Heads You Win Read online

  Elena put down her fork, but didn’t move. Knocks on the door meant only one thing. Sasha jumped up and left the table before she could stop him. He opened the front door to find a tall slim man, elegantly dressed in a long black coat with a velvet collar and a trilby, standing in the corridor.

  “Good evening, Sasha,” the man said, handing him a card.

  “Good evening, sir,” said Sasha, wondering how the stranger knew his name. He looked at the card, and thought he recognized the name. He certainly knew the address.

  “I was hoping to have a word with your mother,” said Mr. Agnelli, his accent revealing his heritage.

  “Please come in,” said Sasha, and led Mr. Agnelli into the kitchen.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Karpenko,” he said, removing his hat. “My name is Matteo Agnelli, and I’m—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Agnelli.”

  He smiled. “I’m sorry to disturb you while you’re having your supper, so I’ll get straight to the point. My chef has handed in his notice as he wishes to return to his family in Naples, and I have been unable to find a suitable replacement. So I would like to offer you the position.”

  Elena couldn’t hide her surprise. She’d only been working for Mr. Moretti for a few months, and had no idea that his greatest rival was even aware of her existence. Before she could reply, Mr. Agnelli solved the mystery.

  “One of my regular customers told me he’d recently dined at Moretti’s, and that the food had improved beyond recognition, so I decided to find out why. On my instructions, our maître d’ had lunch at your restaurant last week, and afterward he warned me that we now had a genuine rival on our doorstep. So I would like to offer you the position of head chef at Osteria Roma.”

  “But—” began Elena.

  “I can’t give you a flat above the restaurant, but I would be willing to double your wages, which would allow you to rent a place of your own.” Sasha began to listen with greater interest. “Of course, the challenge would be considerable, as we have double the number of covers as Moretti’s. But from all I’ve heard, you seem to enjoy a challenge.”

  “I’m flattered, Mr. Agnelli, but I’m afraid I’m in debt to Mr. Moretti, who—”

  “And if I was willing to cover that debt, Mrs. Karpenko?”

  “It’s not a financial debt,” said Elena, “it’s personal. It was Mr. Moretti who made it possible for Sasha and me to come to this country. That is not something I can easily repay.”

  “Of course, I understand. And how I wish it had been me who’d been traveling on that ship from Leningrad.” Mr. Agnelli handed Elena his card. “But should you ever change your mind…”

  “Not while Mr. Moretti is still alive,” said Elena.

  “Despite my countrymen’s reputation, I hadn’t thought of going quite that far,” said Agnelli. “But if you insist…” All three of them burst out laughing.

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you,” said Elena, rising from her place and accompanying Mr. Agnelli to the door.

  “Will you tell Mr. Moretti about the offer?” asked Sasha, when she returned to the kitchen.

  “Certainly not. He has enough problems of his own at the moment, without me threatening to leave.”

  “But if he knew about the offer, he might offer you a raise, even a percentage of the profits.”

  “There are no profits,” said Elena. “The restaurant’s barely breaking even.”

  “All the more reason to take Mr. Agnelli’s offer seriously. After all, you might not get another opportunity like this again.”

  “You may well be right, Sasha, but loyalty doesn’t have a price. It has to be earned. And in any case, Mr. Moretti deserves better than that.” Sasha still didn’t look convinced. “If you ever have to face a similar dilemma,” said Elena, “just think what your father would have done, and you won’t go far wrong.”

  * * *

  “The headmaster wants to see you, Karpenko,” said Mr. Sutton as he entered the classroom the following morning. “You’re to report to his study immediately.”

  The tone of his teacher’s voice didn’t suggest it was anything other than a command. Sasha stood up and left the classroom, painfully aware that all the other boys were staring at him. As he walked along the corridor he wondered what the old man could possibly want. He knocked on the headmaster’s door.

  “Come,” said an unmistakable voice.

  Sasha entered Mr. Quilter’s study to find him sitting behind his desk, grim-faced. Another man was seated opposite him, who didn’t turn around.

  “Karpenko, this is Mr. Tremlett,” said the headmaster. A large man with thinning red hair, whose sizable paunch meant he couldn’t do up the buttons on his double-breasted suit, turned and gave Sasha a smug look that would have told any poker player he had a full house. “Mr. Tremlett tells me you punched his son during a game of football yesterday, and broke his nose. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Tremlett has assured me that his son had done nothing to provoke you, other than to score a goal. Is that the case?”

  The meaning of the word “sneak” had been explained to Sasha in his first week at Latymer Upper, along with the consequences.

  “It’s called collaboration in the Soviet Union,” Sasha had told his friend Ben Cohen. “But the consequences there are likely to be a little more serious than being sent to Coventry.”

  The headmaster waited for an explanation, the expression on his face rather suggesting that he hoped there would be one, but Sasha made no attempt to defend himself.

  “In the circumstances,” Mr. Quilter said eventually, “you leave me with no choice but to administer an appropriate punishment.”

  Sasha was prepared for detention, extra prep, even six of the best, but he was shocked by the punishment the headmaster prescribed, especially as it meant the school would suffer every bit as much as he would. But he suspected that wouldn’t worry Tremlett. Father or son.

  “And should such an incident ever be repeated, Karpenko, I will have no choice but to withdraw your scholarship.” Sasha knew that would mean his having to leave Latymer Upper, because his mother certainly couldn’t afford the school fees. “Let’s hope that’s an end to the matter,” were his final words.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” said Ben Cohen when Sasha explained why he’d been demoted to the Second Eleven for the rest of the season.

  “Tremlett’s father is a school governor, as well as a local councilor, so who do you think Quilter is more likely to believe?”

  “This isn’t the Soviet Union,” said Ben. “And Mr. Quilter is a fair man. I should know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My father is a Jewish immigrant, and several other schools turned me down before Latymer offered me a place.”

  “I always think of you as English,” said Sasha.

  “I’m sure you do,” said Ben. “But the Tremletts of the world don’t, and never will.”

  * * *

  Sasha didn’t tell his mother the reason he was no longer playing in goal for the First Eleven. However, the rest of the school became painfully aware who was responsible for the team no longer having a clean sheet, while the Second Eleven were enjoying a vintage season.

  When the headmaster asked to see Sasha at the end of term he couldn’t think what he’d done wrong this time, but felt sure he was about to find out. He knocked tentatively on Mr. Quilter’s door and waited for the familiar “Come.” When he entered the study, he was greeted with a smile.

  “Take a seat.” Sasha was relieved. If you remained standing, you were in trouble; if you were invited to sit, all was well. “I wanted to have a private word with you, Sasha—” the first time the headmaster had called him by his Christian name. “I’ve been going over your mock A-level papers, and I think you should consider entering for the Isaac Barrow Prize for Mathematics at Cambridge.”

  Sasha remained silent. He had no idea what the headmas