Heads You Win

* * *

After paying a discreet visit to Boston’s most exclusive wigmaker he booked a return flight to Nice, and paid with cash. The travel agent also reserved him a room at the Hôtel de Paris, open-ended, as he couldn’t be sure how long it would take him to carry out his plan.

By training he was a micromanager, obsessed with detail. His hero, General Eisenhower, had written in his memoirs that all things being equal, planning and preparation are what will decide who wins the battle. By the time he boarded the plane for Nice, he was more than ready to confront her on any battlefield she chose.

* * *

Miss Robbins had booked them into the Connaught, Lawrence’s favorite hotel in London. As they only had a long weekend before flying on to Davos, every minute of their stay had to be accounted for.

The National Gallery, the Wallace Collection, and the Royal Academy were compulsory viewing, and didn’t disappoint. Henry Goodman’s haunting Shylock made them want to extend their visit and see every other production at the National Theatre. And how did one decide between the Natural History Museum, the V&A, and the Science Museum, unless you did all three of them on the run?

Anna saved the Turner Collection at the Tate for their last morning, and both of them were standing outside the entrance even before the gallery had opened its doors. A View of the Archbishop’s Palace, painted when the artist was only fifteen, could not have left anyone in any doubt of Turner’s genius. But after seeing The Shipwreck and Venice, Anna wanted to say to Alex, Why don’t you go on to Davos without me?

She turned to see him chatting to a woman who didn’t look like a tourist, and her lapel badge suggested she might work at the Tate. Anna had for some time wanted to ask someone about Turner’s fractious relationship with Constable, his great contemporary and rival, so she strolled across to join them.

“I’m so sorry,” the woman was saying. “I thought for a moment you were my … How stupid of me.” She hurried away, looking embarrassed.

“What was that all about?” asked Anna.

“I’m not sure, but I think she mistook me for someone else.”

“Leading a double life are you, my darling?” she teased. “Because she’s just your type, dark eyes, dark hair, and she looked highly intelligent.”

“I found one of those some time ago,” said Alex, putting his arm around his wife, “and frankly, one is quite enough.”

“Do I sense that you’re beginning to feel a little ner

vous about your speech?”

“You could be right.”

“Then let’s go back to the hotel and we can go over it one more time.”

Neither of them noticed the gallery’s head conservator watching them from her office window as they made their way out onto Millbank and hailed a black cab. If it hadn’t been for the Brooks Brothers suit and his American accent, Charlie could have sworn … and then she remembered. Could it possibly be the woman who’d worked at the Rosenthal gallery, and was now the curator of the Lowell Collection?

* * *

He took his seat in first class, and was relieved to find he didn’t recognize any of the other passengers. He used the long flight across the Atlantic to go over his strategy again and again, although he knew he would need to look surprised when they first met. As with any seasoned orator, even the ad libs had to be rehearsed.

He turned to her personal file, suspecting that by now he knew more about her than even her closest friends. By the time the plane touched down, he was wondering what could go wrong. Because there would always be something you hadn’t anticipated. Eisenhower.

Once he’d passed through passport control and retrieved his two large leather cases, he took a taxi to the Hôtel de Paris, checked in, and was accompanied to his suite. He gave the porter a large tip, all part of the plan. He needed to be remembered. He could never sleep on planes, so he went straight to bed and didn’t wake until eight the following morning.

He spent the day acquainting himself with the layout of the hotel as well as the casino on the other side of the square, not that he ever gambled. It was important for him to look and sound like a regular before they bumped into each other. And most important of all, it was the evenings that needed to be rehearsed to a split second.

On Monday night, he dined alone in the hotel restaurant, and took his time gaining the confidence of Jacques, the maître d’, helped by leaving another extravagant tip before he returned to his room. By Tuesday, Jacques had confirmed that she and her husband dined at the hotel restaurant every Friday, before walking across the square where they would remain at the gaming tables until the early hours.

On Wednesday, Jacques moved him to the table next to the one they always sat at, and he selected a seat that would place him with his back to her. By Thursday, Jacques was well aware of the part he was expected to play. But then, monsieur had left him several large incentives, and he anticipated that if he played his part, there was still more where that came from.

On Friday evening he was seated in his place thirty minutes before the curtain was due to rise. He placed his order, but told Jacques he wasn’t in a hurry.

The two of them entered the dining room just after eight o’clock, and Jacques didn’t even look in his direction as he accompanied his guests to their usual table. He continued to read the international Wall Street Journal, as he needed her to be aware that he was alone.

Jacques waited until their main courses had been cleared before the curtain rose for the second act, when Jacques walked back on stage to play his cameo role. He bent down and whispered in her ear.

“Did you notice who’s sitting at the next table, madam?”

“If you mean the elderly gentleman with his back to me, I can’t say I did.”