Goldengirl

He frowned in frank disbelief. ‘Haven’t you made up your mind?’

‘Not yet,’ she answered off-handedly, inspecting her fingernails. They were lacquered.

‘It’s time you did. The U.S. Olympic Committee have set a deadline. If you’re going, you have to report for a medical at nine tomorrow.’

‘So?’

He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Christ, Goldine, do you want to run, or not? You got through some training this morning. Is the speed still there?’

‘It appears so.’

He breathed more evenly. ‘Well?’

‘This medical,’ said Goldine. ‘It’s pretty comprehensive, I guess. I’d have to tell them about the diabetes.’

Dryden nodded. ‘It’s confidential between you and the doctors. No reason why the press should hear about it.’

‘You’re missing the point,’ said Goldine. ‘What will those doctors make of it when I tell them I came down with this thing during the Trials? I’ll be sidelined.’

‘That’s putting it at its worst,’ said Dryden. ‘Frankly, I don’t think that’s likely. You can tell them you’re stabilised on insulin and training normally. You might need extra support standing by in Moscow, but if they want you to bring home the medals, that’s not too much to fix. Have you seen the New York Times? You’re America’s answer to Ursula Krüll. This is shaping up as an East-West contest. There’s political prestige in it. People in high places have an interest in giving you your chance. You say the running is still there. Even if they decide three events is too much, they should agree to let you try the 100 metres. If that goes well, why not the two hundred? Under medical supervision—’

‘Don’t give me that crap!’ she broke in angrily. ‘I’m not going to Moscow to try one event and see how I feel. If I settled for two sprint titles, where would that leave me? At the end of a list so long it’s boring to recite. No, I’m Goldengirl, or I’m nobody.’ She started toward the door, her face flame-red.

He gripped her arm. ‘Hold on. Where are you going?’

She glanced down at his hand. ‘To tell the press I’ve decided to pull out, if you’ll let go my arm.’ She flicked away a tear with her free hand.

He continued to hold her, his emotions churned up again. Why was she doing this? In effect, she was asking him to make the decision. She wanted it to come from him.

He let his hand slip down her arm till their fingers met. For a moment she gripped him tightly like a threatened child, then let go.

He suddenly knew she wasn’t bluffing. She really meant to quit unless he stopped her. It was up to him.

He could stop the nightmare Serafin had started. Simply let her go and she was free. The papers would splash the story, write the valediction, and it was over. She could begin to pick up the threads of the life she had been plucked from fifteen years before. Dean Hofmann. The girl he loved.

But was it possible to extricate the girl from the nightmare? Faced with it, he knew it was not. You couldn’t wipe away fifteen years of dedication to one idea. There would always be a sense of deprivation. Dean Hofmann had ceased to exist. There was Goldine, and for her sake there had to be Goldengirl.

She was already at the door when he said, ‘Ursula Krüll can sleep easy, then.’

Over her shoulder, she asked, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘She’ll be the golden girl of Moscow now. You were the only threat. Your clash with her was tipped as the centerpiece of the Games.’

‘Too bad,’ said Goldine without interest.

But she didn’t open the door. She was waiting to hear more.

‘What about you?’ he asked without challenging the assumption that the decision was made. ‘Ursula is Goldengirl, so where does that leave you?’

‘Didn’t I just tell you?’ she said, stung into a response. ‘If I’m not Goldengirl, I’m nothing. Nobody. Take a look at me. What you see is all phony — face, hair, figure, stature, even my name. I have no family, home, friends, job, no high school grades even.’

‘Two U.S. records,’ put in Dryden.

‘Big deal. What use are those to an employer?’ She was crying now, mainly in anger. ‘No, I don’t know where I go from here. They got it right when they called me the mystery blonde. I’m a mystery to myself.’ She dabbed at the tears with a tissue. ‘What am I doing, leading off like this? I guess my eyes are a mess now.’

‘Not that I can see,’ said Dryden. He smiled. ‘I like them made up. New, isn’t it? Is that for the photographers?’

She snuffled through a half-smile. ‘First thing I bought in New York. My own contribution to Goldengirl’s image. I read a magazine feature on Ursula Krüll. She never wears make-up. Say, could that be why photographers make so much of her rear view?’

They exchanged smiles, conspiring to break the tension.

‘I understand she has a highly provocative walk,’ said Dryden. ‘If she’d walk into the West, she could make a fortune modeling Levi’s.’

‘What will she get out of winning?’