Eleanor folded their mother’s clothes neatly before packing them into the careworn brown leather suitcase that lay open upon the hospital bed.

Simon watched her. She looked frail and older than her years. Eleanor heard his heavy wheezing. She looked up, observed him with a cold gaze and resumed the folding and packing. “You’re late!”

“I’m sorry.”

“She asked for you.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“She asked for you!” Eleanor snarled.

“Let’s leave me and you outside,” Simon pleaded.

Eleanor stopped and locked her icy blue gaze upon him. “This isn’t about you and me. She asked for you, at the end, and you weren’t there.”

“I was busy. I’m sorry!”

“I wonder if you’ll be saying that when they read out the will.”

Simon felt the blow from that; it struck him hard, and he reeled from its impact. “This isn’t the first time she’s asked for me. We’ve been at this point before.”

“We’ve never been at this point!” Eleanor said, shaking her head with a look of disgust.

Simon winced inwardly at his inappropriate choice of phrase. “You know what I mean.”

Eleanor stepped away from the bed, towards him, her movements stiff, her face drawn tight. “You were never here.”

“Rubbish!”

Eleanor pointed an accusing finger at him. “You were never here for her!” Simon noticed her hand was shaking, he wasn’t sure if it was anger or grief.

“Jesus, Eleanor!”

Eleanor turned her back on him. “Is your time so precious that you couldn’t spare half an hour for your own mother?”

Simon shook his head. His family and his business were young; he had demands on his time that Eleanor, as their mother’s full-time carer, could never comprehend. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said.

“Really? Try me.”

“My family is young.”

“Mine’s dead,” his sister responded.

Simon winced. “My career is just taking off.”

“And mine’s just ended,” she countered.

Simon moved towards Eleanor; his attempt at breaking the ice between them. Eleanor heard his footsteps upon the vinyl flooring but didn’t turn around. She resumed her packing as calmly and methodically as it had begun. “You want to talk about time? The fruits of my time are in the mortuary,” she said coolly.

“Eleanor!”

“Keep it. Whatever it is you have to say just keep it to yourself. I don’t want to hear it.”

Simon backed away and turned towards the open doorway and the bustle of the ward outside. “When’s the funeral?”

“Well, if you can make the time, it’ll be this Friday,” Eleanor said. She had a slight smile and a vicious glint in her eyes.

He was supposed to meet his biggest client that day for a deal worth thousands of pounds. Of course, Eleanor knew this. She knew this because she had been there when he phoned their mother with the good news.

He shivered before chuckling softly.

The last words he ever said to his sister were, “I’ll have to check my diary, but I think I can make it.”

Kevin was stood at the kettle, waiting for it to boil, when his new director walked into the kitchen. She took a cup out of the cupboard and waited in silence. Nervous, Kevin tried making conversation. A few polite but stilted pleasantries were exchanged before they struck upon a topic that interested them both – the director’s upcoming wedding anniversary, which was a big one.

Kevin thought about his parents’ anniversary, which was within a few days of the director’s. “So, it’s your fortieth then?”

The director – a neatly presented woman in her early fifties – looked at him in disgust and said: “Actually, it’s our thirtieth.”

Embarrassed, Kevin realised his mistake. This woman held the key to any future raises he might receive. He needed to dig his way out of this hole as quickly as possible. He attempted to explain himself. “Sorry. What I meant to say is my parents are having their fortieth. That’s what I meant, you know, to say.”

The director looked down her nose at him. “Fine,” she said, although he could see it wasn’t. “Not to worry.”

Kevin still felt ice in the air, so he tried to break it. “I mean, they’re getting on as well. You know, my parents.”

The director narrowed her eyes at him. “As well?”

Kevin realised that he needed to stop speaking and leave immediately. “No. What I meant is that they’re getting on. My parents, that is. Not you.”

The kettle – furred up with limescale – was taking its time about boiling. Kevin felt cold sweat form upon his back. The director’s gaze was upon him, her eyes cold and sharp, regarding him in silence. What the hell was taking the kettle so long?

“They’re in their seventies now,” he said, offering further explanation.

“That’s nice,” replied his director coolly.

“It must be nice to be that age and still in love,” he said nervously. “I mean, you must be very happy.”

“I’m not seventy,” she hissed.

“No. No. No, I meant you must be happy,” said Kevin, swallowing audibly and glancing at the kettle. “To have, you know, reached thirty years. Of marriage, I mean.”

He looked at the kettle. The button was depressed, so why the hell wasn’t it boiling? He shook the kettle, spilling water all over the counter. His director looked at him, shook her head and then nodded at the wall. “Might help if you turn the plug on.”

Kevin looked at the plug – the button was off. He turned it on and put his cup – with a heaped spoon of coffee in it – back in the cupboard and said, looking at his watch. “I should, you know, be making my way back. You know, it’s not even my coffee. It’s my boss’ drink.”

He walked off and only looked round when he reached his cubicle.

Even from the safety of his cubicle he could feel her gaze. She was still shaking her head at him, her top lip curled with disgust.