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  The audience had been waiting expectantly for those words. ‘On the streets!’ they echoed, chanting in choreographed enjoyment.

  Kendrick straightened in his seat. His glance at Irene might have included sympathy.

  Ms Manning continued. ‘I have watched you both over the last few months, I have viewed hundreds of hours of video tape, read your files and interviewed you personally, but now I must pronounce the final decision.’ When she leaned back, Ms Manning’s immaculately styled hair barely touched the carved logo on the headrest. She looked from one candidate to the other, pressed the tips of her fingers together and smiled.

  ‘It’s a big decision, choosing a successor. Who do I want? What do I want?’ She sighed. ‘I want somebody who is expert at business, so my Corporation does not go down the pan.

  Somebody who will fight for what he,’ Ms Manning’s eyes focussed on Kendrick, and then slid across to Irene, ‘or she, believes. I want somebody who can identify a failing but potentially successful company, buy it and turn it around. I want somebody honest and incredibly hard working. I want a fighter.’ She shook her head solemnly, ‘I want somebody similar to me.’

  The audience cheered, as Ms Manning had certainly intended. Irene felt herself smiling and knew that Kendrick was doing exactly the same. Ms Manning had that effect on people.

  She had the power of manipulation.

  Ms Manning sat up straight and nodded into the nearest camera. There was a hush as the great screens rolled slowly back so that the appearance of a boardroom altered into the television studio that it in fact was. Now only a few yards of space and coils of television cable separated the contestants from the audience. Irene was suddenly conscious that hundreds of pairs of eyes were fixed on her back. The cameras had been intrusive but impersonal, machines rather than people, but now she fancied that she could hear the breathing of each individual among the crowd, she could nearly smell the cologne and after shave with which they had doused themselves.

  ‘I have come to a decision.’ Ms Manning leaned back in her chair, allowing her head to rest just beneath the Manning logo. Even then, Irene could admire the perfect set of her hair and the manicured nails that lay in line with the arm rests. The overhead lights gleamed on the ruby that was central to the single ring encircling her forefinger. There was a matching ruby on the antique necklace around her neck.

  Irene could not look at Kendrick, although she was very aware of his suddenly shallow breathing. The audience had receded to unimportance.

  ‘Within the next two minutes,’ Miss Manning addressed the contestants, ‘one of you will be my neophyte and the other will be on the streets.’ This time the audience did not chant the programme slogan. ‘How do you feel, Kendrick?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Kendrick replied. ‘I feel good,’ he said. ‘I feel real good.’

  Ms Manning nodded. ‘And you, Irene?’

  ‘Confident,’ Irene lied. She nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. I will be your neophyte.’

  The hush deepened as Ms Manning stood, as she always did before imparting momentous decisions. Three cameras focussed on her, while one concentrated on each of the contestants.

  ‘This contest has been close,’ Ms Manning’s accent became more pronounced as she came to the climax of the programme. ‘And I am left with two excellent candidates. One has sailed through life on the crest of a wave of constant success; the other has struggled through adversity to achieve her present position. Both are examples of the American Dream, and the two are hard to separate.’

  Irene heard the drums begin their insistent roll as Ms Manning stepped back, preparatory to sweeping her hand round in her trademark gesture that would destroy the dreams of one contestant and recreate the life of the other. The person Ms Manning selected would be virtually guaranteed wealth, power and success; the person she rejected would have to accept very public failure. Ms Manning was the human oxymoron between two extremes; her pronouncement was incontestable.

  ‘So I have come to a provisional decision. In business it is sometimes better to hedge one’s bets, to allow things to take their own course until muddied waters clear.’ Her arm swung in a complete half circle until her forefinger pointed directly at Kendrick. The ruby gleamed like blood. ‘In this instance I have decided that Kendrick shall be my neophyte, for an interim period of one year. If he makes a success of things in that time, which I have no doubt that he will, then he shall retain the position.’

  The arm retracted then thrust out toward Irene. ‘In the meantime, Irene, you must go on the streets!’

