Heads You Win

by Jeffrey Archer

  Urged on by Alex, the cabdriver broke the speed limit several times in an attempt to get to Lawrence’s home before the press beat him to it. But his efforts were in vain, because by the time they reached Beacon Hill a marauding pack of journalists and photographers had already pitched their tents on the sidewalk in front of Lawrence’s town house, and clearly had no intention of budging until the candidate emerged from his castle and made a statement.

  For the past month Alex had been trying to get even one of them to attend one of Lawrence’s rallies and give him some coverage, only to be met with, “Why should we bother, when the result’s a foregone conclusion?” Now they no longer believed that was the case, they were hovering like vultures who’d spotted a wounded animal attempting to hide in the undergrowth.

  “Is Mr. Lowell going to withdraw?” shouted one of the reporters as Alex stepped out of the cab.

  “Will you be taking his place?” Another.

  “Did you know he had sex with a minor?” A third.

  Alex said nothing as he pushed his way through the baying pack, almost blinded by the photographers’ flashbulbs. He was relieved when Caxton opened the front door even before he knocked.

  “Where is he?” he asked as the butler closed the door behind him.

  “Mr. Lowell is still in his room, sir. He hasn’t appeared since I took his breakfast up over an hour ago, along with the morning papers.”

  Alex bounded up the stairs, not stopping until he reached the master bedroom. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. He knocked a second time, a little louder, but still nothing. Tentatively he turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

  Lawrence was hanging from a beam. A Harvard tie his noose.

  31

  SASHA

  Merrifield

  “This one’s from the butcher,” said Charlie. “It’s their monthly account.”

  “Pay it immediately,” said Elena. “Sasha insists on paying all our suppliers by return of post; that way we’re guaranteed the finest cuts, the freshest vegetables, and bread that’s come out of the oven that morning. A week late and you get what’s left over from the day before. Two weeks late, and they palm you off with whatever they haven’t been able to pass on to their regular customers. A month late, and they’ll stop supplying you.”

  “I’ll write out a check now,” said Charlie. “Sasha can sign it when he gets back from the constituency, and we can drop it off at the butcher’s on the way to the station tomorrow morning.”

  “It was good of you to take the day off and give me a hand with all this,” said Elena, staring despairingly at the stack of post on the table in front of her.

  “Sasha’s only sorry he’s not here to deal with it himself, but he can’t afford to take even a couple of hours off at the moment.”

  “Does that mean he’s going to win?” asked Elena.

  “No, it does not,” said Charlie firmly. “Merrifield is a rock-solid Tory seat. Mother Teresa couldn’t hope to win it, even if she was up against the devil himself.”

  “But Sasha is up against the devil,” said Elena.

  “Fiona’s not quite that bad.”

  “But if he can’t win,” said Elena, as Charlie opened the next letter, “why is he bothering, when there’s still so much work to be done here?”

  “Because he feels he has to win his spurs and prove himself on the field of battle, if he hopes to eventually be offered a safe seat.”

  “But surely the people of Merrifield can work out that Sasha would make a better MP than Fiona Hunter?”

  “I have no doubt that Sasha would win if it was a marginal seat,” said Charlie, “but it isn’t, so we’ll just have to accept he’s going to lose this one.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll ever understand English politics. In Russia, they know exactly who’s going to win, without bothering to count the votes.”

  “Just be grateful that cooking is an international language,” said Charlie, “that doesn’t require translation. Now, this one,” she said as she read the next letter, “is a reminder that the dishwasher in Elena Two is now three years old, and the company have recently launched a new model which has double the capacity of the old machine, and can wash everything at twice the speed.”

  “So when will the by-election take place?” asked Elena.

  “Eleven days to go, and then we can all get back to normal.”

  “No, you can’t. Because then Sasha will be a Member of Parliament and your life will be even more hectic.”

  “Elena, how many times do I have to tell you, he can’t win,” said Charlie, trying not to sound exasperated.

  “Never underestimate Sasha,” said Elena under her breath, but although Charlie heard her, she didn’t respond, because she had to read the next letter a second time.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Elena when she saw the look on Charlie’s face.

  Charlie threw her arms around her mother-in-law, handed the letter to her, and said, “Congratulations! Why don’t you read it for yourself, while I go and open a bottle of champagne.”

  * * *

  COWARD!

  screamed the headline on the front page of the Merrifield Gazette.

  “But I never said that,” protested Sasha.

  “I know you didn’t,” said Alf, “but that’s what the journalist assumed you meant when you told him you were disappointed that Fiona wouldn’t agree to take part in a public debate.”

  “Should I complain to the editor?”

  “Certainly not,” said Alf. “That’s the best free publicity we’ve had in years, and what’s more, she’ll have to respond, which will give us another headline tomorrow.”

  “I agree,” said Charlie. “Let her worry about you for a change.”

  “And I see your mother is also making the headlines,” said Alf, turning the page.

  “She most certainly is,” said Sasha, “and it’s no more than she deserves, although even I was surprised that both restaurants were awarded a Michelin star.”

  “Once this is all over,” said Alf, “I intend to take the whole team up to London so they can sample your mother’s cooking.”

