Heads You Win

“Her. She had a nervous breakdown a week before the election, and didn’t recover in time to vote.” Sasha burst out laughing. “No, it’s true,” said Alf. “We’ve never seen her since.”

“And to think I was the only man you wanted!” said Sasha.

“You’ll be grateful to us when you find a safe seat, and become a minister,” said Audrey, ignoring the sarcasm. It was the first time Sasha had considered he might one day be a minister.

“Look who I see on the other side of the road,” said Charlie, nudging Sasha in the ribs.

Sasha looked across to see Fiona, surrounded by a team of supporters who were handing out leaflets and holding up banners that declared VOTE HUNTER FOR MERRIFIELD.

“They haven’t even had to print new posters,” said Alf bitterly.

“It’s time to confront the enemy head-on,” said Sasha and immediately marched across the high street, dodging in and out of the traffic.

“My name’s Fiona Hunter, and I’m—”

“What are you going to do about the Roxton playing fields being turned into a supermarket, that’s what I want to know.”

“I have already spoken to the leader of the council concerning the issue,” said Fiona, “and he’s promised to keep me informed.”

“Just like your father, full of promises, with bugger-all results.”

Fiona smiled and moved on, leaving a local councilor to deal with the problem.

“Will the Tories increase my pension?” said an old woman, jabbing a finger at her. “That’s what I want to know.”

“They always have in the past,” said Fiona effusively, “so you can be sure they will again, but only if we win in the next election.”

“Jam tomorrow should be your slogan,” said the woman.

Fiona smiled when she saw Sasha heading toward her, hand outstretched.

“How nice to see you, Sasha,” she said. “What are you doing in Merrifield?”

“My name’s Sasha Karpenko,” he replied, “and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on March the thirteenth. I hope I can count on your vote?”

The smile was wiped off Fiona’s face for the first time that day.

28

ALEX

Brooklyn

“When you return the Warhol to Lawrence and he gives you back your money, are you still sure you ought to be investing even more in Elena’s?”

“Yes I am, Mother,” said Alex. “But after making such a fool of myself, I’ve decided to go back to school.”

“But you already have a degree.”

“In economics,” said Alex, “which is fine if you want to be a bank manager, but not an entrepreneur. So I’ve signed up for night school. I’ll be doing an MBA at Columbia, so that when I come across another Evelyn, I won’t make the same mistake. Meanwhile, I’m going to get a job at Lombardi’s in Manhattan.”

“But why support the opposition?”

“Because Lawrence told me they make the best pizzas in America, and I intend to find out why.”

September was a busy month for Alex. He enrolled at night school to do his MBA, and despite working during the day at Lombardi’s, he never once missed a lecture. His essays were always handed in on time and he read every book on the set texts list, and many that weren’t. Ironically, Evelyn had managed to achieve what his mother hadn’t.

His learning also progressed during the day, because Paolo, the manager of Lombardi’s, showed him how the restaurant had earned its reputation. With Paolo to advise him, Alex began to make some small changes to Elena’s, and later some larger ones. He would have liked to purchase a rollover oven from Antonelli in Milan, which would have made it possible to produce a dozen fresh pizzas every four minutes, but he couldn’t afford it until he’d returned the picture and Lawrence had handed over the half million. He would miss her. The Warhol, not Evelyn.

*   *   *

Alex was on his way to night school when he saw her for the first time.

She was standing on the platform at 51st Street wearing a smart blue suit and carrying a leather briefcase. It was her neatly cropped auburn hair and deep brown eyes that captivated him. He tried not to stare at her, and when she glanced in his direction, he quickly looked away.

When the train pulled into the station, he found himself following the vision and sitting in the empty seat beside her even though she was going in the wrong direction. She opened her briefcase, took out a glossy magazine, and began reading. Alex glanced at the cover to see a painting by an artist called de Kooning. He could have sworn he’d seen a similar one in Lawrence’s home, but decided I own a Warhol wouldn’t be a good chat-up line.

“Did de Kooning paint the same subject again and again?” he asked, his eyes remaining fixed on the picture.

She looked at Alex, then at the cover of her magazine, before saying, “Yes, he did. This one is from his Woman series.”

Her clipped accent reminded him of Evelyn, although nothing else did. He hesitated before saying, “Could I have seen one in a private collection?”

“It’s possible. Although there are very few in private hands. There are several examples of his work in MoMA, so there’s a chance you might have seen one there.”