“I'm sorry, Mr. Forrester,” he said finally. “Given the nature of the accident, it's a miracle that they survived at all.” Gordon nodded, and then his attention caught on something the younger man had said, in direct conflict to what he'd heard earlier in the day.
“I thought the driver was killed.”
“He was, instantly, as was the driver of the bus, and nine passengers.”
“I thought I just understood you to say that ‘they’ had survived.” It made Gordon pause.
“Yes, I did. There was another passenger with her. He survived as well, though he's not in any better shape than your wife. His injuries are different than hers, but they're equally grave. He's listed in very critical condition too.” Gordon had an eerie feeling as he listened to him, and couldn't imagine what she'd been doing in a limousine with another man, particularly at that hour of night. He knew she had come to London to see an exhibit at the Tate and to go to some other museums and galleries, and he'd seen no harm in it, but now this all seemed very strange.
“Do you know who it was by any chance?” Gordon asked, appearing casual. Absolutely nothing unusual showed on his face.
“We know his name, but we don't know much more than that about him. His name is William Robinson, he's American. I believe his family is flying over now. They're due here tonight.” Gordon nodded, as though he was expecting old friends, and he turned the name over in his mind for a moment, as it clicked, and he wondered if it was the same man. There was a William Robinson he had met several years before, an important figure in the political world. And he knew that Robinson and the ambassador to France were old friends. But he couldn't imagine what he'd been doing with Isabelle. He wasn't even sure they'd ever met. He couldn't remember if Isabelle had been with him when they were introduced at the embassy. It was so rare that she went out. It was a complete mystery what Isabelle had been doing with him.
“Will he be all right?” Gordon asked with a look of concern, which masked the unspoken questions on his mind.
“We don't know. He fractured his neck, and damaged his upper spinal cord. There are some internal injuries as well, but none as severe as your wife's.”
“It sounds like she took the worst of it,” Gordon said, “but not by much. Will he be paralyzed from the spinal injury?”
“It's too soon to tell. He's still unconscious, he never regained consciousness after the surgery. It could simply be a reaction to the trauma of the accident, or something more complicated as a result of his neck. He's in critical condition as well.” It occurred to Gordon as he listened to him that they might both die without ever explaining to anyone what they had been doing together that night. Gordon was wondering if it had just been a coincidence. If she had old friends in London from her youth that he didn't know about that she had gone to see, perhaps she and Robinson had shared a limousine leaving the hotel. But why would she be out at that hour? Where were they coming from? Where were they going? Where had they been? Why were they together? Did they even know each other? Had they just met? There were a thousand possibilities and questions racing through his mind. And there was no way of getting answers to any of them, certainly not if they didn't survive. He thought he knew Isabelle well, he was sure he did. She was not the kind of woman to be having an affair, or even having clandestine assignations with a man. And yet they had been together, in a limousine, at two A.M., and whatever the reason was, there was no way to discover it now.
“Would you like to spend the night here at the hospital with your wife?” the young doctor asked him, but Gordon was quick to shake his head. He had a horror of sickrooms and hospitals and sick people. They reminded him of his mother in a sinister way.
“As she's not conscious, I don't see what purpose I'd serve here. I'd just get in the way of your staff. I'll stay at the hotel. I'll be at Claridge's, and you can call me if anything changes here. That seems more sensible. I appreciate your time, and your efforts on my wife's behalf,” Gordon said formally, and looking uncomfortable, he stood up again. It was obvious that he was extremely ill at ease in the hospital, and had no desire to go back to his wife's room. “I'll just stop in and see her again for a moment before I leave.” He thanked the doctor again, and walked back down the hall, and when he reached her door, there were five members on the team working on her, and there was still no sign of life. He made no attempt to enter the room, watching them for only the briefest moment, and then turned and left, without saying another word. He had never touched her, never kissed her, never approached Isabelle's bed, and he took an enormous breath of fresh air as soon as he reached the street.
Gordon detested hospitals and sick people and infirmities. It was why Teddy had always been hard for him. It was something he simply couldn't tolerate, and as he hailed a cab, with his overnight bag in his hand, and gave them Claridge's address, he felt slightly ill. He was enormously relieved to have escaped the intensive care ward, and in spite of the fact that he felt sorry for her, he hadn't been able to bring himself to walk into the room and touch even so much as her hand. It was merciful that she was unconscious, he thought, and it would be more so if she didn't survive to be brain-damaged. That was a fate that he didn't wish for her. But in spite of how sorry he felt for her, he couldn't seem to feel anything about it for himself. He had no sense of loss, no despair, no terror of losing her. She seemed like a stranger to him now, lying so broken and still in her hospital bed. She looked like a lifeless doll, and it was hard to understand that the woman he had just seen had been the young girl he once married, let alone his wife of twenty years. Her spirit already seemed to have fled, and all he wondered as the cab pulled up in front of Claridge's was what she had been doing in a limousine with Bill Robinson. But there was no one except Isabelle whom he could ask. She alone knew the answer to the mystery, and Bill of course, but he was just as unable to answer Gordon's questions as his wife.
The doorman took Gordon's overnight case from him. He had only brought a few shirts and some underwear. He wasn't intending to stay long. He had come to assess the situation, and he was planning to return to Paris in a day or two. And come back to London again if need be. She might be dead by then, or she may have remained the same. The young surgeon had told him that night that she could stay in the coma, without change, for weeks or even months. And there was no way he could stay in London with her. He had to go back to tend to his own affairs, to monitor Teddy now, and see what was happening at the bank. If he had to, he would go back and forth between London and Paris every few days. But he realized that if this was going to take a while, it was going to be best if he called Sophie in Portugal and asked her to come home. If nothing else, she could take over watching Teddy for him. He dreaded calling her, but after what he'd seen tonight, he was beginning to think that he should. He needed to prepare her in case Isabelle died.
Gordon stopped at the desk, and asked for Isabelle's key, and an assistant manager came out from an office instantly, and told Gordon how sorry he was.
“It must have been a dreadful accident. We're all so sorry … such a terrible thing … such a lovely person … no idea it had happened until the police called …” He went on for several minutes as Gordon nodded his head and agreed with everything he said. “How is she doing, sir?” the assistant manager asked solicitously.