  The finger dominated Irene’s conscious vision. She could see the immaculate nail with the arc of the cuticle, and each individual crease around the knuckles. For one moment her entire life centred on that single digit, and then the audience began the chant that had become a catchphrase throughout America.

  ‘On the streets! On the streets!’

  Irene sat in disbelief, swamped by the baying. She could feel Kendrick standing beside her, could sense the triumph in his smile as he accepted the congratulations of Ms Manning and her senior managers before he turned to her, hand extended.

  ‘On the streets! On the streets!’

  Tears prickled in her eyes as Irene faced Ms Manning. She shook her head. She had planned and striven and had dedicated her entire life to winning this competition. Now she was a failure; the world would remember her not as the contestant who had nearly succeeded, but as the woman who had failed in front of millions.

  ‘You fought well, Irene,’ Kendrick’s soft voice caressed her and his deep brown eyes held only sympathy. ‘Shake now; show the world that you can lose as graciously as you win.’ When she hesitated, he leaned closer, whispering ‘if you don’t, you’ll regret it later.’

  Recognising good advice, Irene blinked back the tears and took Kendrick’s hand. She would have loved to squeeze hard, to make him wince, but there was a worldwide audience watching. ‘Congratulations, Kendrick,’ she said as brightly as she could. ‘You will be a worthy neophyte. You will be just fine.’

  ‘Well said!’ Ms Manning had been watching closely, but now transferred her entire attention to Kendrick.

  Irene suddenly realised that she was already pushed out of the picture. Technicians hustled past her as they wheeled cameras toward the successful neophyte. Two men guided her into a cluttered dressing room as Kendrick took his place on the table beside Ms Manning. She felt swift hands remove the green jacket from her shoulders, heard whispered words of sympathy as a camera focussed on her face. She forced a smile, as if indifferent that her chance of replacing one of the richest women in the world had just been replaced by a life branded by failure.

  ‘You have to make the walk now,’ a denim-clad technician whispered, and encouraged her with a gentle shove between the shoulder blades.

  The audience continued to chant ‘on the streets’ as Irene followed the marked route, but she ignored the anonymity of faces, knowing that although some pitied her, most were gleeful, enjoying her discomfiture. The voices merged into a single bawl of derision, individual personalities into a crowd that cried failure, but she blinked away the burning tears and held her head high. Only when a doorman ushered her out of the studio did the noise abate. The corridor seemed to stretch into a bleak distance.

  ‘You did great to get so far,’ the doorman said, soothingly. He was middle aged and bald, with pouched eyes.

  Irene shook her head. ‘I failed,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll be back,’ the doorman said, adding earnest words of sympathy that were lost on her. Kendrick was the lion of the hour but she was only an also-ran, somebody to be moved quickly out of the vision of a society that worshipped only success.

  Away from the cameras, Irene allowed the emotion to take control as she surveyed her aborted dreams. With one sentence Ms Manning had changed her life-plan from triumph to survival, from riches to unemployment. She was indeed on the streets. She felt the prickle of a tear that she was too late to
prevent from coursing slowly down her cheek. God, but she hoped there were no cameras waiting for her outside. All she needed was for the world to remember her as the failed contestant with panda eyes and smudged mascara.

  Keeping one hand on her arm, the doorman guided her along the corridor in which various people hurried, some giving her curious glances and others completely disregarding her. After weeks in the public eye, to be ignored was the deepest pain of all.

  The studio was only one of a dozen within the huge communications building, but eventually Irene stumbled out into 48th Street and the bitter rain of a New York fall. There was a limousine waiting to take her home and a film crew asking more questions. She lifted her face, allowing the rain to take the blame for any inadequacies of her make up.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘It sucks, I mean, truly sucks! I should have won!’

  The camera moved closer, but the soundman shook his head, ‘sorry, Irene, I did not get that. Could you repeat it, please?’ He looked eager, aware that he had lost something sensational, but sense had returned to Irene.

