I throw on some pants and a shirt and my J. Lindeberg suit jacket and grab my phone off the desk, and just as I am about to put it in one of the pockets I decide to look at it; there are a few messages but no e-mails from work, possibly the server is down? I stare at the phone’s clock feature and watch the minute change a few times; it does so about every sixty seconds. I text and call Tom Bridge and leave him a message inquiring as to the whereabouts of the shoot. I call my assistant back in New York and she doesn’t pick up either. I try her cell and her home phone, nothing, weird. Then I find Sabi’s text, the one I didn’t delete, and I hit “reply” and the 347 number appears. I hesitate and then I call; her phone rings, she doesn’t answer, which I suspected would happen, the voice mail tells me that her voice mailbox is full. I go back to the front desk and ask for a cab. One comes almost immediately. I give the cabdriver the address of the Gangrape offices, which I got from the little card on the fruit basket that finally did arrive.
