‘But don’t you want to be there?’ I said. ‘And what about Charles? Surely he’s there already.’ Charles is Clare’s pompous American banker husband. Everything my parents should despise, but he charms them with his claim to be the only man in the City who supports Labour, and by regaling them with stories of bankers’ excesses. The way he tells it, he’s waging a one-man war on the system from the inside. Luckily he’s on the losing side, or his humungous bonus might shrink.

‘Charlie’s in New York,’ my mother said. ‘No one’s been able to get hold of him yet. Your father’s not coping.’

There’s nothing wrong with my dad, but their relationship is based on the conceit that he’s a frail genius who could drop dead at any minute and it’s her duty to look after him.

Fuck. Mum and Dad are actually paralysed. ‘OK. I’ll go. I’ll keep you updated.’

*

The senior ward sister is talking to me. She has wavy blonde hair and her watch pinned upside-down on her bosom. ‘How are you doing, hon?’ she asks. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

I shake my head. ‘How’s my sister?’

A small smile, looking me in the eye. It’s meant to reassure, but it makes me squirm. I don’t want sympathy. I want my sister to be OK.

‘She’s a battler isn’t she. She’s not giving up.’

Of course she’s not giving up. Clare’s the most tenacious person I’ve known. But the nurse hasn’t answered my question. ‘Is she going to be OK?’

She glances over her shoulder as if she’s afraid of being overheard. ‘The doctor will talk to you.’

‘When?’

‘As soon as he can.’

‘Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?’ I add a little helplessly. ‘Please.’ It sounds pathetic. I spend my life prising secrets out of powerful people and yet I’ve been here seven hours and I can’t get the prognosis for my sister.

That smile again, the unsettling eye contact. ‘The doctor will fill you in.’

I sigh.

She pauses. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

The moment she’s gone I spring from my chair and rush to the bathroom to wash my hands. Staring into the square little mirror above the sink, I wince. Looking back are the hollow eye sockets in grey skin of my father. It is a resemblance I deny, but that’s impossible tonight.

This is your fault, the reflection says to me.

‘Not true.’ I say it out loud. How can it be my fault? We’ve barely spoken for years.