “This time it won’t be simulated,” Lee went on. “It will be real. And it will go on. The receptions and the motorcades come to an end, yes, but the identity you secure does not. You will always be Goldengirl, a celebrity, a focus of interest. The knowledge of what you have achieved will give you confidence in every situation. That’s the way to resolve the conflicts you feel just now. Winning in Moscow is fulfillment.” He smiled as he slipped in one of her phrases. “Does that figure?”

  She grinned back. “It figures, Sammy. You put me straight again.”

  The meeting of staff in Serafin’s room two hours later heard Lee’s report of the conversation.

  “She displays a certain amount of anxiety about the track sessions,” he told Serafin and Klugman. “She expresses some resentment that the objectives are beyond her, that she is denied the satisfaction of achieving them.”

  “Didn’t I tell you that would happen?” Klugman had turned impulsively to Serafin. “All this crap about stress! You can’t keep chopping an athlete down. How much longer do I have to go on with this?”

  “Is it achieving results?” Lee impassively asked. “How did she perform today?”

  “Why ask me when you already know?” said Klugman.

  “Isn’t it a pertinent point?”

  “I need to know anyway,” said Serafin. “I know you’re not entirely in sympathy with this, Peter, but let’s at least consider the facts.”

  “She ran six repetitions under twenty-four seconds,” said Klugman flatly. “That’s great running.”

  “The best she has achieved?” asked Lee.

  Klugman nodded. “She’s a fighter.”

  “Doesn’t that confirm the value of the exercise?” said Lee.

  “Yeah, but my stock’s dropped fifty points since we started this.”

  Lee disdained to comment.

  “The question is, do we persist?” said Serafin. “There could be a danger of overstrain. It hasn’t shown up so far in the physicals, but I can’t risk letting this go on to the threshold of hypertension.”

  Lee said, “It is proved beyond doubt that there is a factor in the personality that can be stimulated by failure. Too much success leads to overconfidence. We have established that Goldengirl’s performance has improved appreciably under stressful conditions. So far, there are no clinical symptoms of overstrain. I would be in favor of prolonging this, at least until Friday. If we switch her then to less demanding objectives, I believe it will give her the lift she needs for the Olympic Trials.”

  “Until Friday?” said Serafin. “That sounds reasonable to me. Would you settle for that, Peter?”

  “Seems I’m in a minority of one again,” said Klugman. “Okay, Friday.” He took out his notebook and recorded the decision.

  With that settled, Lee went on to say, “There are also some indications of a crisis of identity, as we anticipated. I think we can keep it under control by frequently reinforcing the Goldengirl idea. This afternoon, I showed her part of the tape Robb put together for me, featuring female gold medalists, with the emphasis on their moment of triumph. All she has seen before has been technical film, which always cuts as the athlete crosses the finishing line. Seeing the girls she recognizes in this new role, being lionized by the press and crowd, made a definite impression on her. The scenes of Cuthbert in Melbourne were sufficient therapy for today. I watched the pupils of Goldengirl’s eyes dilate as each victory was celebrated.”

  “This sounds an interesting innovation,” said Serafin.

  “Betty Cuthbert?” said Klugman, frowning. “You’re using her for an example?”

  “What is the matter with that?” asked Lee.

  “You wouldn’t find a more conspicuous example of a golden girl,” said Serafin.

  “Betty Cuthbert?” repeated Klugman.

  “Three gold medals,” said Lee.

  “I know that,” said Klugman.

  “There are obvious parallels with ou
r situation,” Serafin went on. “She was blond, blue-eyed, young —”

  “Eighteen,” said Lee.

  “And she first hit the headlines in Olympic year by winning the Australian championship for two hundred and twenty yards,” said Serafin. “It would do Goldengirl no harm to identify with her.”

  “So long as nobody tells her what happened to Betty Cutlibert after the Olympics,” said Klugman. “I can think of groovier ways to live with three gold medals than waking up in the night screaming with nightmares. When a kid of eighteen has to go on sleepers because her life has been taken over by the PR guys, that’s sad. And that was twenty-four years back.”

  “Aren’t you being a little overdramatic?” said Lee. “If you remember, the same athlete made a return to track, and won another gold in 1964.”