  “Nice idea,” said Charlie. “But be warned, Alf, the only thing she’ll want to know is why her son isn’t your Member of Parliament.”

  “So what are we meant to be up to today?” asked Sasha, champing to get back to work.

  “There are still a few villages in the constituency that you haven’t visited yet. All you have to do is walk up and down the high street, and shake hands with at least one local resident, so no one can say you didn’t even bother to visit them.”

  “Isn’t that a bit cynical?”

  “And make sure you have lunch at a local pub,” said Alf, ignoring the comment, “and tell the landlord you’re thinking of buying a house in the constituency.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “And then I want you back in Roxton to canvass the council estate between five thirty and seven thirty, when most people will be getting home from work. But you can take a break between seven thirty and eight o’clock.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because you’ll only lose votes if you interrupt someone while they’re watching Coronation Street.” Sasha and Charlie burst out laughing. “I’m not joking,” said Alf.

  “And after that, do I keep on canvassing?”

  “No, never knock on anyone’s door after eight. I’ve arranged for you to address another public meeting, this time at the Roxton YMCA.”

  “But only twelve people bothered to turn up to the last one. And that included you, Charlie, and Mrs. Campion’s dog.”

  “I know,” said Alf, “but that’s still five more than the last candidate managed. And at least when you sat down, the dog was wagging its tail.”

  * * *

  Sasha was surprised by the warm welcome he received on the doorsteps and in the streets during the last week of the campaign. Se
veral people commented on the fact that Fiona had refused Sasha’s challenge to a public debate on the grounds that she couldn’t agree on a date with all the candidates, which produced another favorable headline: ANYTIME SUITS ME SAYS LABOUR CANDIDATE.

  “You’ll know you’ve made it,” said Alf, “when they replace the words ‘Labour candidate’ with your name.”

  “Especially if they get the spelling right,” said Mrs. Campion.

  Alf nodded toward Charlie, who was chatting to a young man outside the local Jobcentre. “And what’s more,” said Alf, “if your wife was the candidate and your mother agreed to open a restaurant in Merrifield, we’d have a far better chance.”

  During the last few days before the vote, Sasha didn’t even bother to go home, but slept in Alf’s spare room, so he was always up in time to greet the morning commuters.

  * * *

  Polling day was one long blur as Sasha rushed around the constituency, knocking on doors that had a tick on the party’s internal canvass returns, to remind their supporters to vote. He even drove some of the elderly, lame, and lazy to the nearest polling station, although he wasn’t sure that all of them actually voted for him.

  When the polls closed at ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Alf told him, “You couldn’t have done more. In fact I’d say you’re the best candidate we’ve ever had.”

  “Thank you,” replied Sasha, then whispered to Charlie, “It was a one-horse race.”

  After half a pint of bitter and a shared packet of crisps in the Roxton Arms, Alf suggested they make their way across to the town hall, where the count was already under way.

  When Alf, Sasha, and Charlie entered the main room, they were greeted by rows and rows of long tables, where volunteers were placing ballot papers into separate piles, while others were counting them, first in tens then in hundreds and finally thousands.

  They spent the next couple of hours walking around the room, discreetly checking the piles. Alf told Sasha more than once that he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When the town clerk, as returning officer, announced the result just after 3 a.m., a gasp went up from the Conservative ranks, while the Labour Party workers began applauding and slapping Sasha on the back.

  Alf wrote down the figures on the back of a cigarette packet and stared at them in disbelief.

  Roger Gilchrist (Lib) 2,709

  Fiona Hunter (Con) 14,146

  Screaming Lord Sutch (Ind) 728

  Sasha Karpenko (Lab) 11,365

  Janet Brealey (Ind) 37

  “I therefore declare that Fiona Hunter has been duly elected as the Member of Parliament for the constituency of Merrifield,” announced the town clerk.

  Fiona stepped up to the microphone to make her acceptance speech. She began by thanking her party workers and went on to say how much she was looking forward to representing the citizens of Merrifield in the House of Commons, but never once mentioned the names of her opponents. When she stepped aside to allow Sasha to take her place, she received less than enthusiastic applause.

  Sasha followed and accepted defeat graciously, congratulating his opponent on her well-run campaign, and wishing her success as Member of Parliament. Once all five candidates had delivered their speeches, Sasha left the stage to rejoin his team, who were celebrating as if they’d won by a landslide.

  “You’ve cut their majority from twelve thousand two hundred and fourteen to less than three thousand,” said Alf. “That will look very good on your CV, and God help whoever follows you as our candidate at the general election.”

  “Won’t you want me to stand again?” asked Sasha.

  “No, we won’t expect you to do that,” said Alf. “Not least because I have a feeling you’ll be offered several winnable seats before then, possibly even a safe Labour one.”

  “I’ve loved every moment of these last three weeks,” said Sasha.

  “Well, you don’t have to be bonkers to be the Labour candidate in a seat like Merrifield,” said Alf, “but it certainly helps. My final responsibility as chairman is to make sure you catch the last train back to Victoria.”

  “I think you’ll find it’s the first train to Victoria,” said Charlie.

