Once posted inside she took the jibes and comments in good humour. The aides, staff, visitors, politicians and even the man himself all recognised her from the coverage but she thought the attention would pass. Only it didn’t pass. It got worse.

‘Mobile to gate, we’re on your channel now for approach.’

‘Static gate receiving, waiting order to open.’

‘Static control to mobile, that’s received and understood. All static units be aware of approach from mobile.’

Safa moves to the stairwell heading down to the ground floor corridor and her position beside the main lift.

‘Mobile to static gate, open now please, code alpha alpha nine seven.’

‘Code alpha alpha nine seven received, gate opening.’

She listens intently, processing the movements in her mind. The code means there are no issues and a normal approach is expected.

‘Mobile to gate, we’re through. Comms to you.’

‘Static gate to front door, approach to you now, confirm visuals.’

‘Front door to gate, visual clear approach to me now. Mobile slowing. Mobile stopped. Door open. Transfer under way, hold positions, he is answering questions from the press. Hold. Hold. Hold. Transfer back under way and safely through front door.’

Safa waits with her left hand closing to activate the press-to-talk switch as the front door swings open and the man himself walks through, waving back at the press.

‘Inner post,’ Safa transmits softly. ‘Inside now, door closing . . . secure.’

The front door closes with a horde of aides waiting to rush forward the second the view outside is gone. She watches everything, everyone. Eyes sweeping over the aides as they hold tablets and sheets of paper, but more than anything she watches the man himself to see if the smile given to the press fades when the door closes. It doesn’t and her heart sinks because to her a good mood is worse than a bad one. He grins round at the aides, making jokes in his blustering, seemingly permanently confused way that won so many millions of people over during the last election.

‘Bloody day,’ he booms down the corridor. ‘Is it clock-off time yet?’ he asks a senior aide, who shakes his head gravely.

‘No, sir, unfortunately you have one further engagement.’

‘One more?’ he blusters. ‘Good God man, you’re working me to death.’

‘My apologies, sir,’ the senior aide says.

‘If I’d known what a taskmaster you were I’d never have taken the bloody job, eh Carmichael? Taskmaster, ain’t ya?’

‘I am, sir.’

‘Does he boss you about too?’ he asks a junior aide. ‘Bet he does,’ he adds, with that wry grin the nation loves so much. ‘I bet he’s a right mean bastard and a secret Labour voter to boot no doubt. Eh, Carmichael? Vote Labour, do you?’

‘The Green Party, sir,’ Carmichael replies with a deadpan expression.