  “The four hundred meters,” said Serafin, as if Klugman had not spoken. “That’s another parallel, of course. Betty Cuthbert is the only athlete to have won the three events Goldengirl is going for. At an interval of eight years, so our achievement will be unique. It may be worth pointing out that Cuthbert demonstrated the possibility of the triple. Which brings us to you, Peter, and the prospects for the Trials in Eugene. We know how Goldengirl is shaping. What can you tell us of the opposition?”

  Outmaneuvered again, Klugman glared at Lee, and gave his rundown on the U.S. sprint scene. “The black girls top the rankings for the dashes, as usual. There are two useful sprinters at Tennessee State University, names of Carroll and Devine. On the East Coast, Shelley Wilson is cleaning up around eleven flat. She could come big in Eugene. And there’s Francie Harman of Texas Southern with a windy ten point nine and a legitimate twenty-three point five. And I guess Debbie Jackson will be back for more.”

  “She won’t trouble us,” said Serafin. “What’s the picture in the four hundred?”

  “Until San Diego, it was dominated by a Sacramento coed called Janie Canute, some kind of Jesus freak who’s running in the name of the Lord. So far, she’s done it no discredit. Below fifty-one three times this month. That’s fast. The rest you can forget. Nothing under fifty-two.”

  “In the name of the Lord?” said Serafin. “That’s something we didn’t consider, Sammy.”

  Klugman laughed. “If Dryden’s as good as you say, the Lord would have to pay a bundle for exclusive rights.”

  Chapter 14

  Dryden arrived in Eugene as scheduled on Thursday, July 10, making the 800-mile trip north along the Pacific Coast by air taxi. Mahlon Sweet Field seethed with pinch-fit people carrying trade-marked sports bags, Adidas nudging Puma as they converged on the taxi stand. Bystanders debated which of the bag carriers were hammer-throwers, which high-jumpers. Now that the University of Oregon track was established as a venue for national track and field, jock-spotting in July was a local pastime.

  The Hotel Jacaranda, where Serafin had booked rooms for everyone, was a four-story modern building north of town on the Coburg Road, away from the University, where most competitors were accommodated. It stood in nine acres of landscaped grounds, with tennis courts, nine-hole golf and two heated pools. The room Dryden was shown into was in the forty-dollar class; he wasn’t surprised there were no athletes staying there. “I’ve known big-name golfers come,” the receptionist told him. “Track people, no.”

  He took a slow shower. No sense in hurrying downstairs and catching Valenti or Sternberg at the bar. He wanted a clear head for the afternoon. His plans for selling Goldengirl were scheduled for a thorough going over. He had dug a little into the business histories of the consortium. Valenti he had confirmed as a go-getting executive who had more than doubled his share of the pharmaceutical industry in the last ten years. Oliver Sternberg had wrapped up the wrestling game less overtly; the back-room deal with the meet director in San Diego typified his business style.

  The real surprise was Michael Cobb. The Old World exterior masked a dynamo. The Galsgear label, currently selling every garment the factories could produce, was about to be superseded by a new Cobb line. Defying the dogma of brand loyalty, he had made a policy of limiting each promotion to a two-year run, launching the replacement at the sales peak. The results had transformed the trade. In the last five years he had moved into shoes, lingerie and men’s casuals.

  Add Serafin, and the line-up justified the groundwork Dryden had got through for this presentation. People like these weren’t going to be sidetracked by the newspeak of marketing; they wanted firm proposals, and they would dissect them point by point.

  When he did go down, he was pleased to see Dick Armitage in the elevator. In thinking of the consortium, he never included Dick. Nice to know there was one he could rely on for support.

  When they reached the restaurant, the others were already seated at a table for four. After the necessary courtesies, it was easy to move to one of the small tables overlooking the patio.

  “That’s really too bad,” Armitage said with a broad grin. “I guess we’ll have to sit alone and talk tennis instead of track. Before you say one word about Wimbledon, Jack, I’m sorry. But I did take him to five sets this time, and I had a match point on my service. It’s moving my way. I’ll nail him in Forest Hills next month. See if I don’t.”

  “Forest Hills? When is that?” asked Dryden vacantly.

