“Is that Mrs. Renaud?” Not Emile, after all. The caller had a female voice she didn’t recognize.
“No, it’s...” She paused before she got to the ‘Ms. Chartley’ that was on her lips. Instinct told her that this wasn’t the moment for feminist principles. “Yes. Who is this? What’s happened?”
“I’m calling from the hospital. Your husband had an accident during training this morning. I’m afraid he’s unconscious.”
“Unconscious?” she repeated blankly. “What does that mean?” Is he in a coma?
“He had an injury to the head. He is in a stable condition. I think you should come to the hospital, Mrs. Renaud.”
It wasn’t possible. Not Emile. She took a deep breath. And another one. Her mouth was dry and her brain had slowed to snail’s pace. She couldn’t process what was happening, but somehow the words formed on her lips.
“Is he dying?”
She needed to know before she got to the hospital. She needed to prepare herself.
“He is in a stable condition. He is being closely monitored. We will know more later. Mrs. Renaud, do you have someone who can bring you to the hospital?”
“But I...” I’m not really his wife, she wanted to say. Friends with benefits. That’s all. But who else would they call? He didn’t have any close family, and none at all in the UK. Friends from the club, but they must know what was happening already.
She was his wife by law. That might not mean much, but it meant she had to be there. Just in case they needed someone to make decisions.
She could do this. She had to. Calm and unemotional, that would be the best way to cope. If only she could keep up that appearance on the outside, she’d be able to deal with the maelstrom of fear threatening to overwhelm her inside.
She closed her eyes for a moment to center herself. Kept her voice calm. “I’ll get a cab.”
She took down the details of the ward number and booked the cab. She looked in on her PA to say that she would be out for the rest of the day. Then she slung her laptop case over her shoulder and picked up her briefcase.
She’d heard the woman from the hospital say that Emile was unconscious, but she hadn’t been able to process it. He was such a vibrant person, so alive, even when he slept. How could he be unconscious? But as the taxi drew up outside the building, all of a sudden, it was real. Somewhere inside, Emile was lying in a bed, unresponsive and unaware. They hadn’t used the word ‘coma’, but it had caught hold in Theresa’s mind. Images of cool, dim rooms where everyone whispered and tiptoed around the body that lay like a corpse in the center.
Emile.
Emile was unconscious. She needed to be there to see for herself.
She paid off the driver and ran through to the reception area where they gave her directions to Emile’s ward. Theresa forced herself to stay calm and concentrate as she negotiated the maze of corridors and lifts. But when she saw the simple blue and white sign with the words ‘Intensive Care’, her heart stopped.
They’d put him in intensive care.
It was real, then, and serious. And suddenly, she didn’t want to know what they were going to tell her. She didn’t want them to confirm her worst fears. She clutched at her briefcase and took several deep breaths before she made herself keep going.
She rubbed sanitizing gel from the dispenser over her hands, then straightened her shoulders and pushed the door open. A nurse behind a desk looked up at her.
“Emile.” She cleared her throat. “Emile Renaud. He’s here?”
“Yes. Are you his wife?”
Theresa nodded, unable to speak.
“He’s in room four. You can go through.” The nurse pointed in the direction of a private room.
She had to know the worst. She stepped slowly towards the room. As she neared the door, it opened and a nurse came out.
“Is he...? Please, tell me...”
The nurse smiled. “He’s waiting for you.”
He was waiting for her?
“Emile?”
His left leg was in some kind of brace. There were bandages everywhere. His tanned skin had a sickly green hue, but his eyes gleamed when they saw her. He was okay. He was going to be okay. A great wave of relief rushed over her, leaving her weak. She leaned against the wall, dropped her bags, and just looked at him.
“You came, ma femme.” He might be smiling, but his voice was noticeably strained. There was pain in his face, and he barely moved without wincing.
“They said you were unconscious. Of course I came.” She hadn’t meant that to sound so harsh. “I wanted to come.”
She dropped her bags in the corner and moved a grey plastic chair near to his bed, so that she could sit beside him.
“I’m glad you did.” He nodded, then grimaced at the movement. She put out a hand to stroke his hair gently.
“What happened?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. “I’m not sure. We were doing a training exercise. I went to tackle Rafael, and then I woke up here.”
“Didn’t someone from the club come with you?” She’d been surprised to find him alone.
He waved a hand. “The coach was here with the team doctor. They left a few minutes ago.”
“So you’re fine?”
He looked at her and gestured towards his leg. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“No. Right. But broken bones heal, don’t they? Your brain is fine?”
“Thérèse.” He closed his eyes, and his hands clutched into fists.
“Are you in pain? Should I call the nurse?” What was wrong with him? Why wasn’t there someone here to help? She pushed her chair back, about to run for help.
“No.” He didn’t open his eyes, but he didn’t sound as though he was hurting. “Just think for a minute.”
“Okay. What am I thinking about?”
“My foot.”
“It’s broken?” She glanced at the contraption he was wearing. Not a traditional plaster cast, but clearly designed to hold it still.
“The first metatarsal. They put in a metal pin.”
She didn’t understand why that would make him so desperate. “So, you’ll be on crutches for a while?” Obviously, that would be frustrating for him.
“I’ll be out of the game for the rest of the season.”
Oh, hell. She should have thought of that. A proper footballer’s wife would have realized immediately. “I’m sorry.” But still, six months off work wasn’t the end of the world. Someone like Emile could surely find ways to fill that time with expensive, pointless timewasting. She could even help him fill the time more productively, if he wanted.
“Thanks.” He rolled his head to the other side, so she was left staring at his hair.
“Emile.” This was why she was the wrong person to be here. She didn’t understand this part of his life at all. She didn’t know any of the right things to say. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his arm.
“It doesn’t matter.” He sounded angry. Weary. She wished she knew how to comfort him.
“Clearly, it does. How long will you have to stay here?”
“They want to keep me in tonight.”
“Do you need anything?” She might not know the right things to say, but practical help was something she could do.
“A time machine would be great.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of Lucozade. Or grapes.”
“No, I don’t need anything. Can you stay for a bit?”