He told the boy he'd be gone for the weekend, and that he was in London with his mom.

“Mommy said she was coming home yesterday,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Why is she staying?”

“Because she has things to do here, that's why,” Gordon snapped at him, but his brusqueness didn't surprise Teddy. His father had never had any interest or patience to offer him.

“She didn't call me. Will you ask her to call me?” Teddy sounded faintly plaintive, and Gordon was irritated. His nerves were suddenly on edge, and he had no satisfactory explanation for Teddy about why his mother hadn't called him.

“She'll call you eventually. She has things to do with me,” he lied to the boy, but he felt he had no other choice. And right now, lying to him was far kinder than telling him the truth. Teddy was too frail to even hear the truth about what had happened, particularly at this distance. If he had to be told eventually, Gordon intended to do so in person, with the boy's doctor present. And Gordon hadn't called Sophie yet either. He wanted to see how things developed. There was no point terrifying them, and if she was going to die without regaining consciousness anyway, he didn't think Sophie should see her. He had made that decision that morning.

“Tell Mommy I love her,” Teddy said as his father rushed him off the phone. He was not enjoying the conversation. He didn't like lying to the boy, nor did he want to tell him what had happened to Isabelle.

And shortly after that, Gordon went back to the hospital himself to see her. When he arrived, he stood in the farthest corner of the room, looking agonized, and observed a variety of things they were doing to her. And unlike Cynthia Robinson with Bill, he did not approach, didn't speak, and never touched her. His revulsion was so great, he simply could not deal with it.

“Would you like a moment alone with your wife?” one of the nurses asked him gently. He looked so uncomfortable that she felt sorry for him.

But Gordon didn't hesitate when he answered. “No, thank you. She can't hear me anyway. I'll be in the waiting room, please call me if anything changes.” And with that he escaped, and went to sit in the waiting room with Olivia and Jane. Cynthia came to check on them after a while, and Gordon had no idea who they were, nor did he care. And he was surprised when Cynthia smiled at him. She looked tired and pale. And she had spilled something on her T-shirt, but the look in her eyes was sympathetic to him.

“I'm sorry about your wife,” she said, she had heard the nurses talk about her, and knew only that she was in a situation even more critical than Bill's. But they had said very little about it to her.

“Thank you,” Gordon said tersely. He had no desire to develop friendships in the waiting room of the intensive care ward. But he didn't want to sit in the horror of Isabelle's room either. He had nowhere else to go except back to Claridge's, which he'd been contemplating when Cindy spoke to him. And then much to his surprise, she held out a hand to him and introduced herself. She could hear that he was American, and felt a strange bond to him. They were both far from home, trapped in desperate situations.

“I'm Cynthia Robinson,” she said simply as one of her daughters dozed, and the other was engrossed in a magazine she had bought in the lobby of the hospital. Neither of them seemed to be paying attention to Cynthia or Gordon. But Gordon's eyes widened in obvious recognition the moment he heard her name, and Cynthia noticed it. “I'm here with my husband. He had a car accident two days ago. We just flew in last night.” He wondered, as he listened to her, if she had a full grasp of their situation. If she did, it didn't seem to upset her. All she seemed to be worrying about was her husband's condition, which Gordon thought was gracious of her. He was far more concerned about what might have brought them together than she was. And Gordon decided to be frank with her.

“I assume you're aware of the fact that my wife was in the car with your husband when the bus hit them.” As he said it, she looked as though the bus had just hit her. And he suddenly realized from the look on her face that no one had told her about Isabelle. She was rendered speechless by what Gordon had just said to her.

“What do you mean?” If it was at all possible, she looked even paler than she had at first.

“Exactly what I just said. They were in the limousine together. I have no idea why, or how they knew each other. I met your husband several years ago, in Paris, but I have no recollection if my wife was even with me. Apparently, they had tea together on Wednesday, and she was in the limousine with him. She is now in critical condition, in a deep coma, and we may never know what they were doing together. I assume your husband is in no condition to explain it to you either.”