  “Last week in August.”

  “Of course. I seem to have a mental block about the middle of August. Will you be going to Moscow for the Games?”

  “I’d like to,” said Armitage. “Oh boy, just wouldn’t I? Goldengirl should be the sensation of all time. While I was in London they staged an international track meet with East Germany. I couldn’t get there, of course, but I saw some on TV. The Germans have this girl Ursula Krüll, who is faster than Stecher ever was. She left everyone standing in the sprints. The way the sportscaster was talking, you’d think they might as well hand her the gold medals now. Cute-looking for a Red, but oh, so confident. You could see it all in the way her ass moved. Know what I mean? God, yes, I’d like to see how she moves after she’s raced with Goldengirl, but I won’t, Jack. There’s no way I could take out the week before Forest Hills, even for this. You’ll be there, of course?”

  “Probably.”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “There’s something to be said for staying in America, teeing up some merchandising,” said Dryden. “Still, I suppose by that stage of the game I can bring someone else in at this end. I could be useful with the PR side of things in Moscow. That’s what I tell myself, anyhow. If I’m honest, I want to be around in case of hitches. Your consortium is a volatile group, Dick. You didn’t see the panic in San Diego when Goldengirl misjudged one of the heats.”

  “I heard about it,” said Armitage. “Didn’t Olly Sternberg fix things?”

  “That’s right. Very neatly.”

  “He’s a useful guy to have around if you’re down to the wire. That poundage is deceiving. He can move fast in a crisis.”

  “I can believe it,” said Dryden, “but there are limits. Even Sternberg might be pushed to buy off the entire IOC Executive Board. I hope nothing goes wrong in Moscow. God knows, there’s enough planning gone into the operation. I’ll be happier if the next few days go as per schedule. Have you seen Goldine since you checked in? She isn’t eating with them, I notice.”

  Armitage grinned. “Easy, Jack. She really is in Eugene. She’s staying on the University campus like all the other competitors. It wouldn’t do for her to put up here with the rest of us. The press boys would be wise to that in no time at all. It should do her a world of good, actually, mixing with other girls. The kid’s had a sheltered life, when you think about it.”

  Dryden had thought about it. There were times when Armitage got under his skin. Remarks like that, tossed casually into a conversation, betrayed the shallowness of the man. He hadn’t given a serious thought to Goldine’s predicament. Yet there was no malice in him. He was one of the world’s nice guys. He just assumed everyone else was nice, too. It was the form
ula for a trouble-free life. Tyrannies were founded on people like Dick.

  It was still good to see his amiable face among the others assembled after lunch in the room reserved for the meeting. Serafin ushered Dryden to a chair at the head of a long oak table. In case of any doubt whether this was the place of honor — or the hot seat-there was a jug of water and a glass there. The only other object on the table was Cobb’s electronic calculator.

  For once, Serafin spent no time on introductions. “Mr. Dryden, this afternoon is yours. Do tell us what you have worked out for the merchandising of Goldengirl.”

  The five faces of the consortium turned his way.

  “I hope it isn’t exclusively my afternoon,” he began, “because any ideas I throw up are intended for discussion. Around this table there’s an abundance of marketing experience. Let’s use it. Feel free to come in with your ideas at any point.

  “I’d like to suggest that we agree first on the strategy. The details we can fill in after. I’ve done some thinking on this, and it seems to me we have two quite basic things to settle at the start. One is the phasing of the campaign. The other is the character we should like it to have. The image, if you like. My experience is that you need to present a coherent image, whatever the range of your merchandising may be.

  “Let’s take the phasing first. From tomorrow on, and increasingly as the week progresses, Goldine — I tend to call her by her own name, if you don’t object — will become a public figure, an Olympic hope. Provided she reaches the objectives you’ve set for her — I’m assuming she will — the media generally will take a lot of interest in her. I think we should capitalize on that. She projects herself well in interview situations, so let’s use all the publicity she can get this week. It’s not for me to make suggestions about the way she runs her races, but something special tomorrow or the next day would get the wagon rolling nicely. By Wednesday, she could be getting into feature status. It’s important she isn’t just a sports celebrity. She’ll reach a wider public if she makes the other pages of the papers.”