Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

The hell with tablets!

  That was style. She dropped them on the ground, glanced over to see that Krüll was watching, and crushed them to powder under her spikes.

  The others walked to their positions.

  She eased her hair behind her ears, nodded to the starter and crossed sedately to lane 8, the outside position, 45 meters ahead of the innermost girl, with all that extra ground to cover on the bends. It meant running without anyone else in view, but that suited her. She could ignore the others, run without distraction. This wasn’t a race, but an exhibition.

  On the blocks it was so quiet she could have been back in the mountains training with Pete Klugman, knowing she would get volts up her arm if she was slow.

  “Gotovo.”

  If you come away slower, by Jesus, I’ll step up the impulse.

  The shot. She was into a perfect start, feeling the smoothness of the pickup, forgetting the technique because it was instinctive. Striding out in lane 8, hearing the buzz of wind on her eardrums, knowing that the first 200 could decide the race.

  Get your ass moving!

  Pete. He had said such mean things. It might have been different. What was it Sammy had said?

  The relationship between a coach and an athlete has overtones neither may completely understand.

  Something had gone wrong. She had wanted Pete, wanted him to treat her like she was one of the human race.

  Off the bend already, into the backstretch.

  Make it like you mean it. Give it everything.

  Instead of Pete, she had made it with Jack Dryden. She had told herself she needed a man. A stud. It had been humiliating.

  Am I so grotesque?

  Past the 200-meter mark. Somewhere in the crowd, Pete would have taken the split. It should be fast. She still wanted to please him. She supposed she did.

  When you mount the victory rostrum in Moscow, the glory will be yours. Little, if any, will reflect on anyone else.

  Round the top bend, feeling the pain. If you didn’t feel pain by now, something would be wrong. Why was she doing this? Not for Dean Hofmann. Not Goldine Serafin. They were finished, dead. For Goldengirl.

  To be Goldengirl is to know that wherever you go there is warmth, admiration, affection.

  Only the stretch now. Still alone. Concentrate on the tape, Goldengirl. Keep your eyes fixed on it. Let it draw you like a lodestone.

  For those few days in Moscow, you will be the focus of more pride, more affection than any individual on this earth.

  She didn’t need Doc or Sammy, Pete or Jack Dryden. She was going to get her golds and give some meaning to her life, draw a line underneath and begin to find out who she really was.

  The line. Keep watching the line.

  She was moving, but she couldn’t feel her limbs. A strange sensation, unlike anything before. Perhaps it had been a mistake destroying those tablets, but wasn’t this one of the setbacks she had been conditioned to overcome?

  The way you respond is vital to your success.

  Success. Keep moving.

  Winning in Moscow is fulfillment. Does that figure?

  It figures.

  She crossed the line.

  A meter behind, Ursula Krüll crossed second.

  Goldengirl didn’t know. She had collapsed on the track.

  Chapter 22

  The crowd stood to watch the stretcher-bearers lift Goldine from where she had fallen. She remained immobile. Cameramen walked with the stretcher, recording each step to the tunnel.

  “That’s a crummy scenario,” Melody commented. “Collapsing on the track. I don’t go for that at all. I guess she already did the lap-of-honor bit, so she had to come up with something new. Maybe she’s right. People could have gotten the idea it was easy winning three golds.”

  Dryden was sick with worry. “You’re a cynical bitch,” he rasped at Melody as he started for the exit.

  “Thanks. Where are you going now?”

  How could she be so dumb? “To the medical unit. See how she is.”

  “I’ll come. Who knows — she may need me. She could have staged this to fit in a facial before she meets the press.”

  He pretended not to hear.

  Below the stand, the area around the U.S. Team Headquarters had been sealed with mobile crowd-barriers. U.S. officials manned it at three-yard intervals. This was a security exercise worthy of the Russians. Half the international press were ranged around the barrier.

  One official was arguing with a girl in a U.S. warm-up suit.

  “Easy, buster,” said a newsman. “You know who this is? Janie Canute. She has just won a bronze medal for your country and mine.”

