Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game

Robbie smiled at Karis Brown, the head receptionist. A softly spoken brunette in her mid forties, with a trim figure and dancing, merry hazel eyes, Karis had the sort of face that radiated kindness. Though far less beautiful, she reminded Robbie a bit of his mother.

‘Dad’s not expecting me. At least, I don’t think he is.’

There was always the possibility that Mr Jackson, the principal of St Bede’s, Robbie’s prestigious private high school, had called ahead.

Karis Brown raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Not in any trouble I hope?’

Robbie shrugged sheepishly. ‘No more than usual.’

‘Well in that case, I guess I’d better send you up. Good luck.’

She handed him a specially coded card for the elevator that would allow him access to the twentieth floor. All the Blackwell family’s private offices were on the top two floors of the building, and security was tight.

‘Thanks.’

Karis Brown watched Robbie shuffle reluctantly over to the elevators, hands thrust deep in his pockets, and wondered what mischief he’d been up to this time. Like most of the Kruger-Brent staff, Karis Brown had a soft spot for Robbie. How could you not love him, with those soulful gray eyes and that mop of surfer-blond hair, and the adorable way he blushed whenever you looked him in the eye? Everyone at the firm knew that Robbie Templeton was a wild child. Ever since his mom died he’d been flying off the rails faster than an express train on black ice, poor lamb. In the last five years, he’d been expelled from more schools than Karis Brown could count. But to meet him you’d never believe it. He seemed such a sweet, shy, gentle soul.

The elevator doors closed behind him. Karis Brown hoped his dad wouldn’t be too rough on him.

‘You did whaaat?’

Peter Templeton was having a bad day. He’d woken up with the daddy of all hangovers. He knew he was drinking too much lately, but the guilt only served to make his pounding headache worse. People told him his grief would lessen in time, but it was four years now since he’d lost Alex and the loneliness was as bad as ever. Evenings were the worst. During the daytime he’d learned to busy himself with work, or with Lexi.

At four years old, Lexi was a Pandora’s box of delights and surprises. Every day she came out with something new and funny that melted her father’s heart anew. But by eight o’clock at night the little girl was out like a light, however hard Peter tried to keep her awake. When Lexi went to bed, it was like someone switching off his life-support machine. By eight-thirty he’d usually found the whisky. By ten, as often as not, he was out cold.

This morning, hung over again, he’d arrived at the office to find his desk piled high with work. It was bonus time at Kruger-Brent, one of the most stressful times of the year. Other board members made most of the big decisions, but since Brad Rogers’ retirement Peter Templeton was the nominal CEO. This meant it was his job to manage the expectations of Kruger-Brent’s star performers (an impossible task – good people never believed they were getting paid enough), as well as to reprimand the underachievers.

What right do I have to reprimand anyone? They all know I’m the biggest piece of dead wood in the entire company. I’m a psychiatrist, not a businessman. If only I’d been stronger with Kate Blackwell all those years ago. I don’t belong at Kruger-Brent. No one knows that better than I do.

The fog in his brain had finally begun to clear. Then Robert turned up bold as brass and announced that they were kicking him out of St Bede’s.

‘I told you what I did, Dad. I smoked a joint. Jeez. One joint. It’s no big deal.’

The throbbing between Peter’s temples had returned with a vengeance.

‘Robert. You smoked a joint in math class. What did you think was going to happen? Did you think your teacher was going to let that slide?’

Robbie stared out of the window. Normally you could see a panoramic Manhattan skyscape from his father’s office, but today was so cloudy it had disappeared, smothered by an eerie rainbow of grays.

‘God damn it, Robert, I’m at my wit’s end. I can’t help you if you insist on sabotaging your own life like this. Don’t you care about your future?’

My future? How am I supposed to care about my future when I can’t figure out my present? I don’t even know who I am.

‘If you think you’re going to spend the rest of the year lounging around at home doing sweet Fanny Adams, you can forget it Buster.’

Sweet Fanny Adams? Buster? He talks like a character from a 1950s comic book. No wonder he doesn’t get it.

‘You’re grounded. As of right now.’

‘I thought you said I wouldn’t be lounging around at home.’

‘Don’t talk back to me! Don’t you dare!’ Peter’s voice was so loud the secretaries at the other end of the corridor could hear him. ‘You will see no one. You will talk to no one. You want to waste your life, Robert? You want to wind up in prison? Well maybe it’s time you had a taste of what prison feels like.’

Robbie laughed. He knew it was the worst possible thing to do at that moment, but he couldn’t help himself.

You want to give me a taste of what prison feels like? Jesus, Dad. My whole life is a prison. With no parole! Can’t you see that? I’m trapped.

‘You think this is funny?’ Peter was shaking with rage.

Robbie turned to face him. ‘No. No, I don’t. I …’

Wham!

The slap came out of nowhere. Peter brought his hand down across Robbie’s face with such force it sent him flying backwards. Losing his footing, Robbie cracked the back of his head against the glass of the window, then fell to the floor, stunned.

For a few seconds, father and son froze in shocked silence. Then Peter spoke.

‘I’m sorry Robert. I shouldn’t have done that.’

Robbie’s eyes narrowed. His cheek glowed livid red from the blow.

‘No. You shouldn’t.’

Scrambling to his feet, Robbie pushed past his father, head down, and stumbled towards the elevator.

‘Robert! Where are you going?’

Seconds later Robbie was back in the lobby. He pushed through the revolving doors and out into the cool, fresh air of the street. Tears streamed down his face.

God?

Mom?

Anyone?

Help me. Please, please help me!

Running blindly down Park Avenue, Robbie Templeton began to sob.

The depression had started in earnest at the age of twelve, with the onset of puberty.

Before that, Robbie remembered periods of great sadness. Times when he missed his mother so badly it registered as a physical pain, like acute, grief-induced angina. But these were only temporary interludes. By playing the piano, going for a walk outside or goofing around with Lexi, he could usually shake them off.

Once he turned twelve however, something seismic seemed to shift within him. An inner blackness took hold, and this time its presence was constant. Robbie felt as if he’d descended into a tunnel without end, and that someone had blocked off the entrance hole. There was nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other, hopelessly, for eternity. Voices, sweet voices tempting him to suicide, followed him everywhere. If it weren’t for Lexi, he would have heeded their call years ago. As it was, he struggled for his little sister’s sake to go on. On and on and on, deeper and deeper into the never-ending darkness.

Once, he’d confided in his Uncle Barney about his feelings. The next day, his father came bursting into his bedroom guns blazing, pressing Prozac into his hand and forcing him into thrice weekly sessions with a therapist. Robbie listened politely to the therapist for a year and flushed the Prozac down the toilet. He didn’t know much any more, but he knew that his father’s guilt-pills were not the answer to his problem.

That was the last time Robbie Templeton sought help from adults. From then on, he was alone.