"Helplessly, the Perownes watched them all approach. In a sudden press of bodies they were introduced to the Prime Minister. He took Rosalind's hand first, then Henry's. The grip was firm and manly, and to Perowne's surprise, Blair was looking at him with recognition and interest. The gaze was intelligent and intense, and unexpectedly youthful. So much had yet to happen.
He said, 'I really admire the work you're doing.'
Perowne said automatically, 'Thank you.' But he was impressed. It was just conceivable, he supposed, that Blair with his good memory and reputation for absorbing the details of his ministers' briefs would have heard of the hospital's excellent report last month - all targets met - and even of the special mention of the neurosurgery department's exceptional results. Procedures twenty-three per cent up on last year. Later Henry realized what an absurd notion it was.
The Prime Minister, who still had hold of his hand, added, 'In fact, we've got two of your paintings hanging in Downing Street. Cherie and I adore them.'
'No, no,' Perowne said.
'Yes, yes,' the Prime Minister insisted, pumping his hand. He was in no mood for artistic modesty.
'No, I think you-'
'Honestly. They're in the dining room.'
'You're making a mistake,' Perowne said, and on that word there passed through the Prime Minister's features for the briefest instant a look of sudden alarm, of fleeting self-doubt. No one else saw his expression freeze and his eyes bulge minimally. A hairline fracture appeared in the assurance of power."
Ian McEwan, Saturday, pp. 143-144.
A true story.
He said, 'I really admire the work you're doing.'
Perowne said automatically, 'Thank you.' But he was impressed. It was just conceivable, he supposed, that Blair with his good memory and reputation for absorbing the details of his ministers' briefs would have heard of the hospital's excellent report last month - all targets met - and even of the special mention of the neurosurgery department's exceptional results. Procedures twenty-three per cent up on last year. Later Henry realized what an absurd notion it was.
The Prime Minister, who still had hold of his hand, added, 'In fact, we've got two of your paintings hanging in Downing Street. Cherie and I adore them.'
'No, no,' Perowne said.
'Yes, yes,' the Prime Minister insisted, pumping his hand. He was in no mood for artistic modesty.
'No, I think you-'
'Honestly. They're in the dining room.'
'You're making a mistake,' Perowne said, and on that word there passed through the Prime Minister's features for the briefest instant a look of sudden alarm, of fleeting self-doubt. No one else saw his expression freeze and his eyes bulge minimally. A hairline fracture appeared in the assurance of power."
Ian McEwan, Saturday, pp. 143-144.
A true story.
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