  It cut no ice with the official, but Dryden levered his way through the cameras to Janie’s side. “Miss Canute, I’m Jack Dryden, a friend of Goldine’s. Saw you first in Eugene.”

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said, “I have to get inside that room.” She tried another official. “Listen, I must see the doctors who are looking after Goldine. There’s something they should know. If you won’t let me in, would you take a message, please? It could be important.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. With this crowd …”

  “What is it?” asked Dryden. “What do you want to tell them?”

  Resigned to making no headway with the men on the barrier, she turned to Dryden as second best. “Well, a few minutes ago I was in the dressing room untying my spikes when two women in U.S. team blazers came looking for the box containing Goldine’s tracksuit. I pointed out which one, and they picked it up and went through the pockets. One of them said, “It’s okay, nothing here,” and they dropped the warm-up suit and walked off. It was only after they had gone I realized what they were talking about — a couple of tablets Goldine had with her before the race. They must have decided she had eaten them, only she didn’t. She crushed them under her foot. I saw. I figure if the doctors sent two people to check on them, those tablets must be important.”

  Before Janie had finished speaking, Dryden had jumped the barrier. Two officials ran to tackle him, but he got to the door. One of the heavies on guard there recognized him.

  “Must see Dr. Dalton,” said Dryden, and to his relief the man stepped aside.

  Inside, a huddle of doctors and officials surrounded Goldine’s inert form. They had tugged up her trackshirt to her armpits and put a stethoscope against her heart.

  Dalton glanced up at Dryden. “You?” he said angrily.

  Dryden pitched into Janie’s story.

  “Of all the crazy things!” said Dalton. “That confirms hypoglycemia. We must give her another shot of epinephrine. Quick as you can.” While the nurse prepared an injection, Dalton swabbed alcohol on Goldine’s upper arm. “Oh boy, will they ever listen to you? I told her myself what would happen if she didn’t take the glucose.”

  “It’s a coma?” asked Dryden.

  “Yeah. Insulin reaction.” He took the syringe and injected a main vein. “It was bound to happen when she didn’t take the glucose between races. The energy displacement lowers the blood-sugar level, which throws the balance of the insulin. I just hope we’ve caught it in time.”

  “What happens if …?”

  “Brain damage. Maybe death,” said Dalton. “I just don’t understand why she did this. To forget to take the damned things I could believe, but to crush them like that is insane.”

  *

  When Dryden came out, he had trouble convincing the newsmen he was making no statement of any kind. He was photographed, jostled and slanged before he eventually broke through. Two or three were still following asking questions when he found Melody on the fringe of the crowd. They photographed her as well.

  “You’re obviously the man of the hour,” she said when they had finally shaken them off. “What’s the news, then?”

  “Coma.”

  “Bad?”

  “Could be. Very bad.”

  “If the press get hold of it, you mean?” said Melody.

  “No, damn it, I’m talkin
g about Goldine.”

  “Sure you are,” said Melody sarcastically. “I can see it’s on account of her you’re worried, like you have been all along, shaking your head each time you drew up another contract. Jack, I read you all wrong. I took you for a cynical, money-grabbing bastard. What do we do now — buy flowers?”

  “I must cancel the TV linkup. She won’t be fit to talk to the President.”

  “Too bad,” said Melody.

  “And arrange for McCorquodale to make some kind of holding statement to the press.”

  “Gee, that’s sweet,” said Melody. “Here you are, broken up with worry, and you can still go through the motions of straightening out the PR complications. Really touching.”

  *

  At 7:15 P.M. Don McCorquodale made a brief statement to a crowded audience in the press center. Goldine Serafin had recovered consciousness, but on medical advice she wouldn’t meet the press until she had rested. Routine tests were being carried out to determine the reason for her collapse. They were not ruling out the possibility that the shock news of her father’s suicide had contributed to it. The team management wished to put on record that they had always been aware of heavy demands of Goldine’s schedule, and had provided medical support from the beginning. Unfortunately, it had not been possible to check her condition in the short interval between the Finals of the 200 and 400 meters. They were hopeful she would be well enough to speak to the press sometime the following day.

