Goldengirl

‘Nothing, I assure you. Just updating on the tactics for tomorrow,’ Serafin announced. It didn’t carry a lot of conviction.

When Lee had heard Klugman’s account, he was emphatic in his diagnosis: ‘A common anxiety symptom. She’s had no competition today. It’s given her time to dwell too much on what she still has to face. All athletes exhibit symptoms of anxiety and helplessness prior to major competitive events. The desire to find a let-out can become quite obsessional. Simulated illnesses or injuries are usual in these circumstances. I suggest you prescribe a mild sedative, William. By tomorrow morning, the physical manifestations will have miraculously vanished.’

‘Of course. Just as I thought,’ said Serafin. ‘If you come upstairs,’ he told Klugman, ‘I’ll give you something to take back to her now. You’re going past the hostel?’

‘She’ll be with Ingrid just now,’ said Klugman. ‘I told her to get a massage. That should help relax her.’

‘Sensible,’ conceded Serafin. ‘You’ll see them both, then. Tell Goldengirl I shall look in right after breakfast tomorrow. And tell Ingrid I shall want a word with her as well. There’s a small service I want her to perform.’

Klugman had to admit next day that Lee had been right. When Goldengirl arrived at Hayward Field for the afternoon’s events she was bubbling with confidence. ‘Sure, I slept well, Pete. I really am primed to go.’ She hooked a thumb in the waistband of her tracksuit. ‘See, I’m wearing my gold shorts today. The first time this meet. That’s how great I feel.’

‘You took the tablet last night?’

She grinned, and blushed. ‘Between you and me, Pete, I didn’t. I knew I could sleep okay without it, and I did. I was that tired. No sense taking sleepers if you can manage without. Maybe you should have taken it. You look terrible.’

‘I’m okay. It stirs up memories, watching the finals. Makes me realize I’m getting no younger. Come on, it’s time you started limbering. The Semi goes at three-fifteen.’

‘Don’t I know it! The Final at five-thirty, followed by the four hundred Final at six.’

‘Press conference six-fifteen.’

‘That’s positive thinking,’ said Goldine.

Most of Eugene had turned out for the afternoon’s events, which included Finals in the men’s 400 metres and 110-metre Hurdles, as well as Day One of the Decathlon, but there was no question that the real draw was the girl the papers — still casting around for an epithet that would stick — described as the Bakersfield Express, the Runaway Blonde and Galloping Goldine. The moment she appeared in her white tracksuit, there was a rush of autograph hunters. Officials, obviously alerted, diligently headed them off.

When the moment came for her first run of the afternoon, the concentration of interest was exceptional for a Semi-Final. Ice cream vendors squatted in the stands, their trays on their knees. As the starter raised the gun above his shoulder, all conversation stopped. A motor mower was audibly at work on one of the fields outside the stadium.

In the beer tent behind the main stand, Valenti heard the buzz of excitement that followed the shot. There wasn’t time to get to a point where he could see the finish. These things lasted twenty seconds or so, no longer. He would definitely catch the Final.

‘I figure that was the Semi,’ he told Sternberg as he deposited the glasses on the table outside.

‘Yeah?’

‘We missed it.’

‘Does that grieve you?’

‘Well, I aim to watch the Finals.’

‘Will it make one scrap of difference if you watch?’

‘I guess not, but I have invested some.’

‘You’re the kind of guy who sits beside a ticker-tape machine looking at stock prices,’ said Sternberg.

Over the public address came an announcement: ‘The result of Semi-Final Number One of the 200 metres: first, Goldine Serafin, unattached, twenty-three point twelve seconds...’

In the stand, Serafin asked, ‘That’s odd. It looked faster. What was her time on Monday, Melody?’

‘In the Quarter-Final? Twenty-two point seventy-two.’

‘She won,’ said Cobb. ‘The time is insignificant. Better she saves herself for the finals to come.’

‘You’re right, of course.’

By the Competitors’ Entrance, Klugman turned on three small boys brandishing ballpoints and programs. ‘Piss off, you kids. She’s signing no more autographs. That’s definite.’ He put an arm around Goldine and steered her toward the training field.

‘Pete, something is wrong,’ she said. ‘I don’t have the lift in my limbs any more.’

‘You won,’ he pointed out. ‘You’re in the Final. Okay, maybe you’re a little tired, but you were still good enough to beat Devine.’

‘Shelley Wilson ran twenty-two point nine in the other Semi.’

‘Don’t start fretting about the other girls. Run your own race. Just two to go.’