Goldengirl

She cut him short with an obscenity. ‘I just won a gold medal and all you can talk about is that megalomaniac.’ She turned to face the doctors. ‘This is a private conversation, okay? If anyone present — that includes you’ — she called to the girl — ‘repeats things I said in confidence I’d—’

‘You see what I’m driving at?’ said Dryden.

She ignored him and spoke to the doctor with the syringe. ‘Had you finished examining me?’

He nodded and made an effort to respond with clinical detachment. ‘You will have the glucose tablets with you in your tracksuit pocket, but you shouldn’t need one.’

‘Uhuh.’ She brushed that aside. ‘What time is it?’

‘Six-five.’

‘They can wait some. I’ll be worth it. Are you sweating, Jack?’

He didn’t answer. He could have said things all right: said this was no time to act the prima donna; after all he had done in lining up a fortune in endorsements, he had a right to expect she would cooperate. But who was he to take a moral line when he was asking her to lie to the press? What was at stake was the image, the revenue, his livelihood. She knew that.

‘Do you think you can depend on me?’ she asked. ‘Or are you just a little scared of what I’ll say? Tell you what. If you want to be sure, you must give some. I’ll do the devoted-daughter bit as a favor to you in return for something. You can kiss me, Jack.’

Idiot! He had been so taken up with the threat of Esselstyn that he had missed the importance of this moment. Goldine had won. The whole of America had its arms outstretched to her, but she was turning to him. She had wanted him to kiss her, and he had talked about Serafin! ‘But of course.’

He smiled warmly and moved close.

She pushed her hand in front of his face. ‘Not my lips, Jack. My feet. You can kiss each of my feet. You owe one hell of a lot to them.’

He was wrong. It wasn’t affection she wanted, but abasement. Goldengirl was demanding her tribute. It was absurd. Adolescent. It warranted turning her over and slapping her bottom, but he didn’t. He did as she commanded, bent and put his lips to her feet in the uncomprehending presence of the medical team.

The only thing he was thankful for was that Melody wasn’t there to watch.

Twenty One

The victory ceremony for the 100 metres opened the program in the Stadium next day. As Goldine took her place at the top of the rostrum there was generous applause. Her press conference had been seen in full on Soviet TV the evening before. The candor of her answers had made a good impression. She had said complimentary things about Moscow, the Russian people, Muratova, Ursula Krüll, but she was proud of her victory and admitted she had worked hard for it. There had been no questions about Dr. Serafin or the consortium. If Esselstyn was present, he had kept quiet.

She shed no sentimental tears as the Star-Spangled Banner was played and the Stars and Stripes edged up the center flagpole behind the Olympic flame. ‘She stood serenely in her white tracksuit as if she had always expected to be there,’ reported the New York Times. ‘And when the ceremony ended, she shook the hands of the other girls and left the arena. It was as if she didn’t need to maximize the moment, because she knew there would be more.’

This was to be the easiest of Goldine’s five days of competition, with just the 400-metre Quarter-Final to contest. She ran in Heat Two, allowing a Jamaican girl to scud away in the stretch for an easy win. Goldine’s time was 53.23 secs, making her one of the slowest to go through to the Semi-Final, which after her tactics in the 100 metres fooled nobody.

The sensation of the round happened in Heat Four, when Janie Canute clashed with Ursula Krüll. It had clearly been decided in the German camp that Krüll needed her confidence restored as soon as possible after the previous day’s defeat, and a respectable time in the 400 metres was prescribed. The talk in the Olympic Village that morning had been that she was ready to demonstrate that her strength would turn the tables on Goldine in the longer events. She had come to Moscow to collect two gold medals, and she would settle for the 200 and 400 metres.

Janie Canute had been told that a fast time was on. She said it suited her. She wanted to get the measure of Krüll, the one girl whose ability over the distance had not seriously been tested. When they went to their marks, Krüll was in lane 2, Janie in lane 4. There was a good Finn in one of the outside lanes, but the rest had never got inside fifty-two seconds. Janie crossed herself and asked for fifty flat.

People were edgy. There were three recalls. A French girl was disqualified and left the track weeping. You could hear her sobs between the starter’s instructions.