Sidney Sheldon’s Mistress of the Game. Tilly Bagshawe

this earth. But Kate Blackwell had gotten her way on that as on all things. It hardly seemed possible, but the child was nineteen years old already, six foot in his socks and as blond and chiseled as any matinée idol.

      He’s not a child though, is he? He’s a man. That’s the problem.

      ‘There’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

      Robbie’s tone was surly and aggressive. He sat forward, his delicate pianist’s fingers resting on his knees, and glared at the old man defiantly.

      ‘I’m legally an adult now. This is my decision and mine alone, so show me where to sign and I’ll get out of here.’

      ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as that Robert.’

      Lionel Neuman ran a crepey hand through his wiry, salt-and-pepper hair. He reminded Robbie of an elderly rabbit. His nose seemed to be permanently twitching, as if he could pick up nuances of legal language purely through smell. Even his office had the air of a burrow, with its dark wood, dimly lit Tiffany lamps and wine-red leather-bound legal tomes stuffed into every nook and cranny.

      ‘Your father …’

      ‘My father has nothing to do with this.’

      Robbie slammed his fist down on the desk. The top sheaves of Lionel Neuman’s neat pile of documents fluttered in consternation, then lay still. The old man himself remained unperturbed.

      I see you have your great-grandmother’s hot temper. But you don’t scare me, kid. I’ve been shouted at by more angry Blackwells than you’ve had hot dinners.

      Such a pity. Robert had been an adorable little boy. No wonder Kate had loved him as she had. But he had grown, in Lionel Neuman’s opinion anyway, into a thoroughly spoilt, thuggish young man. At nineteen Robert Templeton already had a juvenile police record, for theft and drug offences. Theft! What on earth could the heir to Kruger-Brent possibly need to steal?

      Lionel Neuman had been around long enough to know that wealth on the Blackwells’ scale, obscene wealth, was often more of a curse than a blessing. Robbie Templeton showed every sign of going the same way as poor Christina Onassis, lost to drugs, booze and depression. He reminded Lionel of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Denmark’s prince suffered ‘the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’. Robert Templeton’s fortune was certainly outrageous. Come to think of it, Kruger-Brent’s market cap was probably higher than the entire GDP of Denmark. As for the ‘slings and arrows’, young Robert brought those upon himself.

      Lionel Neuman blamed the boy’s father. Ever since that unfortunate incident with the gun, Peter Templeton seemed to have abdicated his paternal responsibilities entirely. He was too guilt-ridden to discipline his own children.

      A spell in the army, that was what Robert needed.

      Nothing like a spot of war to whip a young hoodlum like him into shape.

      ‘As chairman and a life member of the Kruger-Brent board, your father has a right to be informed of decisions that may materially affect the company.’

      ‘But he can’t stop me signing away my inheritance. He can rant and rave about it if it makes him feel better. But there’s nothing he can actually do. Is there?’

      Lionel Neuman shook his head. So much anger. And arrogance. The arrogance of youth.

      ‘Ultimately, Robert, you are correct. The decision rests with you. However as your family’s attorney for more than four decades, it is my duty to inform you …’

      Robbie wasn’t listening.

      Save it for someone who cares, Grandpa. I don’t want Kruger-Brent. I never did. And I don’t care about the goddamned family. Apart from Lexi, not one of them is worth a damn.

      He’d come to a decision last night. Admittedly he’d been looped at the time, lost in a heroin and tequila haze while playing the filthy, dilapidated piano at Tommy’s, a gay bar in Brooklyn.

      Some older guy who’d been coming on to him all evening yelled out, ‘You know what, kid? You could do that shit for a living.’

      It was a throwaway remark. But it hit Robbie like a bullet between the eyes.

      I could do this for a living. I could run away. Away from Dad, away from Kruger-Brent, away from my demons. Change my name. Play piano in some anonymous bar somewhere. Find out who I really am.

      Robbie Templeton wasn’t interested in Old Boy Neuman’s concerns and warnings and quid pro quos. He wanted out.

      ‘Here.’ He grabbed a piece of paper from Lionel Neuman’s blotter. Using the lawyer’s pen, he scrawled two lines that were to change his life for ever.

      I, Robert Peter Templeton, hereby renounce all claims, entitlement and inheritance left to me by my great-grandmother, Kate Blackwell, including all rights and shareholdings in Kruger-Brent Limited. I transfer those claims in their entirety to my sister Alexandra Templeton.

      ‘It’s signed and dated. And you just witnessed it.’

      Handing the paper to the alarmed attorney, Robbie stood up to leave. Lionel Neuman was struck again by how unusually good-looking the boy was. Truly a gilded youth. But the telltale signs of substance abuse were already beginning to show. Bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks, bouts of uncontrolled shivering.

       How long before he winds up on the street, another hopeless, helpless, faceless addict?

      Six months. Tops.

      ‘Thank you for your help Mr Neuman. I’ll see myself out.’

       7

      Lexi Templeton was not like other little girls.

      When she was five years old, her father received a phone call at the office.

      ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to come and pick Lexi up, right away.’

      It was Mrs Thackeray, the principal of Lexi’s kindergarten. She sounded distressed.

      ‘Has something happened? Is Lexi OK?’

      ‘Your daughter is fine Mr Templeton. It’s the other children I’m worried about.’

      When Peter arrived at The Little Cherubs Pre-School, a tearful Lexi hurtled into his arms. ‘I didn’t do anything, Daddy! It wasn’t my fault.’

      Mrs Thackeray pulled Peter to one side.

      ‘I’ve had to send two children to the emergency room this morning. Your daughter attacked them with scissors. One little boy was lucky not to lose an eye.’

      ‘But that’s ridiculous.’ Peter looked at Lexi. Clinging to his legs in a yellow cotton sundress with matching yellow ribbons in her hair, she looked the picture of innocence. ‘Why would she do a thing like that?’

      ‘I have no idea. My staff assure me that the attack was entirely unprovoked. I’m afraid we won’t be able to have Lexi back at Little Cherubs. You must make alternative arrangements.’

      In the back of the limousine, Peter asked his daughter what had happened.

      ‘It was nothing.’ Lexi swung her legs merrily, entirely unrepentant. ‘I don’t know why they all made such a fuss. I was doing my collage. It was a picture of Kruger-Brent. You know, your big tower where you go to work?’

      Peter nodded.

      ‘It was really pretty and silvery and I did all baking foil on it. But then Timmy Willard said my picture was “damn stupid”. And Malcolm Malloy laughed at me.’

      ‘That was mean of them honey. So what did you do?’

      Lexi looked at him pityingly, as if to say, What sort of a question is