Heads You Win

The five-day voyage on the QE2 was idyllic, and they made several new friends, one or two who thought the Labour Party might even win the next election. Every morning began with a session in the gym, but they still both managed to put on a pound a day. On the final morning they rose before the sun and stood out on deck to be welcomed by the Statue of Liberty, while the skyscrapers of the Manhattan skyline grew taller by the minute.

Once they’d checked into their hotel—Charlie had talked him out of the presidential suite in favor of a double room several floors below—they didn’t waste a minute.

The Metropolitan Museum entranced Charlie with its breadth of works from so many cultures. From Byzantine Greece, to Italy’s Caravaggio, to the Dutch masters, Rembrandt and Vermeer, while the French Impressionists demanded a second visit. The Museum of Modern Art also delighted her and surprised Sasha, who couldn’t always tell the difference between Picasso and Braque during their cubist period. But it was the Frick that became their second home, with Bellini, Holbein, and Mary Cassatt to draw them back again and again. And Liza Minnelli had them standing on their feet crying “Encore!” after she sang “Maybe This Time.”

“What shall we do on our last day?” asked Sasha as they enjoyed a late breakfast in the garden room.

“Let’s go window-shopping.”

“Why don’t we stroll into Tiffany’s and buy everything in sight?”

“Because we’ve already gone over our budget.”

“I feel sure we’ve still got enough to buy something for both grandmothers and Natasha.”

“Then we’ll window-shop on Fifth Avenue, but buy everything from Macy’s.”

“Compromise,” said Sasha, folding his newspaper. “Bloomingdale’s.”

Charlie selected a pair of leather gloves for her mother, while Sasha chose a Swatch for Elena that she’d hinted about more than once. And such a reasonable price, she’d reminded him.

“And Natasha?” asked Sasha.

“A pair of these Levi’s. They’ll be the envy of her friends.”

“But they’re faded and ripped before you even buy them,” said Sasha when he first saw them in a shop window.

“And you claim to be a man of the people.”

They were on their way back to the Plaza laden down with bags when Charlie stopped to admire a painting in a gallery window on Lexington Avenue. “That’s what I want,” she said, admiring the mesmerizing colors and brushwork.

“Then you married the wrong man.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure about that,” said Charlie. “But I still intend to find out how much it’s going to cost you,” she added before going in.

The walls of the gallery were crowded with abstract works, and Charlie was admiring a Jackson Pollock when an elderly gentleman approached her.

“A magnificent painting, madam.”

“Yes, but so sad.”

“Sad, madam?”

“That he died at such a young age, when he still hadn’t fulfilled his promise.”

“Indeed. We had the privilege of representing him when he was alive, and this painting has been through my hands three times in the past thirty years.”

“Death, divorce, and taxes?”

The old man smiled. “You’re not in the art world, by any chance?”

“I work as a conservator for the Turner Collection.”

“Ah, then please give my regards to Nicholas Serota,” he said, handing her his card.

Sasha walked across to join them. “Dare I ask the price of the painting in the window?”

“The Rothko?” said Mr. Rosenthal, turning to face his customer. “Alex, I had no idea you were in town. But you must know that your wife has already purchased the painting for the collection.”

“My wife has already bought it?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Not on a Member of Parliament’s salary, she didn’t.”

Rosenthal adjusted his glasses, took a closer look at the customer, and said, “I do apologize. I should have realized my mistake the moment you spoke.”

“You said ‘the collection,’” said Charlie.

“Yes, the Lowell Collection in Boston.”

“Now that’s a collection I’ve always wanted to see,” said Charlie, “but I understood that it was locked up in a bank vault.”

“Not any longer,” said Rosenthal. “The paintings were all returned to their original home in Boston some time ago. I’d be happy to arrange a private view for you, madam. The curator of the collection used to work here, and I know she’d enjoy meeting you.”

“I’m afraid we’re booked on a flight back to London later this evening,” said Charlie.

“What a pity. Next time, perhaps,” said Rosenthal, giving them both a slight bow.

“Strange,” said Charlie once they were back on Lexington. “He obviously mistook you for someone else.”

“And someone who could afford a Rothko.”

“Come on, we’d better get moving if we’re going to make it to JFK by five,” said Charlie. She took one last look at the painting in the window. “Can you imagine what it must be like to own a Rothko?”

*   *   *

“I know, I know,” said Sasha. “If God had meant us to fly, he would have given us wings.”

“Don’t mock,” said Charlie. “This plane is going far too fast.”

“It was built to travel at this speed. So just sit back, relax, and enjoy your champagne.”