Goldengirl

‘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 honourary, 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 metres 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.’