Goldengirl

Studying the schedule again, he ran his finger down the column on the right, the last session of the day, from 2015 to 2130, with the entries he remembered registering before as inconsistent with the rest: FACIAL on Monday, SAUNA Tuesday, HAIR Wednesday, REWARD Thursday and UV RAY Friday. Goldengirl was conceded a few of the vanities due to her sex. Somebody in the setup spared a thought for her feminine needs. Melody? Dryden doubted that: she was too obviously jealous. More likely Lee. He would be clever enough to see it as a support to the psychological indoctrination.

Each end-of-day session was listed GQ — Goldengirl’s Quarters. Logically, somewhere nearby were a sauna room and a massage parlor. More to occupy himself than from inquisitiveness, he started toward one of the two doors opposite. He had not taken two steps when something soft caught on his shoe: a pair of nylon panties Goldine must have discarded when she changed into the leotard. Her tracksuit was lying across the stool in front of the dressing table. With a grunt of amusement, he lifted his leg and retrieved the panties from the toe of his shoe. It was reassuring to see they were white in colour; Serafin’s propagandizing hadn’t penetrated to that layer of intimacy. But first appearances can deceive. On the front a small circular motif was imprinted in gold, with the Olympic rings surmounted by the letter M and two stars, and the words Mockbá, 1980.

He was shaking his head incredulously, dangling the panties from one finger, when the nearest door opened and Ingrid confronted him. She was black and very big. The outsize red warm-up suit she had on testified graphically to the strength of wool and polyester. Her bulk was mainly muscle. Her eyes widened and then narrowed as she took in the spectacle. She emitted a snort of fury, took a step toward Dryden, swung out an arm and snatched the panties away, stuffing them deep in her tracksuit pocket.

Dryden started speaking in a rush. ‘I’m the guy who’s meeting Goldengirl,’ he blurted out. ‘Dr. Serafin sent me. Told me to wait. Those got attached to my shoe. They were on the floor. You understand? I found them on my shoe.’ Ridiculously, he was lifting his foot and pointing.

Serafin had said she was a mute. Did he mean she was deaf as well?

He backed away as Ingrid lurched toward him, heaving stertorous, outraged breaths. There was no chance of cover if she turned violent. Dodging into the shower could only make his predicament absurd. The glass shower door was no defense against a woman built on this scale. His eyes caught the stool, but Ingrid, too, had seen it and veered sideways.

Instead of lifting it to poleaxe Dryden, she picked off Goldengirl’s tracksuit, folded the trousers with concentration and carried them to the wardrobe, where she found a hanger and put them away. Then she motioned to him to sit on the stool.

The crisis was over.

‘Thanks. I’m Jack Dryden. I don’t believe I mentioned my name.’

It made no impact on Ingrid. She took a last look round to check that no other personal items remained on the floor, and left as suddenly as she had arrived.

Goldengirl did not appear for another ten minutes. By that time, Dryden had ventured off the stool and as far as the schedule. The adjacent rooms could remain unexplored until he knew Ingrid better.

‘Hi.’ Goldine was pink from the workout. A pleasant yeasty smell came with her. She tilted her head and took stock of him with wide blue eyes.

He introduced himself.

‘I heard about you. Would you turn on my shower, please?’

‘Cold,’ he inquired, going to the taps.

‘You bet.’

When he turned, she had one arm out of the leotard.

‘Would you like me out of the way?’

‘Why so?’ She was genuinely surprised. ‘I asked you to be here. You’d like to see me shower?’

His English upbringing had taught him the basics of chivalry. ‘If that’s an offer, I’m not turning it down.’

‘Anyone ever tell you about leotards? They’re a lot of fun to wear, but hell to get out of. It’s the arms.’ She gathered the thin fabric, persuaded it over her right shoulder and freed the other arm. With a wriggle of pleasure she peeled it to her waist. ‘Are they okay?’

‘Superb,’ he said, so quickly that the force of the compliment was lost. Jesus Christ, she wasn’t the first to flaunt a pair of breasts in front of him, but she was so casual with it for a first occasion that he was jumpy. Yes, they were charming, pink from the heat of her exercise, glistening damply, full enough to bob delightfully as she drew her shoulders back, but he had paid his tribute. If he added anything, she might take it for a pass. More crucially, Ingrid might, if she was listening through the door.

‘I met your... er... companion just now.’

‘Ingrid?’ She slipped her fingers inside the leotard and eased it over her hips. ‘She was civil, I hope. She can’t speak, you know, but she’s very protective. I told her to expect you.’