  *

  At 9:20 P.M. Dryden got in to see McCorquodale in the Olympic Village. For two hours he had been trying to get more news of Goldine. The security had descended like steel shutters. Trying to see a doctor was impossible. The best he could get was McCorquodale.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” he warned Dryden. “What a day! This problem over Goldine is just the end. I think we’ve succeeded in holding off the press till tomorrow, but it wasn’t easy. I don’t care for cover-ups as a rule, but, as I see it, Goldine’s medical condition is her affair. No reason for the public to hear about it.”

  Dryden nodded and asked, “What’s the latest? How is she now?”

  “Fully conscious. We moved her back to the Embassy. Doctors are still with her.”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t know …” Dryden took a long breath. “Do they expect her to recover — fully, I mean?”

  McCorquodale scratched his ear. “They say the blood-sugar level is still erratic, which is making her a difficult patient.” He regarded Dryden closely. “Hey, you really care about the kid. Do you have something going with her?”

  “Just tell me what the doctors say,” said Dryden in a tone that wasn’t conversational.

  “Dalton told me the diabetes has taken a much stronger grip. He describes it as severe now. Said it was mild the other day. That’s the price of three gold medals. Still, I guess you’ll be doing what you can to get some reparation for her in financial terms.” McCorquodale winked. “This is worth a huge amount in endorsements, huh?”

  Dryden lifted his shoulders slightly without saying anything.

  “It’s okay,” went on McCorquodale. “You can trust me. I don’t get disturbed about agents moving in on Olympic athletes. I’m a realist. You can do a lot to make young Goldine’s life more tolerable. When I heard about Doc Serafin getting hammered on TV I figured you were the agent they mentioned. Bad business, that. You don’t think it can hurt Goldine, do you? Seems to me any damage to her image is compensated by the sympathy she’s gotten from the old man’s death leap. Just think of her knowing about that as she went to the line for the last race! Goldine’s Agony. That’s going to go over big back home.”

  “Right now, I don’t give a damn about the image,” said Dryden. “I just want to see Goldine. Can you fix that, Mr. McCorquodale?”

  “Don.”

  “Don.”

  “Confidentially, I’m a businessman myself,” said McCorquodale. “This Olympic job is honorary, naturally. You get expenses, but hell … matter of fact, I’m in real estate. Wouldn’t mind talking to you about it sometime. No hurry. After we get home, huh? I’m thinking about a scheme for the young executive buyer. Calling it the Golden Roof. You like it?”

  “Yes,” said Dryden. “I’m with you. It’s a winner. Now, if I could get to see Goldine …”

  McCorquodale smiled broadly. “Why not? Dalton may kick up a bit. You know how medics are. He’ll want to keep her on ice, but I can overrule him. We hired him to see Goldine through her track program, and that’s complete. Let’s say nine tomorrow morning at the Embassy. Christ, if we leave it to Dalton, she won’t even get to the Stadium to collect her medals. That could really foul up her commercial prospects.”

  *

  He arrived with Goldine’s mail, a batch of it sent over from the Olympic Village. There must have been two hundred letters and cables. He offered to take them in to her. Behind them he tucked the flowers he was self-consciously carrying. Red roses, bought that morning in Kutozovsky Prospect.

  Dryden had known plenty of women. Till now, he had managed that side of his life as efficiently as his business career. It was an extension of business entertainment: the contact, the meal, the wine, the transaction. Emotion had scarcely come into it, except superficially. It did now. It was time to tell Goldine he loved her.

  The door stood open, but he tapped before stepping inside.

  The room was stacked with flowers, like a funeral parlor.

  Goldine was sitting up in bed in a pink lace nightdress. Her gold medal for the 100 meters was around her neck. It looked bizarre.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said in a flat voice. “What’s that you have with you? More mail? Put it with the rest.”

