Goldengirl

Krüll took the hand as if it was another challenge, and got up, rather red around the eyes, but straight-faced. ‘Congratulations. You surprised me.’

‘Surprised a lot of people, I guess,’ said Goldine. ‘Care to walk over to the other side with me?’

One of the U.S. team officials pushed through the cameramen and said he had come to escort Goldine to the medical unit.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after myself. I plan to spend some time out here.’

‘But Dr. Dalton instructed me—’

‘Well, he won’t instruct me,’ said Goldine petulantly. ‘So you can take a message right back to him. If he wants to send his musclemen to drag me over, they can try, but it won’t look pretty, will it? Come on, Ursula.’

They jogged together the long way around the track, receiving the crowd’s applause. Several times children ran out with bunches of flowers. Goldine made sure Ursula had as many to hold as she. They couldn’t speak much for the cheering. Other athletes kept running forward to shake her hand.

When they had reached their warm-up suits and put them on, it was time to join the other finalists warming up for the 400 metres. Goldine was confident. The physicians would think it was mean ignoring them after all they had done through the week, but she didn’t need them any more. All she had to remember was to take the two glucose tablets in the pocket of her warm-ups. They would raise the bloodsugar level and prevent the risk of insulin reaction. That was what the doctors would have suggested anyway, for all their mumbo-jumbo. Two glucose tablets: that was all they ever prescribed.

Near the start, they were joined by Janie Canute.

‘Hi,’ said Goldine.

‘Hi, Goldengirl,’ said Janie with a smile.

That was good to hear. There had been some awkwardness earlier in the week about that. This was Janie’s way of saying she was sorry.

‘Got any tips for me, Janie?’ Goldine magnanimously asked. ‘Last time, you told me about those two speedburners, remember? We let them scorch the first two hundred and they got clean away.’

‘No tips,’ said Janie. ‘You’re the girl to beat.’

‘Ursula holds the record,’ Goldine pointed out.

Janie gave the right answer. ‘She’s not Goldengirl, is she?’

The signal sounded to bring them under starter’s orders. Goldine unzipped the ankle fastenings of her warm-up suit without hurrying. This was her moment. She would be the last to go to her mark. She watched Krüll, making sure she went first. The German was taking her time, tucking her trackshirt into her shorts.

Just in time, Goldine remembered her tablets, picked up the sweat pants and felt in the pocket for them. No sweat, they were there, two of them in their paper wrapping. She took them out.

‘Hey!’

Goldine turned. Janie Canute was behind her, wagging a finger.

‘Uppers aren’t allowed, Goldengirl.’

Ursula Krüll had turned to see what was happening.

Goldine stood with the tablets in her palm. She could have said ‘Glucose’ and swallowed them. Goddamn it, she was Goldengirl. She had been conditioned to function in disaster and finish in style.

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 metres 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-metre 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.