Heads You Win Read online

  “You could always be a bus driver,” said Sasha. “After all, the pay’s pretty good and so are the holidays.”

  “You’d get longer holidays if you go up to Cambridge,” said Ben, revealing his true feelings. “By the way, I’m holding an end of exams party at my place on Saturday night. Mum and Dad are away for the weekend, so make sure you don’t miss it.”

  * * *

  Sasha put on a freshly ironed white shirt, school tie, and his new suit. As soon as he arrived at Ben’s home he realized that he’d made a dreadful mistake. But then, he had assumed the party would be just a few of his classmates, who would down pints of beer until they fell over, fell asleep, or both.

  He discovered his next mistake as he walked into a hallway that was larger than his flat. There were just as many girls as boys at the party, and none of them were wearing school uniform, so he’d removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt long before he reached the drawing room. He looked around and smiled, quite unaware that everyone seemed to know who he was. But he didn’t talk to a girl until more than an hour had passed, and she evaporated almost as quickly as she’d appeared.

  “He’s from another planet,” he heard her tell Ben.

  “Only wish I occupied it,” his friend replied.

  Sasha wished he had Ben’s ability to casually chat to a girl, and make her feel she was the only woman in the room. He settled down in a comfortable chair from which he could observe the scene as if he were a spectator watching a game where he didn’t know the rules.

  He froze when he saw a particularly attractive girl heading in his direction. How long would this one last before she too evaporated?

  “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Charlotte Dangerfield, but my friends call me Charlie.” She’d broken the ice, but he still froze. She made a second attempt. “I’m hoping to go up to Cambridge in September.”

  “To read maths?” asked Sasha hopefully.

  She laughed, a gentle laugh followed by a captivating smile. “No, I’m an art historian. Or at least that’s what I’d like to be.” What’s my next line? thought Sasha, trying not to make it too obvious that he was staring at her legs as she perched on the arm of his chair.

  “Everyone says you’re going to win the Isaac Barrow Prize. And as I’m no better than a borderline case, I’ve got everything crossed, including my toes.”

  Sasha was desperate to keep the conversation flowing, but as he’d never visited an art gallery in his life, all he could manage was, “Who’s your favorite artist?”

  “Rubens,” she said without hesitation. “Particularly the early paintings he did in Antwerp, when we can be certain he alone was responsible for the entire canvas.”

  “You mean someone else painted his later pictures?”

  “No,” she said. “But once he became famous and even the Pope wanted to commission him, he allowed his more talented pupils to assist him. Who’s your favorite artist?”

  “Mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Leonardo da Vinci.” The first name that came into his head.

  She smiled. “That’s hardly surprising, as, like you, he was a mathematician. Which of his paintings do you particularly like?”

  “The Mona Lisa,” said Sasha. It was the only one he knew.

  “I’m visiting Paris with my parents in the summer,” said Charlie, “and looking forward to seeing the original.”

  “The original?”

  “At the Louvre.”

  Sasha was trying to think what to say next, when she slipped down into the seat beside him, leaned across, and gently kissed him. Neither of them said a great deal during the next hour, and although Sasha was clearly untutored, she didn’t treat him as if he’d come from another planet.

  When some of his friends began to leave just after midnight, Sasha plucked up the courage to ask, “May I walk you home?” His mother had told him that was what a gentleman did when he really liked a girl. You can hold her hand during the walk, but when you reach her front door, you should only kiss her on the cheek and say, “I hope we’ll meet again,” so she knows you care about her. If it’s gone really well, you can ask for her telephone number.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  * * *

  When Charlie took a key out of her bag, he leaned toward her, intending to follow his mother’s advice. Her lips parted, and he thought he would explode.

  “Why don’t you pick me up next Saturday morning around nine,” Charlie said as she turned the key in the lock. “Then I’ll take you to the National Gallery and introduce you to Rubens,” she added before disappearing inside.

  As Sasha walked home, he was certainly on another planet, and for a change, Newton wasn’t occupying it.

  * * *

  Charlie did most of the talking on the tube journey from Fulham Broadway to Trafalgar Square, and almost all of the talking once they’d climbed the steps to the National Gallery.

  What Sasha had originally considered no more than an excuse to spend some time with Charlie, turned out to be the beginning of a love affair. He was courted by the Dutch, beguiled by the Spanish, mesmerized by the Italians, and enchanted with Charlie.

  “Are there any other galleries in London?” he asked as they walked back down the steps and joined the pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

  Charlie didn’t laugh, as she already knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sasha was asking her questions she couldn’t answer.

  When they arrived back in Fulham, Sasha wanted to take her to lunch at Moretti’s, but the fact that he couldn’t afford it wasn’t the only reason they ended up at a local coffee shop. Charlie would need a little more time before she was introduced to his mother.

  * * *

  Charlie was still on Sasha’s mind on Monday morning when the headmaster rang him at home and asked him to drop by and see him. “Drop by” made him laugh.

  He thought his legs might give way as he walked through the school gates and down the corridor toward the headmaster’s study, like a punch-drunk boxer about to face the final round.

  Mr. Quilter answered his knock with the familiar “Come!” Sasha opened the door, but learned nothing from the expression on the headmaster’s face. He declined the offer to sit down, preferring to remain standing until he’d heard the verdict.

  “Proxime accessit,” said Quilter. “Many congratulations.” Sasha’s heart sank. He didn’t consider coming second was worthy of praise. “You were beaten by a boy from Manchester Grammar School who got one hundred percent, while you managed ninety-eight. Of course,” the headmaster continued, “you’ll be disappointed, and understandably so. But the good news is that, after assessing your A-level papers, Trinity is still willing to offer you a scholarship.”

  “But you just said I came second.”

  “In maths, yes. But no one got anywhere near you in Russian.”

  His first thought was, I hope Charlie …

  13

  ALEX

  Brooklyn

  Ivan handed over twenty-three dollars to Alex and said, “Another good day. I can’t see any reason why we shouldn’t go on milking this cow for a lot longer. So I’ll see you next Saturday at eleven sharp.”

  “Why wait until then,” said Alex, “when we could make money like this every day?”

  “Because then we’d only milk the cow dry. And in any case, if your mother were to find out what you’re up to, she’d certainly put a stop to it.”

  Alex stuffed the crumpled notes in the back pocket of his jeans, shook hands with his partner, and said, “See you next Saturday.”

  “And try and be on time for a change,” said Ivan.

  As he walked toward the market, Alex began to whistle. He felt like a millionaire—which he’d already told his mother he would be by the age of thirty. He handed over ten dollars to her every Sunday evening, explaining that it came from the odd jobs he did in the market over the weekend. The truth was that the market had become his second home, and in the afternoons after school, and while