Heads You Win Read online

  “So what’s my line when the locals accuse me of being a carpetbagger?”

  “Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,” said Alf.

  “But you’ve already admitted we haven’t got a hope in hell,” said Sasha.

  “Welcome to the world of realpolitik,” said Alf, “or at least the Merrifield version of it.”

  * * *

  “So what’s your first impression?” asked Michael when Sasha and Charlie joined the rest of the team for lunch at the Roxton Arms.

  “The Conservatives may have all the best constituencies, but Labour still have all the best people,” he said as he ate a ham sandwich that his mother wouldn’t have given plate space to.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Campion after Sasha had devoured a pork pie, washed down with half a pint of Farley’s. “The time has come to foist you upon an unsuspecting public. Our posters and leaflets haven’t been printed yet, so we’ll have to wing it for the first couple of days. And just remember, Sasha, there’s only one sentence you have to deliver again and again until you’re repeating it in your sleep,” Audrey added, as she pinned a large red rosette to his lapel.

  Sasha, accompanied by his chairman, agent, and a couple of party workers, ventured out onto the high street. When he encountered his first constituent, Sasha said, “My name’s Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday, March the thirteenth. I hope I can rely on your vote?” He thrust out his hand, but the man ignored him and kept on walking. “Charming,” muttered Sasha.

  “Shh!” said Mrs. Campion. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t be voting for you. He could be deaf, or in a hurry.”

  His second attempt was a little more successful, because a woman carrying a bag of shopping at least stopped to shake hands.

  “What are you going to do about the closing of the cottage hospital?” she asked.

  Sasha didn’t even realize Roxton had a cottage hospital.

  “He’ll do everything in his power to get the council to reverse their decision,” said Alf, coming to his rescue. “So make sure you vote Labour on March the thirteenth.”

  “But you haven’t got a hope in hell,” said the woman. “A donkey wearing a blue rosette would win Merrifield.”

  “Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,” said Sasha, trying to sound confident, but the woman didn’t look convinced as she picked up her bag and walked off.

  “Hello, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate—”

  “Sorry, Mr. Karpenko, I’ll be voting for Hunter. I always do.”

  “But he died last week,” protested Sasha.

  “Are you sure?” said the man, “because my wife told me to vote Hunter again.”

  “Is it true that you were born in Russia?” asked the next man Sasha approached.

  “Yes,” said Sasha, “but—”

  “Then I’ll be voting Conservative for the first time,” the man said, not breaking his stride.

  “Hi, I’m Sasha Karpenko—”

  “I’m voting Liberal,” said a young woman pushing a pram, “and even we’ll beat you this time.”

  “Hi, I’m Sasha—”

  “Good luck, Sasha, I’ll be voting for you, even though you haven’t got a chance.”

  “Thank you,” said Sasha. Turning to Alf he said, “Is it always this bad?”

  “Actually, you’re doing rather well compared to our last candidate.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “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 cove