And when he opened the door to his room, he saw the small envelope waiting for him. Dr. Paul-Louis Suchard had called, and requested that Mr. Haskell call him at his earliest possible convenience.
He was back to real life, to the things that mattered to him, his wife, his sons, his business. And somewhere in the distance, receding into the mists, was the woman he had found but could never have, the woman he was so desperately in love with.
He stood at his balcony as the sun came up, thinking about her. It all seemed like a dream, and perhaps it was. Perhaps none of it was real. The Place de la Concorde …the café in Montmartre …the beach at La Favière … all of it. He knew that no matter what he felt for her, or how sweet it had been, he had to let it go now.
Chapter Seven
When the wake-up call came at eight, Peter was dead to the world, and as soon as he hung up the phone, he wondered why he felt so awful. He felt as though there were lead in his soul, and then just as suddenly, he remembered. She was gone from him. It was over. He had to call Suchard, and fly back to New York and face Frank, and Katie. And Olivia had gone back to her husband.
It was hard to believe how miserable he felt as he stood in the shower, thinking of her, and forcing his mind back repeatedly to the business he had to deal with that morning.
He called Suchard precisely at nine, and Paul-Louis refused to tell him what the results were. He insisted that Peter come directly to the laboratory. He said that all of the tests were complete now. He wanted an hour of Peter's time, and said he could easily catch a two o'clock plane. Peter was annoyed that he wouldn't at least give him a summary of their results on the phone, and agreed to come to his office at ten-thirty.
He ordered coffee and croissants, but could eat none of it, and he left the hotel at ten, and arrived ten minutes early. Suchard was waiting for him, and his face was grim. But in the end, the results were not quite as bad as Peter had feared, or Paul-Louis had predicted. One of the essential substances of Vicotec was clearly dangerous, and it was possible they would have to find a substitute, but the entire product did not have to be abandoned. It had to be “reworked,” as Suchard said, and it could prove to be a lengthy process. When pressed, he admitted that the changes could be effected in six months or a year, perhaps less if a miracle occurred, though it was doubtful. More reasonably, the process would take about two years, which was pretty much what Peter had suspected after their first conversation. Perhaps, if they put extra teams on it, they could get Vicotec on its feet in less than a year, which wasn't the end of the world, though it was certainly disappointing. But the substance, as it existed now, and as they had planned to market it, was virtually a killer. It didn't have to be, and Suchard had several suggestions as to how to effect the necessary changes. But Peter knew that Frank would not consider any of this good news. He hated delays, and the extensive research that still had to be done would be costly. There was no hope of asking for early human trials now from the FDA, or attending the hearing they had set up for September in order to get it on the “Fast Track.” What Frank wanted, of course, was early release of the drug as quickly as possible, resulting in massive revenues, which was different from what Peter wanted out of it. But whatever their reasons or their goals, right now they had nothing to ask for.
Peter thanked Paul-Louis for his input and his thorough research, and he sat lost in thought as he rode back to the hotel, trying to think of the right words to tell Frank. Paul-Louis's exact words still rang in his own ears uncomfortably: “Vicotec, as it stands now, is a killer.” It was certainly not what they had intended, or what he would have wanted for his mother and sister. But somehow Peter couldn't see Frank taking the news reasonably, or even Katie. She hated things that upset her father. But even she would have to understand this time. No one wanted a series of tragedies, or even one, they could not afford to let that happen.
Peter closed his bags back at the hotel, and as he waited the last ten minutes for the car, he flipped on the news. And there she was. It was almost exactly what he had expected. The big news of the hour was that Olivia Douglas Thatcher had been found. And the tale they told was too strange to be true, and of course it wasn't. She had gone out to meet a friend, apparently, had a minor car accident, and had been suffering from mild amnesia for three days. Apparently no one in the small hospital where she was had recognized her or seen the news, and miraculously the night before, she had come to her senses again and was now happily reunited with her husband.
“So much for honest reporting,” Peter said, shaking his head and looking disgusted. They ran all the same old, tired photographs of her, and then ran an interview with a neurologist speculating on lasting brain damage from a minor concussion. But they concluded with a statement wishing Mrs. Thatcher a complete and speedy recovery. “Amen,” he said, and flipped off the tube. He looked around the room for a last time, and picked up his briefcase. His bag was already gone, and there was nothing left to do but leave his hotel room.
But it gave him an odd feeling of nostalgia this time leaving the room. So much had happened during this trip, and he wanted suddenly to run upstairs, just to see her. He would knock on the door of their suite, say he was an old friend …and Andy Thatcher would probably think he was crazy. Peter wondered if he suspected anything about the last three days, or if he didn't even care. It was hard to gauge and the story they had told the press was a thin tale at best. Peter thought it was ridiculous and wondered who had come up with that story.
And when he went downstairs, the usual cast of characters was there, the Arabs, the Japanese. King Khaled had gone to London after the bomb scare. There seemed to be a whole flock of new arrivals checking in as Peter made his way past the desk, and there was a large group of men in suits with walkie-talkies and earpieces as he stepped through the revolving door, and then he saw her in the distance. She was just getting into a limousine, and Andy was already in it with two of his people. He was turned away from her, talking to them, and as though sensing Peter nearby, Olivia glanced over her shoulder. She stopped, mesmerized, and looked at him. Their eyes met and held for a long time, and Peter was worried that someone might have noticed. He nodded slightly at her, and then, as though she had to tear herself away from him again, she slipped into the limousine, and the door closed, and Peter stood staring after her on the sidewalk, unable to see in the darkened windows.
“Tour car is waiting, monsieur,” the doorman said politely, anxious to avoid a traffic jam in front of the Ritz. Two models were trying to leave for a shoot and Peter's limousine was blocking them. And they were getting hysterical, shouting at him and waving.
“Sorry.” He tipped the doorman and got in, and without another word, or even a last look at her, he looked straight ahead as the driver headed swiftly toward the airport.
And in their car, Andy was taking Olivia to see two congressmen and the Ambassador at the embassy. It was a meeting he'd had planned all week, and he had insisted she go with him. He had been furious with her at first, over the stir she'd caused, but within an hour of her safe return, he concluded that her disappearance was a bonus to him. He and his managers had worked out a series of possibilities, all of them designed to arouse sympathy, particularly in light of his current plans. He wanted to make her another Jackie Kennedy. She had the right looks for it, and that same waiflike quality, coupled with her natural style and elegance, and her courage in the face of adversity. His advisors had decided she was perfect. They were going to have to pay more attention to her than they had in the past, and groom her a little bit, but there was no question in their minds that she could do it.