  A mass of unopened mail was heaped with the morning papers on a table behind the door. He added his delivery to it.

  “Those can go in the washbasin,” said Goldine, eyeing the roses. “There are no more vases.”

  He ran some water and dropped them in. “Looks as if the first thing you’ll need is a secretary.”

  She was brushing her hair, not looking at him. “I’ve thought about that. I’ll use Fryer.”

  “Melody?” said Dryden, surprised. “I thought you two didn’t —”

  “She can give me facials as well. Tint my hair. I want her to be around, see me living in style. You can fix that.”

  Her manner had caught him off guard. “I can try. I’m not sure if —”

  “Fix it,” she said with a glare. “And while Fryer works for me, I don’t want you shacking up with her, understand? That’s not what I employ you for.”

  He should have walked straight out. Instead, he clutched at the idea that this was an aberration. She was jealous of Melody. With that instinct women have for recognizing arousal in one of their own sex, she had seen what he had not considered till now: that Melody, cool, caustic Melody, was actually soft on him.

  “Goldine,” he said, moving closer, “you couldn’t be more wrong. To me Melody is —”

  “An easy lay,” said Goldine casually. “Forget it.”

  “I want you to know how I feel about you,” he insisted, seating himself on the bed. “I’ve got to tell you this — I love you, Goldine.” He scanned her features for a flicker of interest. “Believe me, I’m crazy about you. Christ, I am!” He had moved his face to within inches of hers, impatient to end the tension.

  She didn’t move. She held his look with her wide blue eyes and said impassively, “You bore me out of my skull. Get your ass off my bed and get me a paper. I spend hours talking to goddamn newsmen and nobody gives me a paper to read.”

  Dryden drew back reeling, a pulse beating in his brain. She hadn’t spoken in anger. She was calm and deliberate.

  He had lost her. Something had been there once, but it was gone. Permanently. She didn’t need love, not the kind he wanted to give.

  Automatically, he picked up a Russian paper and handed it to her. “It’s all there,” he heard himself saying. “Pictures. Too soon for the American
papers, but you’ll be big news.”

  “And the TV?” she said, her eyes lighting up. “What did they say on TV?”

  “I phoned New York. You were the lead story on every news bulletin.”

  “My running, you mean. They say anything about my collapse?”

  He was answering mechanically. Like someone bereaved, he needed to be kept occupied while he adjusted to the overwhelming sense of loss. “They had it on film, of course, but they don’t know the reason. The theory is that you ran yourself right out.”

  “I’ll buy that,” she said.

  “How do you feel?”

  She was looking at the paper. “Sore. How would you like an injection in your butt every morning for the rest of your life?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dryden. “When we started this, none of us knew …”

  “Skip it. What’s done is over. Finished. I’m Goldengirl, like I was meant to be.”

  He looked at her, knowing she was right. Finished. For Goldengirl, love was the scrutiny of the media. Questions were caresses. She needed no other fulfillment.

  He was left with himself, with loathing and disgust. He had helped to create her. Worse, he had been given the chance to preserve her from this. You’re in control now, Serafin had told him. In control, he had sent her to her destruction. He was the monster.

  Now the control was out of his hands. She knew that. She also knew he would not abandon her. He was not in control, but, by God, he was responsible.

  She put down the paper. “Anything else?”

  “Will you be collecting your medals in the Stadium this afternoon?”

  “You bet.”

  “Dr. Dalton won’t object?”

  “Let him try stopping me. Let anyone try.”

  “I have some exciting news for you,” he said, beginning to function again. “The TV people have arranged a linkup with Washington. The President wants to congratulate you personally.”

  “Exciting?” said Goldine. “He should be excited.”

  *

  The crowds were four and five deep in Kropotkin Street when the white limousine with its police outriders carried Goldengirl, wearing her three gold medals, from the Lenin Stadium to the Kremlin. Their destination was the vast glass-and-aluminum Palace of Congresses, with seating for six thousand, the only building in Moscow capable of accommodating her press conference.