‘You’re here as an intern, yes? I’m Lauren,’ said the young woman who arrived to escort her across into the main building, not waiting for an answer before leading the way through the metal turnstiles which opened like a mouth, its teeth clamping shut behind them.

Gabriela thought of the night before, turning away from the mirror towards Tom, who was on the other side of the bedroom they had shared since making the decision that rather than sell her father’s house, they would move in together.

‘Stop worrying, you’re not going to mess it up.’ Tom’s face had been serious. ‘You’re brilliant, everyone knows you’re brilliant. You have a degree in languages, you work hard. I promise you, there is nothing to worry about.’

‘I just want it so badly,’ she said, noticing a tiny crack in the top corner of the mirror.

‘I know you do.’

‘But what if …’

‘Just enjoy it, for God’s sake. Why do you always have to catastrophise? Everything’s going to be fine.’

‘This way.’ Lauren turned sharply left, holding open the first door they came to and leading the way up a flight of stone steps, past a couple of offices and a tiny Costa concession, where the queue stretched out the door.

Inside, the offices were more old-fashioned than Gabriela had imagined, semi open-plan, little more than a bunch of desks, suit jackets discarded on the backs of chairs. Placing her bag on the desk Lauren had pointed her towards, she removed her camel-coloured cashmere coat, one of the few items of her mother’s clothing that she had kept.

A while later, a woman a couple of years older than her approached to give the grand tour, introducing herself as Madeleine.

‘Is it what you had imagined?’ she asked as they weaved back through the hallway. ‘My own theory is that this whole structure is built for people who know nothing other than quads. Went to public school (quad), Oxbridge (quads), and now the FCO – guess what? Architecture to comfort public schoolboys.’

Madeleine had grown up in the service, she explained as they walked. Her father, a diplomat in countries across the Middle East and Asia, had been tipped to become Permanent Under-Secretary before dropping dead in the shower on the morning of his fifty-second birthday. On paper, at least, it seemed to Gabriela that Madeleine was born for this world; the gilded corridors of King Charles Street seemed to widen a little for her as they passed through.

Outside, corridors snaked around the quad, with lettered entry points and numbered offices. Noticing Gabriela looking, Madeleine said, ‘The whole thing is apparently designed with the intention of confusing as many people as possible at once. In that respect, at least, it’s a highly effective system. You all right for lunch?’

‘I brought sandwiches with me.’

‘Good, and you know where the coffee is?’

Gabriela nodded again. ‘What do you do here?’