The Madness of July by James Naughtie Page B

forty-five, and lithe. Having touched him already on the upper arm, by old habit, Flemyng realized he was in good shape, player of a hard game. His black hair gleamed, and flopped over his collar. Wherry was broad, white and crinkly on top, and older than his colleague. His face bore the traces of wild times past. He was dressed in striped seersucker, the olive-skinned Sassi in dark blue. Each wore a flag pin and Flemyng noted a chunky fraternity ring on the little finger of Sassi’s right hand. Their shoes shone and they left a faint trail of scent as they climbed the stairs.
    Waiting for them was Paul, displaying his gift of dressing neatly on the right side of formality when he was away from his desk. His civil service pin-stripes had made way for a summerweight grey suit with a bright green tie and a button-down shirt that was a subtle gesture to his guests. He had a quality of timelessness, which allowed him never to make a point with his appearance nor offer a challenge. His wife Penny was beside him, bubbly and wide-eyed, with the side-to-side gait of a country girl that was deceptive because she knew more about members of the cabinet than some of them knew about themselves. And then – Flemyng turned to his left – there was Francesca.
    She was preparing to bring the two ministers forward. First, she pulled Flemyng towards her and they brushed cheeks. She wore the jasmine perfume he’d brought home from Cairo the previous month and her long dark hair was swinging free. In a cool blue-green dress she seemed immune from the heat. ‘Great night,’ she whispered in his ear. But then she felt the tension in his shoulders.
    ‘OK?’
    ‘Later. Don’t worry.’
    ‘What’s going on?’ She tried to keep him from turning away.
    ‘Too much.’
    The ministers, out of his line of sight, stepped forward together. Though Francesca was tall, Jonathan Ruskin seemed to tower over her. For a moment Flemyng seemed thrown, as if he had expected someone else, and his eyes veered from one to the other. Francesca saw Paul moving towards him from one side with hand outstretched. But Flemyng had bounced back. ‘Jonathan!’ Then, ‘Harry!’ as Sorley appeared from behind Ruskin. It seemed to Francesca that the scene froze for a moment.
    The ministers went through the preliminaries with the Americans and champagne was poured, so the volume of conversation rose. The bright red programmes went round. Eugene Onegin . Paul checked that everyone knew something about the opera without making it a test. Sassi was beaming and, taking the floor with ease, revealed that he’d studied at the Julliard and still played in a friend’s string quartet when he was in New York. He gestured to Wherry. ‘And Jackson’s a Broadway man, music in the veins. So we’re grateful that this was possible. Truly.’ He inclined his head towards Paul, who had his hands out ready to receive thanks.
    Sorley, who always carried with him a sensitivity about his place, was getting the idea that his role might be to set himself up as Wherry’s partner, and launched into a clumsy question-and-answer session with Paul to set the scene. Director, singers, the conductor’s reputation. ‘Bonkers, I hear,’ said Sorley, missing the beat as usual. Flemyng listened without a word, and began to smile. Wherry was a type he recognized, and would have done his homework, with Pushkin at bedtime to avoid mistakes. He watched Sassi scanning the room.
    They enthused about the atmosphere, although none of them had yet seen a single member of the audience. Francesca said there was pandemonium backstage with a coughing scare in the principals’ corridor, but nerves always helped. Flemyng winked at her, and she realized he was trying to reassure her. ‘English asparagus,’ she announced, and they sat down. Sassi, next to Paul with Ruskin to his right, opened things up wide. ‘So we’re off to Russia tonight. Familiar?’
    He grinned straight at Flemyng as he spoke,