Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game

‘Say what? We ain’t giving you our goddamned pants.’

Robbie thought for a moment, then started pulling at the little finger of his left hand.

‘Here. Take this.’ He pressed a solid gold signet ring into the oldest boy’s hand. It had once belonged to Robbie’s great-great-grandfather, Jamie McGregor, and it bore the symbol of two fighting rams: Kruger-Brent’s crest. ‘It’s gold. It’s worth five hundred bucks at least.’

The boy looked at the ring.

‘Jackson, give Clark Kent here your pants.’

Jackson looked outraged. ‘Screw you! I ain’t giving him my goddamned pants.’

‘I said take ’em off! Now! Here come the cops, man.’

A pair of uniformed police were rushing out of Gianni’s building with flashlights. Robbie thought: They’re looking for a body.

The black kid slipped out of his jeans like a snake shedding its skin.

Robbie watched him sprint into the darkness, the Carl Lewis of Westchester County. Seeing three black figures disappearing across the scrubland, the cops gave chase. Robbie had a few valuable seconds in which to make his move.

He pulled on the pants. They were huge. Yanking the belt onto its tightest notch he could just about keep them up. Slowly, he began to walk. The pain in his leg was getting worse. Shutting out everything else, he focused his mind on Lexi and his mother. He couldn’t go to prison. He had to get away. Humming softly to the soundtrack playing in his head – Grieg’s piano concerto in A minor – he limped on into the darkness.

By the time Robbie got home, it was six in the morning.

Dawn had already broken over the West Village. In doorways, the homeless were starting to stir, bags of rattling bones trying to shake off the combined effects of sleep and booze, and move on before the first police patrols arrived. Robbie watched them. Not for the first time he thought how ironic it was that only a few feet of brick separated these hopeless hulks of human refuse from people like him: the richest of the rich. Those bums must think he had it all. What would they say if they knew how often he lay awake at night, in feather-bedded comfort, dreaming of blowing his brains out?

He had no keys. They had been in his pants, along with the ecstasy. Limping down to the basement, he punched a six-digit number into the keypad by the service door, which clicked open obligingly. Welcome home.

He wondered what was going on back in Bronxville. Had the cops caught up with his three black buddies? Unlikely. But that didn’t mean he was out of the woods. Maureen Swanson might have spilled the beans, told the police who he was and where to find him.

Whatever. If she had, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Creeping up the kitchen stairs to the entryway, he was relieved to find the house silent and in darkness. He’d almost reached the top of the main staircase when a voice rang out behind him.

‘I’m in the study, Robert.’

Shit.

Robbie’s heart sank, dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

Please, please let him not have been drinking.

Peter sat on the red brocade couch. He was talking to his wife.

You know how difficult they are at this age, darling. I haven’t been firm enough with him inthe past, that’s the problem. But it’s never too late to change.

Alex was agreeing with him. Standing by the window, in the green Halston dress he’d bought her for their tenth anniversary, she nodded encouragement. Where would he be without her? Her love and support meant everything to him. They gave him the strength he needed.

If it were just the trouble at school, I could forgive him. Even the drugs. But there’s Lexi to think about. He’s a terrible influence on her, Alex. He’s trying to take her away from me. I mean, I can’t allow that, can I?

Alex shook her head: Of course you can’t darling. But let’s not waste all night talking about Robert. Do you like my dress?

I love it. You know I do. You look so beautiful.

For you, Peter. I look beautiful for you.

‘Dad?’

Peter looked up. Alex had gone. The room swayed gently, like a ship. Everything was tinted with a sepia haze. It was like being inside an old photograph of the Titanic. Disaster had not yet struck, but it was imminent.

Peter Templeton waited for his son’s twin faces to merge into one before he spoke.

‘Where have you been?’

Robbie shifted mutely from foot to foot.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘With a girl.’

It wasn’t a lie. Not technically.

‘Which girl? Where?’

There was so much anger in Peter’s voice, Robbie found himself shivering.

‘In Bronxville. We took a train,’ said Robbie, deftly answering the second question but not the first. It wouldn’t help anyone to drag Maureen Swanson’s name into this. ‘Listen, Dad, I’m sorry about what happened at school today. Really. I don’t know why I do these things. Sometimes I …’

‘Sometimes you what?’

Peter’s rage was growing. He didn’t want to hear apologies or explanations. He wanted Robert to admit his guilt. To acknowledge that he deserved to be punished. Punished for monopolizing Alex’s affection. Punished for turning Lexi against him.

‘Sometimes I just can’t handle it.’ For the second time in twenty four hours, Robbie started to cry.

Don’t blub, for Christ’s sake. Be a man. You’ve brought this on yourself.

Behind a red brocade cushion, out of view, Peter Templeton’s hand tightened around the gun.

When he’d taken the Glock out of the safe a few hours earlier, he’d been fantasizing about killing himself. A bottle and a half of Scotch had robbed him of all rational thought and left him bitter and broken. He had failed. As a man, as a husband, as a father. The gun felt comforting in his hand. An escape. But then Alex had appeared, dear, sweet Alex. Peter had stuffed the pistol under the cushion so as not to scare her.

Now he reached for it again. The cool metal pressed against his palm.

Robert had come home.

Robert needed to be punished.

Peter only half heard what the boy was saying.

‘I’m not the same as the other kids. I don’t fit in at St Bede’s. I don’t fit in anywhere. Maybe it’s because I miss Mom so much. Maybe …’