Cynthia sat down across from him, in a chair, and looked as though someone had slapped her. Hard. “No one told me. I thought he was alone, with the driver.” Cynthia looked puzzled.

“Apparently not, I'm afraid. She came over from Paris to see some art exhibits. She has a passionate interest in art. And I have no idea what else she did while she was here in London.” Cynthia stared at him as she remembered the art brochures in Bill's room from assorted galleries and museums. “Has your husband ever mentioned her? Her name is Isabelle Forrester.” It embarrassed him to discuss it with her, and it was certainly awkward, but there were questions to which he now wanted answers, and this woman was, at the moment at least, his only way to get them. But she shook her head at the question. She knew even less than he.

“I've never heard her name before. I didn't even know he was in London. The last time I talked to him, he was in New York. But we don't stay in very close contact,” she said quietly.

“Are you divorced?” Gordon asked, intrigued, and she was stung by the question.

“No, but he travels a lot, and he's very independent.” She didn't want to tell him that their marriage had been limping along for years.

“My wife isn't. We have an invalid son whom she has cared for, for fourteen years, and she rarely leaves the house. This trip is the first one she's taken in years, and I think it was quite innocent. I was thinking that she may have just met your husband at Claridge's, in the lobby perhaps. I don't think we should jump to any conclusions. But it seems odd that they were together in a car at two o'clock in the morning.” He seemed almost to be talking to himself.

“Yes, it does seem odd,” she said, looking pensive. There was more than adequate reason to think that Bill might have been having an affair. She had had several herself in recent years, and she and Bill hadn't been physically involved with each other in years. But the woman Gordon Forrester described hardly seemed like a likely candidate for a romantic weekend in another city. Cynthia couldn't even imagine how he'd met her. And she didn't love the idea of their being together. And as she and Gordon talked, she realized that both of her daughters had been listening to the conversation with interest. “It's a shame we can't ask them,” Cynthia said, but she couldn't get the art brochures out of her head now. And then she remembered the receipts from Annabel's and Harry's Bar. Maybe this woman was far less innocent than her husband thought, in spite of her invalid son and the fact that she was married.

“If they die, we'll never know the answer,” Gordon said bluntly.

“If they hadn't had the accident, we would probably never have known anyway. Maybe we just have to accept that,” Cynthia said softly. She wasn't even sure she wanted to know, there were questions she wouldn't have wanted him to ask her, and others she wouldn't have asked him. Particularly now, as he fought for his life after the accident, there were dark corners of their lives that she didn't want to look into. But Gordon was holding up an investigative light and shining it brightly on them both. It was obvious that the mystery disturbed him.

“I don't suppose anyone else will ever tell us,” Gordon said thoughtfully.

“If they're smart, and they were involved in some way, hopefully no one knows,” Cynthia said practically.

“One would hope not. The driver might have been able to tell us.”

“Maybe what we need to do is put it behind us, and not look for the answers. They're both fighting for their lives, and if they survive, maybe that's all we need to know. What happened before may be none of our business.”

“That's very generous of you,” Gordon said, looking less than satisfied with her suggestion. If Isabelle had been cheating on him, he wanted to know. He was far less convinced of her innocence than he had been.

“My husband is a very discreet man. Whatever happened will never come to light. It wouldn't be like him to behave inappropriately or cause a scandal, for you or himself.”

“It wouldn't be like my wife to get involved with another man,” Gordon said somewhat fiercely, more in defense of his pride than her reputation, and Cynthia sensed that. “And I don't think she was involved with him. I'm sure there's some very sensible, innocent explanation.”

“I hope so,” she said quietly, and then looked Gordon in the eye. She wanted him to know where she stood on the situation. “I think you should know that I don't intend to ask.”

“I do however intend to ask my wife if she comes out of the coma. I think they owe us that much.”

“Why? What difference would it make?” she asked, much to her daughters' amazement. “What would it change? And if they die, we don't need to know that.”

“I do. If she was dishonest with me in some way, I think I deserve to know that, and so do you. If not, it would be nice to absolve them.”