  As they walked onto the platform for the last time, Alf kissed Charlie on both cheeks, then shook hands warmly with Sasha.

  “You were a fine candidate, sir,” he said. “I hope I live long enough to see you take your seat at the Cabinet table.”

  * * *

  The four of them met once a quarter. It wasn’t formal enough to be described as a board meeting, or casual enough to be thought of as a family get-together. The meeting always took place around a table in the alcove of Elena 1 at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon. Late enough for all the lunch guests to have departed, and early enough to be finished before the first dinner booking arrived.

  Sasha always chaired the meeting, while Charlie acted as secretary, preparing the agenda and taking the minutes. Elena, as head chef, and the countess as a fifty percent shareholder, made up the quartet.

  As they all saw each other regularly, it was rare for anything on the agenda to take them by surprise. A barman had stolen one bottle of whiskey too many and finally had to be sacked. Elena reluctantly had to change her baker when too many customers rejected the contents of the bread baskets. She had once told Catering Monthly that you can produce an award-winning meal only for it to be ruined by a stale bread roll or a lukewarm cup of coffee.

  Any other business, the last item on the agenda, usually consisted of agreeing on a date for the next meeting. But not today.

  “I picked up a piece of information yesterday,” said Sasha, “that I thought I ought to share with you.” The other three became unusually attentive. “Luini’s are about to announce that they’ll be closing their doors after forty-seven years. It seems young Tony Luini isn’t a chip off the old block, and since his father’s death, they’ve been steadily losing customers. So the family are putting the restaurant up for sale. Tony approached me and asked if we might be interested.”

  “What exactly is he selling?” asked Elena. “Because there’ll be little or no goodwill.”

  “A fourteen-year lease with an option to renew.”

  “Rent and rates?” asked Charlie.

  “The rent is thirty-two thousand pounds per year, payable to the Grosvenor Estate, and the rates are around twenty thousand pounds.”

  “How far away is it from Elena One and Two?” asked the countess, ever practical.

  “Just over a mile,” said Sasha. “About ten minutes in a taxi.”

  “If it’s not raining,” said Charlie.

  “My father,” said the countess, “used to say never spread your assets too thin. And as we only have one irreplaceable asset, I think Elena’s opinion is the one that matters. Especially if you were thinking of naming the restaurant Elena Three.”

  “Agreed,” said Charlie. “And there’s another factor we should take into consideration. If Sasha were to become an MP at the next election, he’ll find it hard to keep an eye on two restaurants, let alone three.”

  “Especially if I were selected for a northern seat,” said Sasha. “I’d have to spend half my life in a train or car. I’ve just been invited to attend an interview for Wandsworth Central, but it’s such a safe Labour seat I’ll be lucky to get shortlisted.”

  “May I suggest,” said the countess, “that we all have lunch at Luini’s during the week, and then Elena can let us know if the idea is worth pursuing. Because without her particular brand of magic, we would be wasting our time.”

  “Agreed,” said Sasha. “And on that note, I declare the meeting closed.”

  * * *

  The two of them walked down the town hall steps, holding hands.

  “Just smile,” said Sasha. “Don’t say anything until we’re in the car.”

  He opened the car door and waited for Charlie to get in.

  “You haven’t done that for a while,” teased Charlie, as he climbed into the driver�
��s seat.

  Sasha waved to Bill Samuel, the local party chairman, before he put the car into first gear. He didn’t speak until he’d eased away from the pavement and joined the early evening traffic.

  “Well, how do you think it went?” he asked as they headed toward the river.

  “You couldn’t have done much better,” said Charlie. “I’m confident you’ll be their candidate by this time next week.”

  “A week’s a long time in politics, as Harold Wilson once reminded us,” said Sasha. “So I’m not going to take anything for granted.”

  “They all but selected you tonight,” said Charlie.

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “The chairman’s wife, Jackie, told me you got one hundred and forty-nine votes, and the other two shortlisted candidates got one hundred and fifty-one between them. If you’d only got two more votes, she said, they would have selected you this evening. So by this time next week!”

  “One of the safest seats in the country,” said Sasha. “Less than twenty minutes from the House of Commons and only fifteen from our home in Fulham. What more could a man ask for?”

  “I’m pregnant,” said Charlie.

  Sasha slammed on the brakes. There was a cacophony of angry horns coming from behind him, but he ignored them, as he took Charlie in his arms and said, “That’s wonderful news, darling. But we must make sure the committee know before they meet next week. Perhaps you should give your new friend Jackie Samuel a call.”

  “I must confess that wasn’t quite the reaction I was expecting,” said Charlie.

  * * *

  “Congratulations, darling,” said Elena when she heard the news.

  “Thank you,” said Sasha. “But they haven’t actually selected me yet.”

  “Not you, idiot. I was congratulating Charlie. What are you hoping for, a girl or a boy?”

  “A girl of course,” said Sasha. “After all, there hasn’t been one in the Karpenko family for four generations.”

  “I don’t care,” said Charlie, “as long as he or she doesn’t want to be a politician.”

  “But she could end up being Labour’s first woman Prime Minister,” said Sasha.