‘Wider . . .’ He peers over her shoulder, staring through the gap in her shirt to the plain white sports bra underneath. His breathing gets faster as the stiffness against her backside pushes harder.

Over the last six months she’s considered every angle. That maybe his trousers pressing into hers like this would leave trace fibres. They would but it would never be enough to show anything other than normal transference of people moving in close proximity to each other.

‘Whore.’ The blunt voice at normal volume makes her flinch visibly. ‘Get dressed,’ he sneers, reaching past to press the button on the lift, and she rushes with hurried hands to re-clasp the buttons on her shirt. He steps back, humming to himself as the lift comes to a stop and the doors open.

‘Remember what I said,’ he whispers behind her as she gets to the door to his apartment rooms. She does not reply but unlocks the door and enters first with a visual sweep through the bathroom, kitchen, dressing room and bedroom.

‘Clear, sir,’ she reports dully.

‘Thank you, constable.’ He nods affably. ‘A sterling effort as always. Dismissed.’

She walks towards the door, passing by his shoulder as he whispers quietly, ‘Think about it.’

He did not need to whisper and he did not need the pretence of acting normally either. His apartment is almost as secure as the lift.

Outside she transmits to control that he is within his apartment. The message is relayed to a house of staff breathing a sigh of relief.

The evening draws out. An aide brings food. A silver tray of the Prime Minister’s favourite fish and chips. She is brought coffee and relieved by the sergeant for a toilet break, but in such close proximity to his apartment they speak only muted words of a professional nature.

The shift in time heralds the greatest danger. The meal has been served. The toilet break given and with nothing else planned, she knows he will be in there, drinking, scheming, planning. She stares at the door, tensing at every sound from within. The shadows grow longer, deeper, and the soft glow lamps come on at the appointed time. Fourteen days. Fourteen days. She repeats it over and over. Imagining herself working within the royal households and away from here. She shows no visible reaction when the door to his apartment opens.

‘Can you do a bug sweep, please,’ the affable voice calls out.

‘Sir.’ She moves to the cupboard and takes the long wand, forcing herself to take a deep breath and hold steadfast with courage in the face of adversity. He will not beat her. He will not win. Fourteen days. ‘Sir, which rooms?’ she asks, smelling the whisky in the air.

He turns with a smile. ‘All of them, please.’