  ‘I said all congratulations to Kendrick. He is a worthy winner and I am sure he will do well.’ She forced another smile, aware that her jaws were aching, reiterated her praise of Kendrick and said that she was proud to have come so far. She felt sick as the lights reflected on the wet streets of the city.

  The questions continued.

  ‘What will you do with your life?’

  ‘Where will you go now?’

  ‘Did you find the show a positive experience?’

  Irene shook her head. ‘Failure can never be a positive experience,’ she said as the truth broke through her professional façade. ‘And what will I do with my life? Does it matter? Anything else will be second best to this opportunity!’

  The reporter drew back, alarmed at the venom in Irene’s face.

  ‘Let me out,’ Irene demanded. ‘I’ll walk from here. Let me out!’

  ‘But the interview?’

  ‘Your interview sucks!’ Thrusting open the door, she pushed past the camera crew, straightened her back and strode around the nearest corner. She did not know in which direction she was walking, only that she had to escape from the media. Only in constant movement could she find solace, and there was no better city in which to hide.

  Chapter Two

  New York and Mannadu, October

  The bottles crowded the window ledge, each one an empty reminder of disgrace. Two had contained champagne, bought for celebration but drunk in disappointment. One had held Kentucky bourbon, its black label peeling now, and the remainder proclaimed themselves to be the king of beers. Lying amidst the tangled covers of her bed, Irene squinted through the array of curved glass at the distorted shape of the window. It was daylight outside, although she could not determine the time. She raised her head a little, swore at the pain that such effort caused and carefully sank back down on the pillow. Beside her, Patrick snored softly.

  Failure. The word throbbed inside her head, reinforcing the thump of her hangover. Failure. She clenched her fists until her nails dug small semi-circular grooves in the palm of each hand. She had gambled everything on becoming Ms Manning’s neophyte, but now she must start again. She had thrown up her job to concentrate on the competition, so she was back on the streets in reality, seeking employment, seeking a new life, hiding from humiliation.

  Leaving Patrick lying diagonally across the bed with one arm thrown over the pillow and the other folded beneath him, Irene pushed herself upright. She slid off the mattress, winced and sat down, holding her head to compress the pain into manageable proportions. Only when she convinced herself that there was no alternative did she stagger to the bathroom, stripping off the silk pyjama shirt that was her only covering.

  Setting the power shower to cold, Irene stepped into the cubicle, squealing as the fierce jets of water hammered at her. After a few minutes she was unable to bear any more and increased the temperature before she began to apply shower gel. Sinking into a corner, she allowed the water to rinse away the lather, and remained there until her headache began to dissolve and the churning in her stomach settled down.

  Removing two painkillers from her emergency cupboard, Irene thrust them into her mouth and chewed, hating the taste. Losers did not deserve the luxury of a glass of water in which to dissolve them. Her stomach protested at this new assault, so she sat down quickly until the sensation eased.

  So she had failed to win a game show. Irene shrugged as a new recklessness slithered over her. Well, she had done the very best that she could, but her early life had betrayed her, while Kendrick’s money and influence had eased his path. Returning to the shower, she shampooed her hair vigorously and stepped under the nozzle. Streams of soapy water ran down her body, surging around her feet to drain away as if in imitation of her hopes. She had failed, but she would not give up on life. Who was she?

  ‘I am Irene Armstrong,’ she reminded herself. ‘I am Irene Armstrong.’ She spoke louder so her name echoed between the transparent plastic walls of the cubicle. ‘I am Irene Armstrong, and there is nothing I can not do.’ The phrase came from her childhood, a simple slogan that had helped her through some very bad times.

  Steam from the shower filled the room as she cleaned a space on the mirror and brushed her teeth, allowing the toothpaste to foam and drop in frothy globules onto the sink. ‘Damn you Kendrick, for beating me, and you, Ms Rhondda Manning, for choosing a lesser contender. I’ll be back,’ she deepened her voice and repeated the words in imitation of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s famous catch phrase. ‘I’ll be back!’

