Heads You Win

“But how will we find out?” asked Sasha, not wanting to admit how nervous he felt.

“The outgoing president will announce the names of the new officers along with those who’ve been elected to the committee, and then we either celebrate or drown our sorrows.”

“Let’s hope we both make it onto the committee.”

“You’re a shoo-in,” said Ben. “I’m just hoping to scrape into fourth place.”

“If you do make it, how will you celebrate?”

“I’m going to have one last crack at getting Fiona into the sack. If she makes VP, I must be in with a chance.”

Sasha took a sip of his lager.

“And what have you got planned?” asked Ben.

“Either way I’m going to see Charlie, and try to make up for all the time I’ve been spending in this place.”

“She’s been pretty preoccupied herself since she joined Footlights,” said Ben. “Perhaps you should have become an actor, not a politician. Then you could have played Oberon opposite her Titania.”

“Lucky Oberon.”

A sudden silence fell over the room as the outgoing president of the Union made his entrance. He came to a halt in the center of the room, coughed, and waited until he had everyone’s attention. “The result of the ballot for officers of the Union in the Michaelmas term is as follows. President, with seven hundred and twelve votes, Mr. Chris Smith of Pembroke College.”

A loud cheer followed as Smith’s supporters raised their glasses. Carey didn’t speak again until silence had been restored.

“The treasurer will be Mr. R. C. Andrew of Caius, with six hundred and ninety-one votes,” which allowed the members of the Labour Club to join in the cheering.

“And the vice president, with four hundred and eleven votes,” continued Carey, to a hushed audience, “will be,” he paused, “Miss Fiona Hunter, of Newnham College.” Half the room leaped up, while the other half remained seated.

“She’ll be the next president,” said Ben.

“Elected as members of the committee,” said Carey, turning to a separate sheet of paper, “Mr. Sasha Karpenko with eight hundred and eleven votes, Mr. Norman Davis with five hundred and forty-two votes, Mr. Jules Huxley with five hundred and sixteen votes, and Mr. Ben Cohen with four hundred and forty-one votes.”

“Congratulations,” said Ben, shaking Sasha warmly by the hand. “It can only be a matter of time before you become president. But for now, let’s go and fall at the feet of our new VP.”

Sasha reluctantly followed his friend across the room, where Fiona was surrounded by admirers. She gave Ben a warm hug, but when she saw Sasha, turned her back on him.

“We should celebrate,” said Ben. “Will you join us for supper?”

“No, thanks,” said Sasha. “I’m off to see Charlie. I’m hoping she’ll give me a second chance.”

“Good luck,” said Ben, “and congratulations on climbing to the top of the greasy pole.”

Sasha made his way slowly across the crowded room, having to stop several times to shake hands with well-wishers, although he was already thinking about Charlie, and hoping she would want to share in his triumph. He knew how he’d like to celebrate. The last time he’d seen her was for tea in her room just over a week ago. He’d been horrified to discover that Charlie’s room was on the second floor, directly below Fiona’s. She had been preoccupied—perhaps it was the thought of playing Titania, with the opening night only a few days away. Or maybe he’d gone on just a little too much about the Union.

Sasha broke into a jog as he passed Trinity, and ran all the way to Newnham, where he made his way around to the back of the building.

Although the curtains were drawn, Sasha could see a light shining in Charlie’s room. He grabbed the bottom rung of the fire escape and quickly climbed up to the second floor. He was about to tap on the window when he noticed a gap in the curtains. He peeped through to see Titania was in bed with Oberon.

*   *   *

The intermittent sound of a piercing siren accompanied by flashing blue lights caused the traffic on the Fulham Road to pull over and allow the ambulance to continue on its journey.

Elena had rushed out of the kitchen the moment she heard Mr. Moretti had collapsed. She’d immediately instructed the headwaiter to phone for an ambulance, while she knelt by his side and checked his pulse. It was weak, but he was still alive. Gino asked for the nearest phone.

“They’ll be here any minute,” Elena said, holding his hand tightly. She wasn’t sure if he could hear her, but then his eyes opened and he attempted a smile.

It felt like hours before she heard the welcome sound of an approaching ambulance, although in fact it was only seven minutes.

A moment later two young paramedics were kneeling by Moretti’s side. While one checked his pulse, the other placed an oxygen mask over his face. They then lifted the gray-faced old gentleman onto a stretcher, and carried him out of the restaurant as concerned customers stood aside to allow them through.