  Vigorously towelling her hair, Irene returned to the bedroom. Patrick lay exactly as she had left him, face down on the bed and mouth slightly open. Grinning, she flicked off the covers and allowed herself the pleasure of admiring his muscular back, with the small scar just beneath his left shoulder blade and the indentation of his spine that ran into his smoothly curving bottom. Her smile altered to a sudden frown when she focussed on the tattoo on his right buttock. Linda had been a previous girlfriend, in a different life, but Irene always resented that he had chosen somebody else before her. During their vigorous lovemaking she always raked her nails across that name, hoping to eradicate the written memory, and now she delivered a stinging slap to the same target. When he jerked forward she laughed, stepped back and slapped again, harder. She felt immense pleasure at Patrick’s yelp.

  ‘Up you get, lazy! I’ve got a life to rebuild and you’re going to help.’

  He rolled over onto his back and looked up, one hand clutching at the assaulted area. ‘What the hell was that for?’

  It was his eyes that had first attracted Irene, a brilliant blue that seemed to hold all the mysteries of the universe, but now they were shaded through over-indulgence in alcohol. He blinked, obviously suffering the same agonies that Irene had so recently endured.

  ‘Just because it was asking for it. You’ve got two minutes,’ Irene told him, with no sympathy at all. ‘Then I’ll take drastic measures.’ She smiled sweetly, tied the towel around her head and walked to the kitchen to put on the coffee. A glance in the mirror reassured her that Patrick was watching the emphasised swing of her hips.

  The knock at the door seemed to shake the entire house. ‘Get that, Patrick, I’ve got nothing on.’ Irene waited for a minute, as the knock sounded again, louder and more urgent than before. She looked into the bedroom, frowned as she saw Patrick once again recumbent amidst the sheets, and dragged on his dressing gown. It was many times too large, with sleeves that flapped loosely over her hands.

  ‘Who is it?’ Irene peered through the security glass and saw a tall man who she instantly recognised.

  ‘Peter Madrid.’ The man held up a card with his photograph on it and the unmistakable logo of the Manning Corporation. ‘I wish to speak with you, if it is convenient.’

  ‘Peter Madrid!’ Irene stepped back, instinctively putting up a hand to the towel that covered her hair. Moving
swiftly, she kicked shut the bedroom door to conceal both the unmade bed and its naked occupant, fastened the cord of the dressing gown tighter and unfastened the security chain. ‘What can I do for you?’ She eased open the front door, biting back her bitterness. This man had watched her answer a hundred questions over the last few weeks; he had overseen her on four different tasks and had reported on her suitability as a neophyte to Ms Manning. At that minute, Irene had no desire to ever speak to him, or anybody else from the Manning Corporation, ever again.

  Peter stepped in, his suit as immaculate as ever but his eyes swivelling around the tiny apartment. ‘Ms Manning sends her apologies for disturbing you,’ he said quietly, ‘and hopes that you have recovered from any disappointment that you may have experienced yesterday.’

  Irene recommenced the assault on her hair with the towel as the twin sensations of defeat and failure returned. ‘Yesterday is past,’ she said, shrugging in an attempt to dismiss the heartbreak as unimportant. ‘It was fun while it lasted.’ She produced a bright smile. ‘Come in to the living room and I’ll make coffee.’

  ‘You’re not disappointed then?’ Peter lowered himself into one of the two cream coloured armchairs and raised an inquisitive eye. He glanced at the framed poster that showed crossed Armalite rifles in front of an Irish flag and the word Noraid, before switching his attention to the broken television in the corner of the room. Irene followed the direction of his eyes. She had watched the videotape that Patrick had made of The Neophyte, until the sight of Kendrick’s triumphant face had proved too much and she had thrown the remote control at the screen. It was too late now to hide the evidence.

  ‘Disappointed?’ Irene pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘No. It was only a game show. If you wait for a minute I’ll get the coffee. How do you like it?’

  ‘Black and strong,’ Peter told her.